Chapter 58

It was the day of the Vandercross Gala, and despite the horrors this city had witnessed, the weather was idylic, and the people were in high spirits. 

Clouds colored the sky like sorbet as the last hour before dusk arrived. Pink with a hint of orange light scattered down, cascading off of recently reconstructed buildings. 

Translucent blue Mana Stones lined the street leading up to the Vandercross Estate. When the orange rays intermingled and refracted within the crystalline structure, producing a heady orange glow reminiscent of the endless bathing light of the Sunwell. 

This faux reminiscence of what was, cast a melancholic, and strong sense of longing amongst the passerbys. 

Many party goers could not help themselves, and would feed upon the Mana Stones before they even reached the estate. The strong emotion evoked by this once familiar, ever present sensation trumped any sense of pride, as their mana addictions trumped reason. 

As the guests made their approach, many of them had taken coaches. Pulled by hawkstriders, the wealthy of Silvermoon had bred these birds of labor or war to contain exotic coloring, or unique plumage. Richly decorated in Dragon whelp leather, and other exotic materials, these coaches carried the social elite of Elven society, and their hangers on. 

The Vandercross Gala had swiftly become the talk of the town. Where the Sunfury had been praised, and the people were slowly picking themselves up from the horrors of war, not a soul had remained ignorant of this event. 

Gossip had become like currency between the Highborn. Where speculation became a certainty, and rumor had become fact. 

According to the rumor mill, Prince Kael'Thas would take this opportunity to find a wife. That the Convocation were in peace talks with the Scourge, or that Vandercross had an affair with Farstrider Commander Halduron Brightwing. Which Vandercross? Figuring that one out was all part of the fun. 

Each supposition had become more fantastical than the last, only further driving interest in the spectacle of it all. 

Most guests were dressed in fine flowing robes of orange, red or gold, in the traditional colors of Silvermoon. The norm for masks fit a theme based upon an Elves' accomplishments or craft. 

Priests, for example, often wore white, with gold highlights on their robes, and wore masks depicting joy, healing, and various ways to show the sun. The more devout amongst them had an aura of holiness surrounding their bodies that would leave those within their presence feeling the warmth of a blanket on a cold winter's day, smell the taste of vanilla spring on the air, 

Mages flaunted their mastery of the Arcane by showcasing masks specific to their study. One mage's mask was an hourglass signifying time. Another's mask rapidly changed between lifelike beasts to other intelligent humanoids like goblins showing their mastery over the subject of polymorphism. This eclectic bunch seemed to try to outdo one another more than any other caste amongst the Highborn. Their pride in the study of magic that they majored in saw the mages quickly enter heated arguments amongst themselves. From a layman's perspective, it would be like watching the physics department, and the chemistry department arguing over budget issues/who is more valuable to society. 

Moving on, a warrior could often be seen wearing a mask depicting the face of a demon, a monster, or in a grotesque fashion, of a Troll they had slain in battle. As those who pursued the pinnacle of martial arts, they were disdained by the magicians and crafters within society. Instead of conforming to the mystery of the Arcane, or the grace of the Light, they settled for brutality. To showcase their skills in the most raw form of expression-violence-was the height of their craft. As a result, the faces of fallen enemies stood as a symbol of defiance against the holier than thou priests, and the fanatically dogmatic mages set in their discipline. Of course, the warriors were united against all other castes, yet haughty amongst themselves all the same. Old grudges and the scars of duels long past ran raw amongst this glory hungry crowd. A subdued bloodlust couched in a shroud of cultured superiority emanated from them like the stench of a businessman wearing a heavy dose of cologne. 

The rangers were the last amongst the martially inclined castes of Quel'Thalas. Unlike the other groups, they possessed some humility. The masks they donned often depicted their animal companions. Although, many of the Highborn rangers could be better described as arcane archers, rather than as beast masters, and their masks were of simple design, yet had holes punctured in them. Each hole represented 1,000 kills. Unsurprisingly, it was rather obvious which Elf was the Ranger General. One simply needed to see the ranger with the most holes on their mask, and could quite clearly see half of Lor'Themar's face beneath the one most riddled with kill counts. 

Needless to say, a gathering of the social elite of Silvermoon was not as harmonious as one might first believe. 

Words, etiquette, or even something as basic as the smile upon one's face. They all served as garnish, as the veneer of civility amongst the cream of the crop in a society of immortal Elves. 

To succeed to the level where even other immortal beings had no choice but to follow, that marked these few elites out as truly exceptional individuals. 

Family name, money, connections? They could only get one so far in life where the most talented of Elves could accomplish the impossible. 

Heroic priests regrew limbs, and cured mental corruption. Their chants, and fierce devotion could summon nigh unbreakable chains, shields, hammers and more. Morseso, they held a powerful belief in the Sun itself, and could call upon solar infused Light magic to smite their foes as good as any mage. 

Heroic warriors moved fast like an arrow, their mana fueled bodies cushioned attacks, and enhanced the sharpness of their blades. Familiar with some magic, their ability to perform short ranged teleportations with the spell Blink transformed them into absolute monsters. 

Heroic rangers could go into camouflage, becoming undetectable by most means of scrying. Their rate of fire and precision with a bow was otherworldly. Some focused on the penetration of their arrows, or sharing mana between their beast companions to create monsters. Whilst they were the most common class amongst Heroes in Elven society, they tended to be the most independently minded thinkers. Lor'Themar was a premier example of this thought process. Where all other Elves were showing off their knowledge, or achievements, most rangers huddled together, and reminisced about shared times of struggle. 

