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((Welcome to Notes from Brookslandia: Fifty Shades of Jay! Open RP for Alliance and Horde!
Last thread: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/2140449509 ))
Dalaran is a quiet place these days. Although it is still populated by the mages and shopkeepers that have always made up the city, it's lost the hustle and bustle that the War of the Frozen Wastes brought to its streets. The adventurers are long gone, each faction hidden away behind the walls of their respective capitals.
At least, they were. Life goes on and as a new day dawned, the mists of Pandaria parted and the adventurers of the Horde and Alliance have found themselves wrapped up in yet another conflict far bigger than themselves. As war wages in the southern continent, the city trudges on and continues to pulse with life. Schedules are maintained and order is kept in these conquered lands. Dalaran has been through much, but she still lives, a monument to lives and years lost and saved in the frigid north. Her shield is down, but her arms are still open for any wanderer looking for shelter from the cold or a place to call home.
A familiar journal sits on a bookcase on the first floor of the Legerdemain Lounge nestled between Old Hatreds – The Colonization of Kalimdor and The Last Guardian.
It's been a long time since this journal's seen the light of day. Time has not been kind to it. Despite the pieces set in place to repair the book, the various shades of leather and stitches leave it a patchwork of ideas and objectives. The runes still pulse, although much softer than they did before. The spiderweb of ink carved into the back cover has long since faded into the leather, covered by the thin chains that used to hang the book from the owner's waist. Dust overpowers the ever present ash, yet the words “Notes from Brookslandia” are still there, beneath the gray and black powder, if one bothered to look.
No one has bothered to look for a very long time.
The stories and accounts from the book's last two trips into the limelight are mostly untouched. Still inscribed in its pages are stories about black chickens, elf goddesses, sweet rolls and fish. The owner's descent into obsession can still be seen in the sudden fascination with ley lines, magic, maps, cryptic messages and snide comments about The Six.
The maps are perhaps the most well crafted part of the book. All of the interconnecting lines between the cities and continents are as straight and clean as any cartographer would have drawn. All of the odd characters drawn over various settlements remain as easy to pick out as they were all that time go. The white-haired elven ranger and matching wolf are drawn over Feralas, just like the crimson and black haired female elves drawn over Silvermoon City.
Just as it was when it was left in Booty Bay, Jay's final message still remains for anyone who is curious enough to pull apart those pages.
“Everything is connected.”
Considering the recent events surrounding the continent of Pandaria, Jay's message seems almost prophetic. Even the Shattering, as horrific and world-changing as it had been, was for more than just devastation without consequence. As the world shook, Pandaria appeared. With every day, Pandaria reveals more about itself, showing the world that we are far more tied to this land than we were first led to believe.
Maybe that's what Jay meant all that time ago, that every action has a consequence, that we are all one people as inhabitants of Azeroth, or that we're tied to more than just the land itself. If only someone had been curious enough to ask.
But it seems curiosity is about as common these days as it was immediately after the Shattering, as somehow the book made its way from Booty Bay to the open bar with no new writer. Whether it was moved by hand or by magic, here it's been, waiting, untouched. It's used to waiting. The owner, as forgetful or purposeful as he is, seems to have a habit for leaving his journal around.
And so it waits for its understated nature to attract the eye of someone, anyone, and for that someone to pull it apart and read the stories contained within. Someone who maybe, when passing through the Legerdemain, would recognize those chains, smile fondly, and remember. They could pull up a chair and pull out a quill and set to writing anything.
Then it would come alive again. The runes on its spine would pulse as they read and remembered. The diagram on the back cover would glow once more. They'd glow brighter as pen or quill was set to parchment and the new reader became the new writer who left a bit of their story behind in ink and a sore wrist.
Or maybe it could be someone inexperienced, someone whose curiosity got the better of them and they just had to read. The runes and lines would still come aglow. As long as someone was there, reading, and hopefully writing.
Until then, it waits, as it has for all this time.
Edited by Jay on 1/21/2013 3:02 AM PST
He made one of many trips to Dalaran, always when he couldn't find something in his research, always when he was missing that one little bit of information he'd come back to the city where he'd spent so much of his life. A place of study, a place of misfortune, a place for hardship and ultimately the place where he discovered who he was, like it or not, the city of mages was a place of rebirth for the mage. He ran his fingers over so many spines on so many shelves, looking for something, something that might give him the correct formula, trying not to resign himself to going to the library in Shattrath before he'd sifted through all the resources here first.
Valerias sighed and was about to give up, his research would have to wait until he could travel to Outland, but just as he was about to stop, just as he was about to turn and head home, the sin'dorei paused, his eyes falling on the dusty tome. Reaching up to run his fingers through corn silk tresses, trying to keep them out of his eyes he knitted his brow and reached for it.
