Welcome to Theia!

[theianmods]

Who: Your mysterious caretakers and you
When: September 1st
Where: The Town Square
What: The welcome wagon has arrived!
Warnings: Minor gore, death




It's a white envelope that finds its way under every door, through every nook and cranny a day or two after your arrival. With the peculiar, bloodstained fingerprints lovingly applied as though they were a signature scrawled into its thin paper body, it doggedly persists--it will find you--until you open it and read the letter written ever so meticulously in fine script. It's a cordial invitation to a party hosted in your honor in the town square today. You should hurry, hurry, hurry! You wouldn't want to be late and keep your generous hosts waiting... or so says that oddly compelling feeling pressing into the back of your head. You make your way to the square, the urgent tugging feeling growing stronger the closer you get, and when you turn the corner to get a glimpse of the festivities, you find it's... not quite what you had been expecting.

The square is small, and looks rather out of general use. The fountain in the center is dusty and crumbling, and if there was ever any water in it it's long gone now. Most of the cobbled stones are broken and loose in the road. There are two long tables stocked with refreshments along either side of the walkway to the fountain, and what appears to be a small stage of some sort right in front of it, holding a large, ornate chair and a third table. The most unsettling thing, however, is the rest of the décor.

The theme is death, or so it would appear. Beside the food table to your left sits a bespectacled man wearing a scarf, but was the scarf always red, or is it only stained so because his head is hanging onto his neck by a thread? Against his lap rests a beautifully crafted cello, which appears to be missing its G-string... Oh. There it is--it's still stuck in the gashed man's neck. The poor bastard has been garrotted with the strings of his cello! Talk about hoisted by your own petard. Where his head lolls against the table, you may notice that behind those glasses, his eyes are missing.

Near the fountain is a large, wrought-iron statue of an archer, where... well, he's made his first kill, apparently. The body of a young girl with long dark hair is speared neatly through the chest by the archer's arrow, her little feet a good half a yard off the ground, now sticky with her blood. If you step closer to peer into the fountain, you'll find another body, this one a man with short dark hair, his face twisted into a mask of desperation and his gloved hands around his own throat as though he were gasping for air. Oddly, his lower jaw appears to be missing. Did he drown? There is no water in the fountain...

In the ornate chair on the platform is the body of another man, this one with his head completely removed from his shoulders. Oh... there it is, in his lap, his hands carefully arranged in his wild black hair. Wait, it seems there are too many hands, though! A second body dangles from a large tree that looms over the square, the rope frayed and dirty where it is wrapped around another man's neck, a strangely peaceful smile on his face, blue though it is. His hands rest atop the first man's, as though making certain the severed head remains still.

On the table in front of the chair rests a chest, its lid wide open and a glittering bounty inside.



If you peer inside, you will see a collection of eggs! Scaly, cool to the touch, and about the size of a football, they come in several colors. There is a note pinned to the inside of the trunk's lid--


Do you take an egg, as the note suggests? Dare you? (Dare you not?)

That pressing feeling in the back of your head has left you now, now that you are here to be welcomed to the city, now that you are here in the presence of your caretakers, but it is difficult to take comfort in the relief from the compulsion when surrounded by so much destruction. Who has done this to the faithful sentinels of the city? Who has killed the Watcher, the Interloper, the Guardian, the Nightingale, and the Keeper? Why have they been left here, at your welcoming home party?

Before you can turn to ask your neighbor, before you can wonder any further, a sound breaks the silence--a terrible, wet crunching noise like a sheet of ice breaking under your feet. You turn over your shoulder to see that it isn't anything so simple as ice. In the middle of the square is one final body, a body that wasn't there but a moment ago. She is small, thin, with dark hair and eerily pale eyes wide in terror. You know this girl, she met you on the elevator, expressed pleasure that you had been found (had you been lost?), and welcomed you home. Where did she come from? It's as though she simply... fell out of the sky! The Dreamer now dreams forever.

As you turn to survey the carnage all around you, a pleasant chiming sound seems to fill the air. It would seem that your mirror has a message for you! Upon inspection, you will find a new icon on the main viewscreen.


If you touch the icon, it will take you to a new application. Welcome to the Task Board! Here you will find a multitude of errands you can run for... whoever is running the city, now. Boy, what a way to announce things are under new management!

