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#World of Warcraft

Rastakhan ruled for over two hundred years, but Talanji is only like 17-19, going by how she describes being a young girl during Cataclysm or thereabouts but is an adult now. Did Rastakhan have heirs before who have died of old age while their father enjoyed a prolonged life, or did he really not get around to having kids for two centuries?

Also what happened to Talanji’s mother. So many parthenogenetic fathers in this lore smh.

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There’s not much happening socially at the moment due to obvious reasons but I’m looking for more adventurers! With a completely redone experience for new and returning players this is one of the best times ever to get into playing some World of Warcraft. It’s free to try and you can play the first 20 levels (it goes up to level 60 now).


If you use my recruitment link I get some bonus stuff too:

I’m currently playing on the Horde Faction on the Frostwhisper server and also Alliance on the Mazrigos server. :)

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So advancements in medical science is set at the same pace on Azeroth as it is on Earth or the collective population of its magical communities either forgot or still doesn’t know how to treat magic addiction because the Legion Tailoring questline (at least up until you have to go to Suramar, that’s where I stopped for the night) shouldn’t have ended the way it did.

Like, I’m doing this on a warlock alt who happens to be a blood elf. I RP him as a guy who turns to practicing destructive magic to fight against demons and was there - front and center - when the Black Temple was raided, and then at the Sunwell Plateau proper in TBC. You bet he saw friends and families and strangers turn to Withered during his time at Falthrien Academy. He doesn’t tap into the Sunwell anymore, not since it was cleansed (and Light and Fel don’t jive well together, the headaches are a bitch and a half, meaning in the time between TBC and Legion and up to Shadowlands he’s found other recourses of magic to slake his innate thirst because (a) demons aren’t going to stop being a nuisance the moment Argus the Unmaker bites the dust, (b) sin’dorei society has been moving toward a marriage of Light and Arcane from the Sunwell plus the amicable relations with the shal’dorei, and © said transition has most likely outlawed practicing demonology, necromancy, and Shadow magic the sin’dorei used to dabble in at least since post-TBC. So my lock knows what withdrawal is like.

Every blood elf - and high elf - should know what it’s like.

Maybe this is my fault for having the benefit of future events, since the Legion Tailoring questline takes place prior to the Suramar Insurrection Arc and Nighthold raid (so that means no arcan’dor to cure the nightborne of their affliction and no Liadrin and Rommath hitting it off with Thalyssra by the time you enter the zone proper), but I just couldn’t help but think how baffling the scenario played out. Like, the tailoring shop is right next door to the first aid station. Why did no one think to send Lyndras there and administer some sort of medicine to offset the hunger pangs until Shal’Aran was established at the earliest and arcwine could be smuggled in?

I’m not going to mention the PC, because you’re the narrative vehicle in an MMO and, not to discount one’s RP - by game lore you’re either part of a special strike corp - if you go by Tides of War - or a hired mercenary that just happens to be getting paid by Alliance or Horde. But you’re in a magic city, and a good chunk of that city consists of elves that have gone through withdrawal after the Sunwell’s implosion. I get resources and people are stretched thin and being funneled toward the war effort but WHY was this poor guy just left UNATTENDED after the second time he runs off for a fix? Instead of throwing him into the Violet Hold where he clearly withers and you have to put him down.

However, given all of the above, Lyndras probably wouldn’t have fared much better than Runas. With some help the former would’ve been given more time to live, depending on how long the timeframe between Shal’Aran’s expansion and the start of the arcwine smuggling operations is, whereas the latter withers despite draining what little mana there is to be had from blue dragon whelplings and grinding mana crystals sticking out of Zarkhenar. Pre-arcan’dor nightborne require the sustenance of the Nightwell, being from arcane energy or arcwine, to offset withering, and while we don’t know how long Lyndras and Runas were away from Suramar City their chances of survival were low when we’re first introduced to them.

This questline is probably a case of Blizzard not looking too deeply into the story and writing it “as-is”, since, again, this is set pre-Suramar and, in all fairness, you don’t quite know why these withered, ill-looking elves are turning into mindless shamblers. One should not be blamed for thinking ‘they’re regressing the same way the blood elves were’, because until the Suramar Insurrection Arc you aren’t made aware of the fact that withering is a result of the lack of Nightwell tapping and the Wretched state of blood elves a result of abusing magic (scarcity versus overabundance). Still, you’d think blood elves, like my warlock, would take note of Lyndras’s condition and bring it up to the Kirin Tor. Maybe, oh I don’t know, keep an eye on the guy and not lock him inside a prison where the rest of the otherworldly monsters and dangerous criminals are at!

(This got way too long for a rant, but I was gutted by the foresight of Lyndras’s obvious outcome and had the bitter taste of it in my mouth. Only one tailoring trainer is upset by this, but I’ll give Blizzard the benefit of the doubt because she’s the one you interact with the most as you’re learning patterns.

There’s also the matter of bringing up magic addiction and how that still hasn’t been cured regardless of the possibility, one that’s mentioned in the blood elf intro in Cataclysm, the cleansed Sunwell might free them of their dependency. But that isn’t about that here, and I’m saving it for another post, anyway, because BOY do I go hard on that one.)

I’m just going to make the ‘medical science moves at the same rate as advancements as Earth’s’ my own personal headcanon. It’ll help me sleep and think a little better and a lot less infuriatingly on the brain.)

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After the Fall of Undercity
Location Undisclosed

He dreamt of snow.

