Shylmenra Whitespire

Return to Eldre'thalas

Hurriedly, Shylmenra was led away from her companions as they faced down the mad Magistrix Lyrenna Leywhisper. Through a labyrinth of stone hallways the two Elves disappeared, she and the Highborne who pulled her along, around corners and up and down staircases. Finally, they stopped in a medium-sized round room full to the brim from floor to ceiling with curved shelves of books. Only then did the elder male Highborne release his deceptively strong hold upon Shy’s wrist, ushering her to sit down upon a soft chaise. The younger arcanist did as she was bid and peered around the room, taking stock of where she was.

They were now deep in the interior of the intact section of Eldre’thalas, in one of the auxiliary libraries. Shy recognized the room, having spent time here. The ancient city was eminently larger than outsiders realized and the Highborne, though vastly thinner in number, still lived and moved throughout the habitable sections. Some areas were said to be haunted, though perhaps that was just rumor; and others were legitimately full of foul-tempered, dim-witted ogres.

It was often questioned why the Highborne suffered the actions of the squatting ogre usurpers who had taken over what the rest of the world now called “Dire Maul”. Truth be told, the ogres served unwittingly well in keeping simple looters and the ignorantly curious away. It was almost ingenious how the ogres were utilized as some sort of 'fleshy moat', or watchdogs; perhaps if they weren’t unpredictable and dangerous. Over the years, some of them had gotten their hands on relics and learned to use reckless magic. Hence, entrances and exits from the city were a complex matter.

Turning toward Shy, the fellow Highborne’s silvery eyes flickered over her face rapidly, his expression shifting with a thousand thoughts. He huffed and shook his head ever so slightly as his braid, a pale ombre shifting from violet at the tips to crisp white at his crown, undulated to follow in his wake. “Welcome. I recall you well, of course my lady,” he clipped in crisp ancient Thalassian, “but in case you do not recall me, I am Lord Starsong.”

With a flourish of a bow, he smoothed his robes and quickly continued, his tone more plaintive by the second. “My dear Lady Whitespire, whatever were you thinking? Skulking in without notice, without the proper ceremony, and with such troublemaking rabble?” His tone was pleasant enough until the last word, upon which his lip twisted as though tasting something sour.

Perplexed, she blinked a few times as she took in and sifted through the presented information. Starsong. Ceremony. Rabble? She quickly realized he meant Rainwhisper, Sylvansong, Dusksong, and Shattercog. Answering in kind with the Shen’dralari dialect, she retorted softly, dipping her head in a gesture of respect. “My apologies Lord Starsong, but if I may speak plainly, I care not for the ceremony. My compatriots were here for a distinct and secret purpose, and I thought to watch over them.” Hesitating slightly, she added the last with a tone so quiet it was nearly just breath. “We both know what can happen to unwelcome intruders.”

Lord Starsong’s eyes widened slightly as she spoke, and he blew out a measured exhale before replying. “May I remind you Lady Whitespire, there have been a great many visitors over the years who have wandered our halls unannounced who have left un-hassled and untouched. That they found naught what they were looking for is not our concern. What also was not your concern was your friends arrival. The guards should have been informed. We have protocols, and for good reason. With all due respect, you are a lady, not a bodyguard.”

He shook his head and took the liberty of taking a seat next to her, grabbing her hand and leaning in slightly as he further spoke, lowering his tone conspiratorially. “Even now, they quarrel with one of our own. I have no love lost for Magistrix Leywhisper but had I left you there in the vicinity, you would be implicated in the situation along with them, and that cannot happen.”

Shy nodded absently, her eyes lidded. It made logical sense, of course. She was still attempting to place his face and name within the recesses of her memory as she responded, her confusion and concern overshadowing the sting of his words. “What will happen to them?”

Absently he stroked her wrist, soothing away the tender echo of his worried squeezing from their rapid sojourn moments earlier. “Well,” he half-smiled amiably, “I suppose that depends on the outcome of this situation. Hopefully they will resolve their problem quietly and expeditiously and they will soon leave. You know as well as I, that the Athenaeum is to be kept quiet and orderly.”