An ungloved hand touched the book and he felt something...what it was he didn't know, couldn't say but here was an allure to the forgotten pages and he slid it from the self and arched a finely shaped brow. Mouthing the words written across the front he found himself inspecting the cover, running his fingers over the neglected bindings, and he couldn't help but be overwhelmed with curiosity. Perhaps his trip to Outland would have to wait, in this book he'd failed to ever see no matter how many time he'd pilfered the shelves, perhaps therein would lie what he was looking for, and if not, something else that might spark an idea, that might make this trip well worth the while.
He looked around as he moved to sit, opening the book finally when he was settled at one of the tables in the lounge. He poured over the pages, smiling at some of the entries he read, furrowing at others. It was a collection...strange and fascinating, simply fascinating indeed and he couldn't help himself as he pulled out book of his own from his travel bag and opened the pages, pulling out a quill with it, waving his hand as it began to move itself, enchanted as it was. He read from it, and as he spoke softly the quill began to record certain things he found worth copying for later study.
It was when he reached the maps that he took pause, and he took the quill for himself, copying what he saw line for line.
It would take him most of the afternoon to do so, and rather than just take the book he would respect it's resting place here as he did all the books he used in this the city of magic.
Once he was done he sighed, looking up to see that night had fallen. He had a family to get back to, he couldn't linger and so he followed in the steps of so many before him and decided to put ink to paper inside the found tome.
Power, energy, they are much like the waters of vast oceans that span across the whole of Azeroth. While land may be hidden and not yet discovered by our eyes, might not be touched by our feet, we are indeed connected, we've already traveled there by energy alone. It touches all things, breathes life into all things and yet, corrupts and spoils just the same. No matter the journey, physically, spiritually, magically, what's inside us eventually touches all and all touches us.
Every choice you make either creates or destroys, there is no true purity, there is no true evil, there is only choice, all of it is in your hands.
He sighed when he was done and smirked then, shaking his head as he stood and put his things away. Approaching the shelf once more he slid the book back there he found it and hoped it might be there again when he returned.
Edited by Valerias on 10/8/2012 2:05 PM PDT
Agmash didn't visit Dalaran very often anymore. After the Fall of Theramore, who could say what would happen to the city? Would they rejoin the Alliance, or remain a bastion of peace and neutrality? The old Troll couldn't say. He could however, have a drink at the Ledgermain Lounge. More often he'd stick to the Sunreavers' side of Dalaran, or by the fountain, but there was something pulling him to the bar in the middle of the city.
Perhaps it was the pull of the old journal from so long ago. When was the last time Agmash had touched these pages? He remembered fondly the entries from the first time he found it. And he'd even met Jay in person once before. Or at least, he thought he did. Agmash's memory was starting to fail as he got older. He maybe had a good ten or twenty years left to him, but he'd make them count. So long as he didn't fall to dementia.
Agmash read through the entries that he didn't recognize, and then a new one. He smiled. So the old journal wasn't completely forgotten. The pirate took a quill and began writing... Just a few things on his mind. There wasn't a whole lot that Agmash could say, and he wasn't the best of writers.
I write in this journal with the hope that it will come into even more new hands. Its contents are filled by both Horde and Alliance hand. By all races, big or small. It gave me hope for peace once before, and it still does to this day. There are things I've done for the Horde that I'm not proud of. And I'm sure some of you feel the same. It's why I left the Horde for a time before our world shattered. But I knew my people needed me.
It may seem silly, hearing that from a pirate. One who once boasted he could raid the Stormwind Harbor and get away scott free. I never actually did that. And with the war the way it is now, it's unlikely that I'll ever see a brave enough pirate in my lifetime. Maybe my current crew will live on to do it, but in my years left, I won't be able to. Such is the way of life.
I once contemplated spiritbinding myself to another body. It's an old Troll and Mogu magic that... well, those who've been to Pandaria have certainly seen it. It's not a pretty process, and doing it on oneself is impossible. Nor do I think I'd want to do it. I've lived long enough that even thinking of it now would be stupid. We're not meant to live forever. And it'd certainly be good for the prejudices of old to disappear. Then again, one of my first crew members was a human, so I'm certainly not guilty of that.
Ah, well. See you in Pandaria.
P.S; Jay, if you read this, help me out with my Wormhole Generator like you did Lectril's. Dumb elf made me really jealous that his wormholes were almost spot on. Ley lines... Pff. Still. It'd come in handy.
With that, Agmash returned the journal to its resting place and moved on, not even thinking that he'd originally gone there for a drink.
