Magister Luminash Dawnwing

Casus Belli

A world away, Teldrassil was burning. The Horde - his people - had sparked the flame.

Luminash paced the perimeter of his study, steps sweeping by piles of scrolls and books on their shelves, one foot in front of the other, following the gilded circle a few feet from the circular outer wall. He passed by his desk again, eyes drifting over the letter he had received earlier that day as he continued his circling.

Dawnwing,

The Alliance gathers in Lordaeron.

-Telivathus

A warning from an old friend to flee, or a call to action? That question had rolled around his mind now for hours. Hiding in the safety of Dalaran, or fighting to ensure safety in Quel’Thalas?

As the magister circled the room, he clutched the golden-blue crystal held on a chain around his neck. Azerite. It truly had the potential to change everything, to alter the course of history for better or for worse. He felt it with each breath, the power even that tiny fragment had. What would the world do with that power? Who would strike first?

A foolish question. The Horde had chosen their path. Decisive action, meant to end a war before it could begin. His eyes fell on a codex nestled between pristine volumes on one shelf. Its cover was stained a deep red-brown. And why not? Could the Alliance be trusted enough to preserve peace?

Luminash was making his way to the Violet Citadel when the Silver Covenant struck, a scroll case slung over his shoulders containing a detailed account of his work in Pandaria, an order given by the Kirin Tor to increase their understanding of the new land. As he passed by the market, he heard shouts, and turned. Then, a scream, abruptly cut short. He narrowed his eyes, and rushed down the street towards the source of the sound.

The market was in turmoil as he approached, carts overturned and storefronts torn apart, goods of all kinds spilled onto the cobblestones. Another scream as the magister approached, ended just as suddenly, a Silver Covenant arrow finding the throat of a blood elven merchant. He fell onto the ground, a pool of blood staining the leather binding of a book clutched to his chest. He was not the only one. The rest of the square, too, was full of the fallen, Silver Covenant rangers standing about, pulling the stalls down or watching over cowering captives.

Striding into the square, Luminash spoke, voice even, but harsh, “What, precisely, is the meaning of this? The Kirin Tor will see every last one of you traitors executed for this!”

The ranger who had slain the merchant stood, having knelt to pull her arrow from the man’s throat, and turned towards the magister, “Funny you should mention that, blood elf. That is exactly why we are here, on Archmage Proudmoore’s orders.”

“Proudmoore? Why would she order this…this massacre?” Luminash shouted, disbelief clear on his face, “We are as much her people - the Kirin Tor - as you are!”

The ranger nocked the blood-stained arrow, and held her bow ready, aimed at Luminash, “Some of your kind have violated that trust, but I am sure you already know all about that. Surrender, and you can live.” She motioned with her head towards the captives.

The magister looked to the captives. Civilians. Shoppers and merchants both, draped in reds and golds, their eyes a green glow, herded into a corner, hopeless and frightened.

He looked, then, back to the ranger, his mouth drawn into a thin line, “No. I don’t believe I will.”

Some among the Sunreavers had looked the other way when a handful of their people had done Hellscream’s bidding. The result was the a massacre, blood soaking the streets, and innocents slaughtered or locked away. The perpetrators had not only been punished, but all Sin’dorei suffered that day. Just like under Garithos.

Could Dalaran offer any solace in this trying time? Twice before it had been a place of peace, a place of learning and community in the wake of wars, and twice before, the Alliance had made it clear that the elves had no true place in their city. Would it happen again? Could he return? Could he ask his son to return? What true place did the blood elves have other than Quel’Thalas?

The magister paced, eyes down, making sure each footstep followed the last, each time placing his feet precisely on the golden line on the floor. Quel’Thalas was a ruin, yes, but it was his ruin, a foundation upon which a great resurgence would be built. He stopped, gazing out the south window of the study, the city stretching into the distance, the verdant Eversong beyond it, the sickly pallor of the Ghostlands lurking out of sight.

The Alliance gathered in Lordaeron. How long until they marched on Quel’Thalas as well? Some of his people had begun to advocate a secession from the Horde following Sylvanas’ attack on Teldrassil. What would sitting out gain them? What had it gained the Sunreavers in Dalaran? A sudden attack, and death followed the guilty and innocent alike. Once Horde, always Horde, they said. Quel’Thalas could not be another Dalaran.

The Alliance even had reason to strike at Quel’Thalas: it would be simple. How much had the void elves, the Ren’dorei, told their new masters? They knew the secrets of their former people. The mere presence of Alleria had called the hungering Void down upon the Sunwell. How long until it happened again?

Luminash was hungry. Not for food, not physical sustenance. It was deeper than that, its depths more profound, gnawing constantly not at the stomach, but at the mind, fraying away the edges of a sound and reasoned mind. He was not the only one. His people all felt it, to varying degrees.

It had been a shock for the runestones to fall, for Silvermoon to fall, for the Sunwell to fall, swallowed by the hordes of the undead Scourge. The power within that well was befouled, sickening all who drew upon it, until one day, it was as if a flame were snuffed out. Relief, then panic. What had been corrupted had been destroyed by its own protectors to save their people. In the place of sickness was emptiness, maddening and hateful.

Once the scion of nobility, Luminash huddled in the corpse-strewn streets of his city with the other refugees whose homes were violated by the Scourge. They were a teeming mass, hope torn away. Too many simply sat, clothing stained with blood and filth, pale blue eyes glossy as they stared at nothing. Luminash was among them, the dirt on his face streaked from tears. There truly was nothing left. No family, no home, not even the solace of the Sunwell.

“Stand up! Give it to me!”

Luminash raised his eyes, unfocused as they were. A ways down the street the refugees had packed was a desperate-looking man in the uniform of a spellbreaker, torn, broken, and bloodied. He was shouting at a crazed-looking figure huddled on the ground, hunched over something which emitted a pale blue-white glow.

“You must give that to me. Now! You do not understand the danger!” The spellbreaker repeated himself, holding out an armored hand.

“No! No! It is mine, my family’s! You cannot have it!” The man huddled on the ground shouted back, spittle flying from his lips as he tightened his grip on the glowing object.

“You must calm down. Listen to me! It is dangerous to-”

“No! I will not, I will not!” The huddled elf shouted again, the glow of the object beginning to suffuse his body as the crowd of refugees began to shout as well, and close in, drawn by the power.

“Stay back!” The spellbreaker drew his blade and held it before him, “Citizens, stay back!”

Many pushed forward, while others heeded the warning. Whatever they did, all saw the cause. The hunched man had begun to convulse, twisting, his pale skin growing paler, greyer, fingers clutched around the magic object appearing as claws as the hair began to slide from his head in a mass. His screams rapidly became unintelligible raving as glowing blue growths sprouted from his back, pushing through his tattered clothes, and only were ended by the spellbreaker’s blade.

Luminash watched, wide-eyed, as the crowd reversed its direction, pulling away in terror as one of their own succumbed to the addiction, among the first of many in the days to come.

What would become of the Sin’dorei without the Sunwell if the worst came to pass? If the Alliance were allowed to continue north, what would stop the Void from swallowing up the best hope left to the blood elves?

The magister had not resumed his pacing. There was nowhere to run to, he was sure. Dalaran could provide haven for only so long. Only home could sustain the blood elves, and that was at risk. He had seen enough to know that without the Sunwell, without their arcane lifeblood, his people had no future.

Just as in the days leading to the Purge of Dalaran, it did not matter who had struck first, or what their intentions had been at the outset. There were two choices now: a slow, wasting death, or clawing for survival.

The Alliance gathers in Lordaeron.

For better or for worse, Luminash knew what must be done.