01-22-2017, 05:22 PM
A small island slightly off the coast of Kalimdor, aptly named Theramore. Such was the place that Jaina Proudmoore, the sole daughter and last living child of the once great Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, had begun to call her home. With her father’s influence and status, her childhood had been a privileged one, alas similarly a harsh one. Daelin had always instilled his military understanding upon her daughter - especially so after her brother’s death.
Of course, the girl had had her own aspirations as well; she could still remember the childlike fascination and sense of wonder she’d felt toward the tales and legends about the Guardian of Tirisfal, Aegwynn. It seemed only fitting that she’d developed a potential for magic, and as such had been carted off to Dalaran, home to some of Azeroth’s greatest mages and Kir Tor, to learn how to utilize her newly found talent.
Past the rose tinted glass of her tower, her eyes saw not the storm raging outside. Rather, the days which seemed to be now naught, but distant past. Those days that she had used to hide away, tucked under the comforting shade of an apple tree with a musty tome in her hands. Together with the soft, verdant grass beneath her toes and the overflowing, bristling magic in the air. All she had wanted to do, was to study. Magic had always fascinated her, driven her to understand the nature of it, to study whether it was in the beautiful, lively plazas of Dalaran, or hidden away in the highest of towers with the most precious of tomes. She missed it. She missed him.
A spiderweb of cracks appeared to the rose tinted memories before her eyes, shattering as the raging, pouring storm revealed itself once more. The sea churned, wallowing unhappily, its wrath unleashed upon the ships, swaying the constructs in its unforgiving caress. The howling wind cut through the stone towers of Theramore, chilling its residents down to the very cores of their bones.
There was something about the display of natural wrath that felt so very wrong. The air hung heavy despite the blasting gusts and the grass seemed to be dying of sickness, rather than displaying its lush green hues. It was of magical nature, the sickly taste of evil spiking her senses. The frozen winds of Northrend were once more reaching their icebound tendrils to Theramore.
But little did she know, she wouldn’t be there to witness it.
Of course, the girl had had her own aspirations as well; she could still remember the childlike fascination and sense of wonder she’d felt toward the tales and legends about the Guardian of Tirisfal, Aegwynn. It seemed only fitting that she’d developed a potential for magic, and as such had been carted off to Dalaran, home to some of Azeroth’s greatest mages and Kir Tor, to learn how to utilize her newly found talent.
Past the rose tinted glass of her tower, her eyes saw not the storm raging outside. Rather, the days which seemed to be now naught, but distant past. Those days that she had used to hide away, tucked under the comforting shade of an apple tree with a musty tome in her hands. Together with the soft, verdant grass beneath her toes and the overflowing, bristling magic in the air. All she had wanted to do, was to study. Magic had always fascinated her, driven her to understand the nature of it, to study whether it was in the beautiful, lively plazas of Dalaran, or hidden away in the highest of towers with the most precious of tomes. She missed it. She missed him.
A spiderweb of cracks appeared to the rose tinted memories before her eyes, shattering as the raging, pouring storm revealed itself once more. The sea churned, wallowing unhappily, its wrath unleashed upon the ships, swaying the constructs in its unforgiving caress. The howling wind cut through the stone towers of Theramore, chilling its residents down to the very cores of their bones.
There was something about the display of natural wrath that felt so very wrong. The air hung heavy despite the blasting gusts and the grass seemed to be dying of sickness, rather than displaying its lush green hues. It was of magical nature, the sickly taste of evil spiking her senses. The frozen winds of Northrend were once more reaching their icebound tendrils to Theramore.
But little did she know, she wouldn’t be there to witness it.
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