Edited by Agmash on 10/11/2012 12:29 PM PDT
A slender human female dressed in nondescript clothing quietly walked into the Legerdemain. Her appearance was not memorable, just another face easily lost amongst a crowd. Scanning the closest set of bookcases, she looked for new reading material, as visitors sometimes left old books and curiosities on the shelves; it did not take long at all to find the journal. A faint smile touched her lips as she carefully – if not reverently – lifted the book from its shelf, cradling it in her arms as she made her way to a back table.
She was an unfamiliar sight with an equally unknown name, and yet she seemed well acquainted with this reading material. Occasionally she mouthed the words that were read, sometimes her head nodded. Once or twice, she quietly laughed, remembering all that had been written before.
In her right hand there appeared a writing instrument; setting fresh ink upon the parchment, she began to write:
No matter our goodbyes or how many realms we cross, the connection still remains.
No matter the circumstance or the bridges we burn, it can never be destroyed.
Time passes, people come and go. The old is replaced with the new. Communities are born, shaped, destroyed and reformed, building upon layers of the past – sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.
I remember when this journal first appeared. I remember the first time I wrote in it, though I no longer recollect the message. It doesn’t matter, for I understand now the words were meaningless (I foolishly thought they were important at the time), that it wasn’t the ink but the participation that mattered.
I could write down paragraphs of names – illustrate the strands of the web, if you will – but what purpose would that serve, other than as a roll call for the dead? I have told stories around campfires, shed blood on cobblestone streets, betrayed those closest to me with a smile. I could tell you all of these things, but to what end? Who I am – who I was – is not important.
What is important is the connection.
If you read this, I hope you understand these words. I hope you understand it is our actions - no matter how seemingly insignificant - that create connections. Never overestimate your importance, but never underestimate it as well. You get what you give – are you a positive or negative influence?
Words and deeds do matter.
She closed the journal, returning it to its home on the shelf. It was not her place to move it this time.
As she exited the Legerdemain, her aura shimmered, as if things weren’t quite as they appeared to be. There was a wink of sapphire light, a disturbance of arcane energy …
And she was gone.
“But Daddy!” a young child whined. “I wanna name him Sweetroll!” The child stamped his foot, his face wrinkled in defiance. People in the streets of Stratholme smiled as they walked past the scene.
A long dead Jay greeted a rising sun by scowling and pulling his hood over his head as he stepped into the streets of Dalaran.
It had been a long time since Jay had been to Dalaran. It had been a long time since Jay had been anywhere, really. Regardless, he took to the streets, walking in his slow, half-limping way as he took in the sights of the city.
Dalaran had changed since Jay's last visit. Lamps were apparently still lit and unlit by magic lighters, humans continued to hawk flowers and cakes, and Fabioso the fabulous was still very, very fabulous. Those things were as they're expected to be in Dalaran. But the adventurers were gone, and because of that, the city was quiet for what the deader was used to. Early mornings have a way of being peaceful, but when combined with a relatively dead city and the cold bite of Northrend it was almost...
Well, Jay didn't know what it almost was because he couldn't feel that it was cold.
Eventually, his gait led him past the Violet Citadel, around the Eventide, past the Violet Hold and to the Legerdemain Lounge. Jay slipped inside, thinking maybe he would sit and rest his bones for a spell or maybe order a coffee because it would be fun to pretend that he could taste things again.
Jay didn't expect to see his journal on one of the bookshelves.
“Hello, old friend,” he said to himself, pulling Brookslandia out carefully. “How did you get here?”
He flipped to the pages after the section titled Connections, smiling when he found fresh entries in the pages. Jay never thought he would see Agmash's signature drawn in ink again.
He took his time reading all three new entries. The words were fresh and new and that part was good, but when he remembered all the words and people that made up Connections, Jay realized that the words of two of the three entries sounded so familiar to those that came before them.
Jay conjured no quill or portal. Instead, he stood up, brushed ash from his robes, placed the journal back on its shelf and walked back into the cold.
Edited by Jay on 10/15/2012 8:43 PM PDT
"Bloody weather," she muttered in a weak quavering voice. The words that had left her thin pale lips, past chattering teeth and wrapped in a wisp of vapor that was quickly carried away on the breeze, were intended for no one in particular. Sometimes she just liked to hear the sound of her own voice.
Big wet snow flakes dotted her chestnut hair, or rather the handful of curly tresses that poked out from beneath her hood, a few perching precariously on the tips of her long eyelashes beneath a knit brow.
She was frowning.