He dreamt of snow falling gently from the night sky, the sparkle of stars hidden away by stormclouds, cloaking the world in serene darkness. He dreamt of the chill, frigid air on his skin. He dreamt of the snow crunching beneath his boots as he walked, slow and peaceful, through the silent night.

He dreamt of quiet…

The sudden splash of cold water tore him from his dreamscape, golden eyes flashing open as the elf thrashed wildly in his chains, blonde hair clinging haphazardly to his face.

“No rest for the wicked, they say…”

The voice of the Sparrow brought a myriad of emotions to the forefront, though mainly rage, as the leather clad man had fulfilled the role of tormentor quite faithfully over… how long had it been? The concept of time had begun to elude the elf, days and weeks blurring into one another, the oppressive darkness of his cell making it impossible to determine whether it were day or night.

Wood scraped over the stone floor as the Sparrow pulled a chair into the cell and perched upon it, thin leather gloved fingers grasping a folder within.

“To say that you have been less than forthcoming during our interviews would be an understatement,” the Sparrow began. “A credit to your resolve, to be sure. But your unwillingness to cooperate has become somewhat of an agitation as of late.”

The elf afforded the Sparrow a smirk, his teeth stained red with blood from a previous and unwelcome visitation.

“But try as you might to further exacerbate an already unfortunate situation, I believe we can cut through this ridiculous charade.” The Sparrow leaned forwards, that gloved hand reaching up to the elf’s chin, patting his face in an unsettlingly manner. “When you arrived here, your face all black, blue, and battered, it was night impossible to recognize you. Now, however…” The leather clad human chuckled. “I have a very good eye for remembering faces. And you, my friend, were somewhat of a celebrity, weren’t you?”

Golden hues stared daggers from behind his dirty, blonde locks.

Athelar Valaryon, a Champion of Silvermoon during the Argent’s Tournament during the War against the Lich King, isn’t that right?” The Sparrow patted the leather folder against his leg before waggling a finger at the elf. “I remember watching your bouts in that frozen wasteland,” the human explained. “A bunch of fools on horseback, whacking eachother with sticks. But you… you were quite the contender, if I remember correctly. Beating, bashing, and brutalizing everything in your path. You were quite popular, as I recall.”

“But I’ve not come to reminisce about your past glories,” the Sparrow explained. “I am far more interested in your family. House Valaryon…” the human chuckled. “And here I had worried that I was wasting my time trying to milk information out of a mere grunt.”

The elf smirked, spitting of gob of blood onto the cold stone floor below.

“Your household is quite prestigious,” the human’s tone made it clear this was an observation, not a question. “Its patriarch, Alturion Valaryon, is quite highly ranked within the Magisters of Silvermoon. Your father, if I am not mistaken,” the Sparrow smiled, a mirthless and malignant expression. “And I am not.”

“So,” the Sparrow continued. “Let’s talk a little more about that.”

Athelar chuckled weakly, his throat dry and parched.

“Is something funny about that?” the Sparrow asked, annoyance flittered across his face.

“A little,” the elf replied.

“And why is that?”

“You’ve managed to assume… that I have the type of relationship with my father where we speak to one another,” Athelar spoke. “Which… if that folder in your lap was anything more than a bland list of facts devoid of context, you would have realized… is absurd.”

Valaryon shifted in his chains, jutting his chin out towards the leather bundle of ‘interrogation aids’ that the Sparrow had placed on a table near the door of the cell.

“So, you may as well… open that up now,” Athelar advised. “Because even if I wanted to, I’m not going to be able to give any answers that will satisfy you… So you may as well start carving me up now.”

The Sparrow lifted an eyebrow, setting the folder to the side.

“Such bravado,” the human complimented. “It’s been a while since we’ve witnessed this fire inside you. I had worried that it had been snuffed out weeks ago.”

The elf shook his head, offering the Sparrow a humourless laugh.

“Not bravado,” the elf replied. “Just… acceptance.”

“You truly wish for me to believe that the famed Champion of an elite thalassian household knows nothing of its activities?” The Sparrow scoffed, unfastening the bindings of the bundle and rolling it open. “Now that… that is absurd.”

Valaryon sighed, closing his eyes. His mind went back to that evening, walking in the snow. He had won glory for his homeland that day, in the cold of Northrend. But it was not the excited roar of the crowd or the accolades showered on the knight that he remembered from that day. No…  It was that night, walking under the black sky, watching the snow fall, silent and peaceful.

~You did… well today~

Awkward praise from a distant father to a son whom had spent all of his life trying to prove he was more than a mere disappointment to his house, his family, his father. And the last words spoken from Alturion’s lips that were not some form of chastisement or command to dispatch the knight to the next theater of war. That the Sparrow thought Athelar was anything more than a grunt to House Valaryon was laughable.

“Last chance,” the Sparrow warned, clicking a set of pliers together.

Athelar opened his eyes, staring hard at the Sparrow. As if the knight had ever had a chance.

“No rest for the wicked… right?” Valaryon challenged.

The Sparrow sighed, seizing the elf’s shackled right hand and bringing the pliers to the nail bed of the knight’s index finger, then nodded in agreement.

No rest for the wicked.”

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Kidnapper: We have your son.

Shaw: I don’t have a son.

Kidnapper, getting frustrated: Then who’s been demanding we give him chocolate milk and cut the crusts of his PB&J?

Mathias: Fuck.

Mathias: You’ve got Flynn.

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