Welcome back to Theia, wayward children. Please enjoy the refreshments--watch out for the Nightingale's eyes, they may have fallen into the punch--get reacquainted with your friends and neighbors, and do take good care of those eggs. Or else...

Comments

[stormwinds]

[ A prickly one, but no matter. Llane's gaze shifts, voice soft as he speaks, taking him in. Lions, blues. There's a decent chance he's from Stormwind, or at the very least somewhere near about. Strange, then, that huff, but who is he to tell people how to react to stress?

If this isn't stressful, Llane will eat Medivh's entire cloak. ]

Thank you. [ Even prickly pears deserve manners, and he grabs a hold of the arrow once her body is properly held, and yanks. It's out in one sharp movement, and he lets it clatter to the side. ]

Your armor. A warrior? [ He's already moving to help set the actual body down, though he doubts the other needs it. ]

[shalamayne]

For the most part.

[ Sometimes it's difficult to go running off to do all the warrior things that most warriors love to do (something to do with royal protocol and giving Genn Greymane an absolute heart attack in doing so). Llane doesn't get a "you're welcome" to his thanks, though Varian does allow the other to help him put the body down, taking the opportunity to cast another critical eye over the other's armour.

Everything about this is stressful and the only reason Varian hasn't run off to wreak destruction is down to the simple fact that the perpetrators haven't shown their faces yet. He'll just settle for his blood pressure slowly rising.]

Yourself? That isn't normal attire you're wearing.

[stormwinds]

It isn't, no. [ Llane has a fairly good summation of the other already: a warrior with nothing to prove, battle-scarred both literally and figuratively. He's seen those types, and there's two ways they can go. Black humour, like Lothar, or like this.

A man with so big a heart he could not save them all, and hardened it instead.

Or perhaps Llane is jumping to conclusions. It wouldn't be the first time, but at least he keeps said conclusions to himself.

Still. This is no reason to judge, nor is it the time, and Llane never judges unless absolutely necessary. he is a warrior, a soldier doing his duty. Llane respects people like that. ]

It wasn't a normal situation I was pulled out of, I'm afraid. [ all it takes is a quick glance around once the body is down, and motions with his head subtly to the next body. If the other continues to help, good, if not? he's headed over there anyway. ] I suspect that's the same of most.

You wear regalia from Stormwind. [ A question in the form of a statement. ] The Lion crest. And yet, I do not recognize you.

[shalamayne]

[ Llane's judgment wouldn't be too far off the mark at all. Varian can just about mark most of his life in major losses ranging from friends to his people; he can even write a veritable shopping list on the amount of times even he's been screwed over. The fight is a constant one, something that seemingly never ends and whilst Varian is all for a good battle he does often wonder just what kind of world his son will be ruling in, or when the next time peace rolls around just how long it will last.]

I suspect it's easier for them to pull people from busy times. Less chance to resist before it happens.

[ He's making a move to help with the next body (noting just how the other one nearby is missing an entire jaw). Varian is down with this for now, but when Llane talks of attire once again he pauses, turning to stare openly at Llane with some suspicion. He's been back on the throne for a long time. Varian could excuse that comment as someone who lived on the outskirts perhaps but with clothing like that and what looked like a crown.... Was it possible for someone from Stormwind to just not know?

Maybe he's from Gilneas? Then again, this guy doesn't strike Varian as the wolfish type. Best to just ask openly; tiptoeing around a problem isn't Varian's style.]

And just how is it you know Stormwind and it's regalia, yet not it's King?

[stormwinds]

[ Interesting is usually an apt descriptive word for situations like this. 'Interesting,' or 'intriguing,' or as Taria is fond to say, 'captivating.'

Somehow, interesting doesn't seem to cover it. The bodies are temporarily forgotten as Llane straightens, and while it's not just confusion in his gaze--he's wondering if the man is Touched--that's the vast majority of it.

Maybe that green fel magic has gotten to his head. He is a Stormwind soldier with an addled mind, perhaps even in the barracks when this whole situation unfolded. ]

I'm quite acquainted with the King of Stormwind, considering I am he.

[shalamayne]

[ Varian wouldn't call this interesting anymore, not when Llane drops his own bombshell with aplomb. This place was being ridiculous, pulling some kind of prank on him of course. Sure, this man in front of him could be merely confused but the way Llane spoke with such confidence told Varian it wasn't that simple.]