The sour expression on her round face, complete with wind chapped cheeks rosy as a ripe apple, was not without reason. How long had it been since she had made the arduous trip to Dalaran? Two years? Three? Perhaps more? It didn't really matter, chances were good this may be her last and she had precious little time. With the most recent turn of events, Theramore more specifically, she didn't expect her welcome to remain cordial, nor that of Sunreavers for that matter.
...but at this particular moment? The city seemed exactly as it had nearly every chilly evening in years past. The lanterns were lit, the streets were relatively empty, and the wind, ever present, was howling.
The short chubby elf, pulling the fur lined hood back, shuffled blearily into the Legerdemain Lounge, intent on a hot cup of tea before heading off to the archives to continue her search. After placing her request, a few silver coins sat before her, and settling into to the seat she began pulling odds and ends from her worn leather satchel. As she prepped her simple wooden tobacco pipe, waiting as patiently as she could muster for the kettle to boil, she spotted something oddly familiar out of the corner of her eye on one of the nearby shelves.
Puffing on the pipe, a match thrust within the bowl and thin tendrils of smoke curling around her face, she hopped down from the stool and sauntered over to the shelf. A gloved finger gently traced the spine of the tome, noting that there were spots where dust had been brushed clean by hands of another. Plucking it from the shelf she returned to the stool, plopping back down with a huff and flipped it open.
"Yep, I thought I recognized you..." she muttered as she continued to puff on the pipe. "But I did not expect to find you here again of all places." She thumbed through the pages, noting there were a few new paragraphs, the ink still crisp. She perused the entries, including one early on in the book that her own naive hand had penned all those years ago.
"Not what I came here for but certainly a pleasant turn of events," she mused as the bewildered barkeep set the steaming ornate cup and saucer before her. She didn't notice. She was preoccupied.
Long after the tobacco in the pipe was spent and the tea had cooled she arrived again at the most recent entry, pondered on her own influence she had on others.
Who was she? Were her deeds to be remembered in a negative light?
Probably. She snickered, flipping the page over to as clean of a space as the musty tome could provide. She fished into the satchel and procured a charcoal stick, not bothering to find the quill and stoppered bottle of black ink. She didn't have much to jot down.
In clear, bold, print she wrote:
I have questions and I believe you have at least some answers. I won't leave your future readers with any quips of wisdom or life lessons, nor will I wax poetically about that what was or what will be. I simply request an audience. Finding me shouldn't be difficult.
The scrawl on her signature was different than the rest of the text but certainly matched the signature from the first time she had signed her name in this tome. She closed the book, pushing in it further down the bar and noticed her tea had arrived some time ago and was lukewarm at best. She frowned, collected her things and stepped back into the cold.
A hot cup of tea would have really hit the spot.
Some time ago, in a cabin in Northrend.
Lectril did not expect to be setting foot back in Dalaran so soon.
While the ranger often made his home in the city, the recent events involving Theramore and the discovery of a continent that some how eluded every sailor in history, life was getting busy once more. He no longer had the time to return to the city to tinker his days away. Most of his time was spent in Pandaria where the action was.
It was in Summer's Rest where Lectril stumbled upon Agmash again, of all people. Sure, they had a brief meeting in the Valley of the Four Winds weeks before, but last night was the first time that they got to catch up and come up with a few more of their crazy schemes.
Lectril smiled at the thought. He had missed the old troll.
It was their conversation last night that brought him to the city. Agmash had told him that Jay's infamous journal was in Dalaran.
“You know, Artacio,” Lectril said as they turned right from Krasus' Landing. Artacio barked in return. “I'm not even sure if I want to read this thing. Picked it up from Booty Bay and then poof!” His hands shot outward, drawing a few puzzled gazes from the Sunreaver Guards.
“It just vanishes! All that work tracking Jay down and he was gone, and then his book does the same thing!”
Artacio growled as Lectril mentioned a hunt with no catch.
“Yeah, yeah, I know buddy,” Lectril said, leaning to scratch behind the wolf's ears while they approached the Legerdemain. “Maybe this will be the lead we need. We can find the walking corpse and you can have one his bones, yeah?”
Artacio's tail wagged at the idea.
“I thought you'd like that.”
Aside from two mages talking over cooling cups of coffee, the Legerdemain was empty. Someone had returned the book to the bookshelf and there it sat, the glowing runes on its spine beckoning the elf over as he turned into the lounge.
Lectril pulled the book down, scanning its old pages through the lenses of his goggles. Artacio curled up at Lectril's feet as he read through the entries. Bellefleur, Agmash, No-Name and Alyssandra. He recognized three of them.
“Well,” Lectril said. “Nothin' from Jay. Bellefleur didn't ask to see Jay and Agmash would tell me if he ran into him. Alyssandra did though.”
