IC: Musings
His finger traced underneath the word carefully, thoughtfully.
The pamphlet was well done. Informative, persuasive and ridiculously sincere sounding, it was all things a good request for assistance should be. With a snort Jadall thought that the Highlord might consider taking up a career in sign-making if he was so hard up for money.
He traced the signature again and this time he tapped it sharply, almost as if he expected to startle it off the paper and to life. Which would have been funny, he thought, considering the man himself was a corpse. The ink remained on the page though, as uncooperative as the abomination that had placed it there.
“Nikkitah,” he said slowly, and to no one but the four walls of his basement. It didn’t sound right to him, soft and nearly whimsical. He repeated it again this time sharpening the k’s so that they were harsh and aggressive and that was a little better. Still strange though and grossly inappropriate. He would remain Highlord.
Thoughtfully his eyes slid away from the ridiculous pamphlet and over to his tome. It had been shut and bound for the night, the enchanted lock ensuring that no one had easy access to its pages.
His private conversation with Reedmace had been erased, the pages vanishing as the book wiped them clean to be reused for new conversations. Nothing of great importance had been exchanged but Jad had taken the effort to copy the messages back out onto parchment anyways. The Sunwell only knew when he or the Magister might need every bit of ammunition they could muster against the cracked knight.
And he was cracked, Jadall reflected. He leaned back comfortably in his chair as he thought the Blood Knight over, his legs straightening out gratefully in front of him. It was likely a result from serving in that frozen hell that they called Northrend or a leftover trauma from the sacking of their city. Whatever it was, it had Reedmace by the throat and it wouldn’t be letting go any time soon.
If only he had kept his threats away from Aenstrian. The Knight could have bayed, snarled and snapped at anyone else in the tome and it wouldn’t have even earned an ear-flick from the rogue. Instead he had found out about Felix’s involvement with ‘F.O.G.’ and had turned on him like the rabid dog he was. Any hope of understanding or support had withered quickly and quietly.
What he didn’t understand was the Magister’s need to get as involved as he was. No, that was a lie. He understood it but he wanted to throttle the man for it. The protection of Silvermoon City and its citizens were of the utmost priority. Even antagonistic, saronite-wearing, corpses like the Highlord. Nikkitah. Highlord.
Jadall frowned, his mind turning to a statement from earlier that day. Saronite held no grip over the dead but it wasn’t like it was some sort of sun-damned accomplishment. To be that forsaken, that insignificant, that even wrapped in the blood, the Gods wouldn’t bother to speak to you. Good for you, reanimated corpses of Azeroth. Enjoy defying the way of things only to be as useless as you were before you died.
It wasn’t as though it would make any difference. Not at the end.
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ooc: This is obviously from a couple of weeks ago. Real life has shifted itself into overdrive and my time for writing has been cut down to virtually nothing. I snagged a bit of time a couple nights ago and this is the product. Everything in here was meant to be contained in it's own larger entry but I really don't think I'll see the time before it's all irrelevant. T_T Damn.
On a better note, have a happy Valentine's Day and be sure to acquire as much chocolate as possible. <3
(i will think up a new ooc question went a find an air pump for my brain)