I'm certain I would remember if there was another standing in my place. [ The warrior can't help but look as unimpressed as he's feeling right now. Normally this was the part where someone apologised for being an idiot or pulling a prank. He'd even accept it if the other admitted it was all a con this place was putting them up to.]

Go on then, I'll humour this for now if only because my ire is focued elsewhere. Which "King" are you proclaiming to be? Adamant? Landen?

[ Even as Varian says it with a patronizing air he can't help but feel uneasy, the kind of feeling that he's about to step on a hornet's nest of epic proportions.]

[stormwinds]

[ His ire. Llane wonders if this is what it's going to be like when Varian grows up, full of obstinance for the sake of obstinance.

No. This is different, he reminds himself. This man is the same age as him, not a huffy teenager, and he is speaking of treason if Llane is to get technical, but Llane swiftly chalks it up to being Fel sick. At the very least, he hopes that's what it is. He is glad to see someone from Stormwind, but if that someone is touched, he has another problem.

The man is tall--incredibly so--but Llane remains unintimidated, uncowed, and he tilts his chin up to look the other square in the eye. He's certain to keep his voice even and calm, to dissipate the annoyance trickling through him. He remains rigid, regal, and poised. ]

Neither. Llane. I, too, should think I would have noticed if someone had succeeded me. Speak your name, if you would.

[ Whoever he is, he knows his history. He knows his father and grandfather. ]

[shalamayne]

[ Varian is all for hearing who this random person thinks he is, that is right up until the moment he hears it. Llane may as well have slapped him in the face for the impact that it has, the warrior suddenly shifting from offensive to defensive in a heartbeat. No longer is he leaning forwards, confident and in control. No, now the king of Stormwind is leaning back slightly, expression slowly shifting into one of exasperation and just a hint of suspicion.

This isn't funny. If anyone is expecting him to laugh then Varian has bad news for them. Whatever this is, it's most certainly not possible. He had watched as the half-orc had carved Llane's heart out all those years ago, so it was literally impossible that this was going on. It doesn't explain why suddenly everything feels almost anxious, as if Varian has done something completely wrong and is about to suffer the fallout from it. Varian knows that this isn't right, yet if it was so impossible then why hasn't he laughed, thrown it back in this person's face with the announcement that King Llane has been dead for years?]

That isn't possible. You shouldn't be here even if you are. Which you're not.

[stormwinds]

Nor should you be here. Not should any of us.

[ Llane registers the shift, registers the strange way this man reacts, and perhaps he does think himself the King of Stormwind. Perhaps he's paid a pretty penny for that ornate armour because he believes it.

But there are more pressing matters than this; more things that need their attention that isn't humouring the tall man with the scar, even if he does look somewhat familiar. Even if he does look strange, but in a way Llane seems to accept. He sweeps his hand, gesturing to the table. ]

But we are here, and there has been either a grisly test or a gruesome display of power. Neither of which I can say I'm comfortable with, in earnest.

[ A beat. ]

Tell me--what would be the correct way to go about this, as supposed King of Stormwind? [ Alright, alright, maybe that's a little jab. ] Argue about something that ultimately may not matter, or take care of those in your immediate vicinity?

[ He's talking about the bodies, of course. And moving them so they can at least rest in peace. ]

[shalamayne]

[ That's not the point and Varian knows it. He's just not going to correct Llane on it, he's going to concentrate more on getting his mental bearings back. This place should not be possible, the people around him should not be possible. However, Varian remembers having a similar conversation with Khadgar about something like this when the Draenor events happened; things that shouldn't have unfolded did and as such the future of that world turned out wholly differently. If this place could kidnap people so easily then what was to say they couldn't meddle in time lines too?

But then that meant accepting that this place was not only powerful enough to do so, but that this man in front of him was his father. It's been so long since Varian even last clapped eyes on his own parents that he's not ashamed to say it's difficult to tell, even now. There's an air of familiarity, but nothing as such that he's going to go over and crush the other in a giant hug. A part of Varian still wonders if this is just simply a ruse of this place to lure him into lowering his guard.]

No "supposed" about it and you would do well to remember that. [ Old habits die hard.] These people haven't been claimed. It is for the crows to deal with them; my immediate concern is of the living. The dead can't talk or tell us what happened.