He ran his calloused fingertip over the last entry once more and read it aloud.
“I simply request an audience.”
“You know what that means?” he said.
Artacio pulled himself up, barking happily at the hunter.
“That's right, buddy. We've got ourselves a hunt,” he said, “We can't find Jay, so we'll just find the people that he will find.”
Lectril slid the book back into its spot on the bookcase Dalaran.
“Yo! Any of you people know an Alyssandra Azuredawn?” he shouted, running into the streets of Dalaran with Artacio barking at his side.
Edited by Lectril on 10/19/2012 1:52 PM PDT
Vallaunius quietly slid out of the spacious bed and slipped into his robes, taking a few moments to hurriedly brush through his brown hair, gathering it up into a loose ponytail. It was still a mess, as usual, and did nothing to improve his just-got-out-bed look. Not that he really cared – he only intended to go downstairs to the Legerdemain proper, long enough to enjoy a nice cup of morning tea while trying to push the haze out of his mind.
At least he had enough decency to sit at an out-of-the-way table. He’d grabbed a handful of books along the way, and as he waited for his tea, casually thumbed through the contents, until he came across the unique tome.
The names - at first glance - did not appear familiar to him, although a handful scratched at the back of his mind in a way that suggested he should know them. He felt like he ought to leave something in the book, but Vallaunius had no words of wisdom to share.
No. Wait. He was wrong. He’d written something in another tome, the magical book he carried with him almost everywhere he went that allowed him to communicate with others.
Nothing has the possibility to become anything.
Vallaunius read over that, frowned, and struck out the sentence. “What a pretentious piece of crap,” he muttered.
He thought some more, and eventually wrote the following:
Uncle Thorley, Xan, mom – if you’re reading this, hi! I’ve been keeping up with my studies and then some. Doing a lot of hands-on research. It’s thrilling.
p.s. Xanthion has the best-looking hair in all of Azeroth. No lie.
He shut the tome and returned all the books back to their shelves. Carefully balancing a tray filled with a tea pot and cups, Vallaunius went back upstairs and left the items for room’s other inhabitant.
Axelpyre groaned up into the chair across from the forsaken Mage known as Meteorus. Once possessed of a much less grand name, but still, at least in Axel's mind, possessed of the same much less grand personality.
The chess board was already set up it was Axel's turn to play defense, which would last all of about 10 turns. Despite his name, and fearsome stitched flesh demeaner, Meteorus was not an aggressive player. Instead of opening with a pawn, Meteorus pushed a tome across the table. Some of its stitching was new, and Axel shuddered to think where the leather for the repairs might have come from.
"Look at the map, of Stormwind."
Axel did. It was wrong, now, of course. The geography had been changed, and the flow of magic altered as well. "I suppose you think I should update this?"
Meteorus nodded. "You've been doing the surveys again. I've heard."
"Grommet." Axel chuckled. "I suppose there's nothing ever going to be a secret from that child."
Axel didn't like it. He had added his knowledge to the book in an earlier time, and Catastrophe followed on, too closely. Axelpyre's poor control of portal spells had given him some unique insight into how such things could go terribly awry. His own studies had been ones driven by a great need to get home, and he'd been unable to restrain his urge to share that knowledge after nearly two decades of living - elsewhere. The information had been hidden in a magical drawing of a corpse flower. He flipped to the page, the stench wafted across the table, but there, plain to see, were his notes about the shattered lines of power that had allowed his return home. An event that had nearly cost his life and the lives of his twin niece and nephew. Some one had teased the code out of the drawing, making plain what had been hidden.
"What did you think would happen?" Meteorus pushed an envelope across the table, worn but readable, it was addressed to 'My Dearest Cogfather, Axelpyre Cogswaddle.' "This was stuffed between your pages. It almost leaped out when I was repairing the binding."
The old Gnome arched and eyebrow, "Grommet?"
Meterous said nothing, pushing the envelope even closer to the Gnome.
Axelpyre opened the envelope, skimmed across the salutation, then down to the bottom of the page. And fainted.
Meterous grunted. The old Gnome's reaction was ... unexpected. He packed up the chess set, but the old Gnome still slumped in his chair. Chess set and book under one arm, he picked up the unconscious old Gnome to take him up to his rooms, tucking him easily under his other arm. Immediately, Meteorus found himself surrounded by Dalaran's Guardians. He would have smiled at them, but at the moment, he hadn't sewn together any lips.
"It's not what it looks..." Meteorus found himself standing, dazed, alone in the streets, both the Gnome and the book, gone.
Stratholme, some time later.