Heroic mages bent time, warping the speed of enemy attacks, or enhancing the speed of their own. Imagine seeing a car driving towards a pedestrian at 25mph from 4 houses away. Most fit people could dodge that if given enough effort. If it suddenly accelerated to 120mph in 1.5 seconds? No one is dodging that. This sudden shift in speed was precisely the danger of an Elven time mage. This was but one school of magic amongst many under the study of the Arcane. The vast repertoire of knowledge an Archmage was privy to made each and every one of them a national treasure with an ego to match. 

It was to such a clusterfuck of competing egos and constant sleighting barbs that Varrus found himself host to. Fortunately, they hadn't devolved into violence, and Varrus planned on staying away from those self-important twats as much as possible. 

Standing at the front entrance to his estate, Varrus only now begrudged the fact that he had decided to host a ball, as well as a masked one at that! 

For one, he didn't care for most parties, as crowds and tons of noise pollution weren't his idea of a good time. Fortunately, Elves had such big ears, that most of them spoke softly. The only thing drowning out the chatter was the music coming from enchanted instruments. 

Secondly, Varrus felt like an idiot wearing a half sun mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving his chin exposed. 

The only solace to holding this event was that his plan to capture the cultists amongst the upper echelon was going well. 

By standing at the entrance, he was forced to greet everyone with a fake smile, but for every 10 or so guests, 1 of them would send a ping to the amulet in Varrus's pocket, indicating that they also possessed an amulet. 

Whenever Varrus saw such a guest, he would approach them with a wide smile, and deliver lines like a used car salesman. 

Feeling a ping just now as a fresh group of guests alighted from their carriages, Varrus cheerfully waved at them knowing he had scored once more. 

Going through various pleasantries, and welcoming the group, Varrus finally came to the other amulet holder. 

Based upon the shifting stars in their mask, Varrus assumed that they were a mage. Of the 13 guests he had caught, this would make for the 7th mage amongst the cultists. 

"Amongst these fine people, I can see you stand out above the rest! I must share something with you! A Muffle, if you please?" Varrus said looking left and right deliberately, as if he truly did have some important secret to share. 

He could feel the nearby Highborn bristle at Varrus's pre planned speech, to which Varrus only barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. A bunch of jealous pre-Medonas, little did they know that he wouldn't pay any of them any kind of attention unless he thought they were part of a death cult. 

"I'm flattered, but this really isn't the place to openly talk about secrets, Vandercross." The mage said in a low tone, eyes darting about left and right, yet his face was all smiles for the rest of the world to see. Yet they set up a shroud of Muffle around them, all the same. 

Varrus's smile only widened as the other Elf did as asked. If there was anything a Highborn of this level would take pride in, it would be his ability to keep their voice hidden from others. By having the mage use his own spell, Varrus was luring him into a false sense of comfort. 

Clearing his throat, Varrus reeled back any external cringe he might feel at what he was about to do, and adopted the demeanor of a pyramid scheme recruiter. 

"Nothing much, brother. We are the chosen ones, only we can see the faulty vision of the Prince and the Convocation. That the Sunwell is well and truly lost. Only through our new God can the wise take their rightful place as Quel'Thalas's leaders." Varrus said with passion. 

"You are the First Seat of the Convocation, yet you are a member of the Afflicted. How curious. Can I trust this isn't some plot?" The mage said, seeming like he might prepare a spell to attack at any time. 

"I am but a puppet. Lor'Themar has forced himself on the Convocation so that he can control both the military and the government. I am young, and inexperienced. I thought I could fix the Sunwell, but I see that it was the mistaken folly of a youngster too far over his head. I should have listened to the wise during the emergency session. We all should have listened…" Varrus said with some melancholy. 

He barely withheld a giggle as he saw the mage slowly nod along to his faux sob story. 

"Very well. So long as you stand aside, and seek our counsel on matters of the state, there will be a place waiting for you in the wise a thousand years from now. By joining us, you have made a wise decision." The mage ultimately said with an ironic smile. 

"Thank you! I know! Which is why I was tasked with hosting this party! Inside this letter are instructions for our great mission." Varrus quickly composed himself, then took a letter out of his breast pocket, and handed it over with great funfair. 

Anyone who was observing them couldn't hear a word due to the shroud of Muffle, however, they did play witness to the First Seat, Highlord Vandercross, paying great respect to the mage. 

Various rumors began to spread, and soon word reached the attendees that another member of the wise had received an invitation of some sorts from Vandercross. 

As the letter left Varrus's hands, he was quick to hold out his other hand in a 'halt' motion. 

"What is the meaning of this?" The mage said, narrowing his eyes. 

"I know not what is within the letter. All I was told by the member of our organization that inducted me, is that the contents within will vanish if opened too soon." Varrus explained. 

"Well then, when will the right time to open this letter be?" The mage said impatiently. 

"When the last dance is called to end the ball, then we shall all open our letters at that time. It makes one wonder what sort of great undertaking we are about to embark upon. Every Elf of high society has gathered together on this day. Perhaps we shall finally convince them all towards our cause?" Varrus said with false passion and zealotry. 

"I had thought such a scheme was already set to take place after the last dance, but no matter, I can see the value in receiving additional instructions just before the trap has been sprung. You have done well, Vandercross, I look forward to seeing you mature." The mage nodded, then walked away, breaking the Muffle. 

The sounds of the party rushed into Varrus's ears, yet he ignored them all as he learnt of a new plot. 

It was ignorant of him to assume that he would be the only one to take this opportunity to lay a trap. 

Narrowing his eyes, Varrus looked forward to putting an end to the traitors. 

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