Two of the Dalaran Guardians from before were hidden away on their break at the Cantrips & Crows. Brookslandia sat on the table between them.
“Well? What are we gonna do with it?” said the first, a high elf.
“I don't know. How'd we get stuck with it anyway? We got the gnome off our hands, why didn't we pawn it off on someone else as well?”
The high elf watched the human as he drank heavily from his ale before ruffling through the pages of the old book.
“Uh... Do you want it?” the elf said, tilting his head as he reached the pages documenting experiments that took place deep in the Apothecarium.
“No way man, nuh-uh.” The human shook his head. “That thing is weird. I don't want nothin' to do with that journal. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Oh, don't be such a child,” said the high elf. “It's really not all that bad. Some of the writing actually seems... normal...” he said, continuing to flip through the pages.
“What are you gonna do? Take it home and add it to your collection of confiscated items?”
With that, the high elf quickly closed the book as he came to a particularly disturbing documentation of a series of experiments on worgen. He shook his head repeatedly.
“No. No no no. I don't want anything to do with that... thing,” he said, pushing it to the middle of the table.
“I told you so. That thing right there is just plain creepy.”
They sat for a while in silence, the human sipping while the elf chugged his down, staring around the bar with wide eyes. When his mug was emptied, he placed it on the table with a loud thud.
“We should get rid of it, before someone sees it and thinks it's ours.”
The human nodded, but before he could speak, the book vanished from the table. They both stared slack-jawed.
“Did you do that?” he finally said.
The elf shook his head.
They quickly left the sewers for the light of the streets above.
Edited by Jay on 10/29/2012 10:24 PM PDT
The book popped into existence in Jay's hands deep in the recesses of the Apothecarium. Guided by lantern light, he flipped through its pages, reading the newest entry quickly.
“That's odd,” he said with mild amusment. “I always thought Wildwind had rather fabulous hair. Though that red haired Knight he once ran around with gave him good competition. What was his name again? Tristraim? Something like that. Oh, and there was...”
Jay rambled to himself about the merits of various elves' hairstyles and took a seat at a nearby desk before turning his attention back to the pressing issue: the blank page before him. With conjured quill in hand, he stared at the page with his one eye.
Numerous test subjects died or otherwise exploded while Jay thought, their screams and sounds of popping flesh echoing off of the stone walls as the mage tapped the quill against wood. A portal was left conjured over his torso, a window to some warm place circled by a gray, fleshy wall with sweetrolls stacked in the center. Many times while he thought, Jay reached through and pulled out another sweetroll to eat.
Jay did not know if they tasted sweet, but he ate them anyway.
He also did not know what to write. Brookslandia's last foray into the spotlight had brought a whirlwind of events to everyone involved and his mind was stuck replaying all of those memories in his head. One to only occasionally disappoint, Jay was about to set ink into paper before he was interrupted.
“Yo!” came the hushed voice of a goblin. “We should be goin' now, ya know,” he said, tapping his tiny, leather-clad feet against the stone. “Let's go.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said the mage, pushing his chair back and dismissing the quill. He closed the book, pausing as the cover caught his gaze.
“Nothing!” said Jay, tossing the book over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the goblin and out of the Apothecarium.
“Why're you so warm?” the goblin asked as they walked down the hallway, side by side.
There was never a thud of the tome hitting stone behind them. Instead, somewhere during its descent, it slipped out of existence. Its thud came deep in Pandaria as it landed on a table in the Tavern of the Mists, much to the dismay of the Pandaren who was woken from his drunken nap by the sound of time catching up with him.
Edited by Jay on 10/29/2012 10:22 PM PDT
Inside the Filthy Animal, Lectril was leaning against a wall and flipping a gold coin with his thumb.
“Nothin' bud,” he said. This early in the morning, the bar was empty, aside from the orcess at the front door and Artacio, who he eyed through his goggles.
“We were on that Azuredawn chick's tail for a few weeks and then she just vanished, like she doesn't even exist anymore. Still no word on Jay. Any ideas on what to do next?”
“Didn't think you did. No worries. We'll just keep looking, right?”
Artacio whimpered again. At least this one sounded a bit excited.
“What do you think about rounding up the old crew, like Agmash was talking about? Who knows. Maybe they'll have some info for us.”
Artacio barked. This was something he could be excited about.
“Atta boy,” Lectril said, leaning down to scratch behind his old friend's ears.
Cold wind bit at the two as they crossed Sunreaver's Sanctuary to the portals. Artacio's fur lent itself more to warmth than Lectril's gold and blue leathers.
“Do you think we're doing the right thing, Artacio?” Lectril asked. “I mean, goin' after Jay and all.”
If Artacio could, he would have shrugged. He knew he still wanted his bone.
The dry heat of Durotar warmed their bodies as they stepped into the smoggy streets of Orgrimmar. It was such a change from Dalaran. Even with the bustle in the Shrine of the Two Moons, Orgrimmar remained as busy as ever.
“You okay with finding Orxi first?”
Artacio barked. He was definitely okay with finding Orxi first.
Stratholme was burning.
“You met with Mr. Wildwind, did you?” asked Jay.
“Yeah,” said the same goblin from their recent foray into the Apothecarium.
“What did you tell him?”
“I didn't tell him nothin'. Whatever's goin' on between you two is you two's business. I don't want any part in it.”
Jay nodded. “Very well.”
From the dark recesses of the Cleft of Shadow, Jay and Orxi watched as Lectril and Artacio talked to an orc in the Drag. Jay always thought the old Quel'dorei colored armor suited him more than the reds of the Sin'dorei.
“He's roundin' up the old crew,” Orxi said.
“Death's Head?” asked Jay.
“The ones that took to Lectril after Agmash went missin', yeah.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That's why he came to speak with you, isn't it?”
“Are you going to join him?”
“I miss sailin'.”
“That wasn't an answer, Mr. Boltblast.”
“I miss sailin'.”
“What about you?” Orxi asked. “Do you think Death's Head will last this time?”
“I think Mr. Wildwind is too much in love with the skies.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“It means I think Mr. Wildwind likes to be free.”
“Oh. Uh. Right.”
“Lectril...” Tauul began.
The ranger stared at them. Most of his friends, gathered in Orgrimmar for the first time in forever.
“You guys are willing to rejoin Death's Head, but you guys won't help me with Jay?” Lectril asked.
“Well, frankly,” Tengfei spoke up. As a pandaren, he was the newest to their strange group. “I don't even know who this, uh, 'Jay' fellow is. Apologies, Lectril, but I cannot give you any information about someone who I do not know.”
“Yeah, yeah, not talkin' about you. But the rest of you.” Lectril looked around at the two orcs, tauren, goblin, troll, pandaren, and bloof elf. “I expected better of you. All the times I've been there for you guys?”
Vorgash, Enris, Tauul, Orxi, Zufem ,Tengfei, and Andian all looked back him.
“Lectril,” Tauul said again. “Listen. We're here for Death's Head. We're ready to go wherever you and Agmash need us. But Agmash isn't here. This is all you. And while we'd love to help you out...”
Vorgash interrupted the tauren. “No one wants to go on a wild goose chase for that crazy deader.”
“It's not a 'wild goose chase,'” Lectril said.
“But it is,” said Tauul. “You have no idea where he is. You've been looking since the Shattering. And for what? What purpose other than to just find him?”
Orgrimmar was hot and the sun shone off the ranger's goggles as he stared over the gathering.
Enris, an older orc shaman, shared a nod with Tauul.
“That's what I thought,” said Tauul. He, along with Enris, rose to leave.
Vorgash walked up to Lectril, his heavy armor clanking about. “Sorry boss,” he said. “But we have things to do. Ain't got time to chase a bag of bones with you. And like I said, no one wants to. We'll tell you anything we hear though.”
The orc clapped a strong hand on the elf's tiny shoulder and then began to jog away, Tengfei's bouncing belly at his heels.
“Wait! I would still very much like to know who this Jay fellow is, and why he's of so much importance to Lectril back there.”
Orxi was the last one to leave the meeting, following shortly after Andian.
Artacio followed the silent elf as he walked through the Drag and to the Valley of Wisdom. Lectril was only a little bit annoyed at the fact that his friends and crew just walked out on the first favor he had asked them to do in forever. Mostly he was annoyed because Tauul's age brought clarity to the cloud that youth placed over Lectril's judgment.
By all means, Tauul was right, and that's what ticked him off. He didn't know what happened that night when Jay disappeared. Lectril had little love for his family. But the fact that Jay just left, without even so much as a goodbye... maybe that's what bothered him.
Either way, Dalaran was as good a place as any to be. So he'd set off back to Northrend. At least Zufem wouldn't be at Zevrinia's – his – house this time. He'd head there first, like always.
Edited by Lectril on 3/20/2013 7:22 PM PDT
Years ago, when Dalaran was still alive and the Argent Tournament was underway.
In present day Dalaran, Jay sat at that same table in the Legerdemain Lounge, with that same book before him. He was there, writing, when Lectril walked in through the door.
Edited by Jay on 1/21/2013 9:35 PM PST
In Zevrinia Frostheart's house, before Icecrown Citadel had been breached.
“Jay,” said Lectril.
“Ah! Mister Wildwind,” Jay said, turning to face the elf and wave him over. “Word is you've been looking for me.”
Lectril walked over to the Forsaken's table, Artacio staring eagerly at one of Jay's exposed bones peeking out from his glove. The ranger took a seat, turning it around and resting his hand over folded arms on the back of the seat.
“Yeah. I was. Who told you?”
“A little green goblin,” Jay said, dipping his quill into his inkwell. “I mean birdie. A little green birdie.”
“Really? Orxi's been talking to you all this time and he didn't even tell me?” Lectril asked, his brow furrowing.
“I believe that is what I just revealed, yes. He did it by my request.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because after working with you, he knows you are not an overtly violent man. I, however, could just be another deranged undead waiting to light him on fire at the next available reason.”
Lectril shrugged. Made sense, he thought.
“Do not punish him,” Jay continued. “I know you've been rounding up your little merry band of aspiring ne'er-do-wells again. He was simply doing what goblins do best. That is, appeal to the highest bidder. Or one most capable of hurting them.”
Jay smiled behind his mask but continued to write.
“May I ask you something, Mister Wildwind?”
“Why were you trying to find me?”
Lectril took a moment to think. “I asked myself that plenty of times. Hell, I don't know Jay. Maybe it was just because you left so suddenly. For everything that happened, I at least deserved some sort of information. Reasoning. At least a goodbye.”
“I think I'm just tired of chasing ghosts, Jay.”
“I'm not a ghost yet, Mister Wildwind,” Jay said, looking up at Lectril.
Jay smiled once more.
“What are you writing?” Lectril asked, breaking the gap in the conversation.
“Just a story.”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Ley lines. Two human lovers. Their bond. Things like that.”
“What are their names?”
“Irrelevant. They were separated after falling in love, and it's about the two of them finding their way back to each other across all of the distance.”
“Sounds kinda sappy,” Lectril said. He wiped his hand across his face, smearing gunpowder and grease.
Jay chuckled. “I suppose it is a little bit sappy, yes.”
“I'm sure I'll like it regardless.”
They faded into mostly silence for the next few hours. Lectril ordered a few drinks for the two and they shared some of Jay's infamous sweet rolls.
It was dark in Northrend when Jay closed the journal with a loud clap and dismissed his quill and inkwell with a flick of his wrist.
Lectril, who had been awakened by the noise, stretched in his chair. “All done?”
“I believe so, yes,” Jay said. Between them, the runes on the book were glowing once more. Whatever Jay had been doing all this time, at least some of it had been spent keeping the book in good shape. It looked to be in wonderful condition.
“Are you ready to go, Mister Wildwind?” he asked, rising from his chair.
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Lectril followed Jay out of the Lounge and into the streets of Dalaran. “Aren't you gonna grab your book?”
“I don't think so. Not this time.”
“Right. So where to?” Lectril asked, leaning down to scratch behind one of Artacio's ears.
“I do not know. Don't you usually go by Miss Frostheart's house before you leave Northrend?”
Lectril looked back at Notes from Brookslandia and how alive it looked, glowing and waiting on that table amidst half-eaten sweet rolls and emptied mugs. Half of the people who had written in that journal hadn't been seen since their entries. It didn't feel right to leave all of those ghosts behind. And yet...
“No. Not this time,” he said.
“Good on you, Mister Wildwind,” Jay said. “Third time's the charm.”
Edited by Lectril on 3/20/2013 7:28 PM PDT
((Hi everyone. Been a while, I know. Real life, as always, caught up with me while I was letting this thread linger for any last other posts.
But, I suppose everyone who showed interest in the thread posted. At least I hope they did. That's the point of these, at least. When posts were lacking, this turned into a much more personal story involving two of my favorite characters to RP.
The story is now completed. Maybe I'll do another one of these one day. Maybe. For now, I think I'm out of ideas.
I really do hope you guys liked it. Brookslandia is supposed to be a story by all of you guys, for all of you guys. I know this one kinda wasn't, but I still hope it was good enough.
If you guys have anything to say OOC, good or otherwise, I'd love to hear it. But please, no more IC posts. The thread is done for that.
Thanks again to all who participated in this thread and the two Brookslandias prior. You know who you are.))
Edited by Jay on 1/21/2013 2:59 AM PST
((I have always enjoyed writing for these and have had the guilty pleasure of posting on different alts in all of them. Thank you for making these, they're good memories of this server.
((I thought SoE deserved at least one last hurrah.
It always made me smile to see your writing finding its way back whenever I thought the thread would die.))
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