Double doors opened at the distant end of the audience chamber, the sounds of the heavy barriers echoing as they creaked on ancient hinges and then were slammed closed again with a final sounding boom. The chamber itself was cavernous, yet the full scale and size of it was difficult to determine given the fact that most of the chandeliers and magical lights were either extinguished or dimmed so as only to provide meager light.
A distant figure approached the throne at the far end of the audience chamber, the Sin'dorei's boots making an echoing thud as he walked across the marble floor and past the many marble columns that supported a ceiling lost to the blackness beyond the light's reach. As he approached the throne, he slowed his pace, finally falling to one knee a few feet from the first of the marble steps that lead up to the throne itself.
"My Lord, I have news to report," the Sin'dorei seneschal said in an even tone, his eyes locked on the marble floor before him in deference.
The figure to whom he spoke slowly stirred in the throne above, the ancient Sin'dorei a thing of someone's nightmares. Although he was dressed in the finest embroidered silken robes, he looked something like a living cadaver. Long grey hair hung limply from a scalp that was clearly visible through the frayed strands. Paper-thin skin clung to skeletal limbs that had seen centuries pass. One eye stared sightlessly, the milky white only tinged a faint hint of fel green whereas the second eye burned with a fierce fel light as he looked down upon the kneeling servant before him.
It was not the old Sin'dorei's age that made him so grotesque however, instead it was the many wounds his body sported. Here the flesh of his shoulder was thinner on his right side from an axe blow suffered during the troll wars. There his leg was missing much of the mass in his right calf where troll captors had literally begun to eat him alive. The flesh of his right hand crawled with blackened looking veins, the plagues that ran through his still-living form the result of a ghoul bite during the Scourge invasion and kept at bay only by the healing prayers of priests cast at least once per day. His breath came out in ragged, wheezing gasps that made it clear he had little time left in this world.
After a moment, the old Sin'dorei sighed, waving a withered hand at the elf before him, "Rise and speak. What tidings do you bring?"
The seneschal rose slowly, not daring to look directly at the ancient lord seated before him. A quick glance over the throne showed that his Lord was flanked, as always, by two scantily clad Sin'dorei women who attended to his every need. A quick glance and nod from one of the courtesans told the seneschal that the Lord of the House was not in one of his infamous foul tempers on this day; that was good at least for the tidings were ill indeed.
"My Lord, it is as you suspected," the seneschal began in a low tone, "The prisoner that escaped has indeed taken refuge in another House. It is difficult to pinpoint her exact location for our adversaries have a Master at Arms who is particularly skilled in espionage and I dare not risk exposing your hand by alerting him to our probing."
The old lord nodded, his gaze distant for a moment, "And which House has dared to lay claim to that which is mine?"
"House Sunfire, my Lord," the seneschal replied.
Silence reigned for many long minutes, the seneschal not daring to speak as his Lord pondered the report. Finally, the old Sin'dorei replied, his voice thick with memories of bygone times, "A lost opportunity there, with many mistakes uncorrected. You checked the original properties from whence the prisoner came? What of those?"
"Claimed, my Lord. By a noble with legal title," the seneschal replied. "I do not believe our quary is currently located there. It would be too obvious and she would know we would check there."
The old lord pondered a bit more before nodding, "Agreed. The matter is not as important as it once was, given where she's fled. We will not be granted any courtesies by those who harbor her. At best we could offer only punishment or retribution for defiance that has lasted centuries, but I find myself weary of this. It will accomplish nothing."
He paused for a moment before looking directly at the seneschal, "Tell me, has my worthless son learned of this news yet?"
"No, my Lord. I've kept the information secret as you ordered," the seneschal replied.
A smile passed across the old Lord's face as he stared off into the distant gloom of his audience chamber. The House had many branches, many leaves that had sprouted down the winding paths of time. Once, long ago, it had been so powerful that he had sought a place in the hierarchy for inheritance to the throne itself. Once he had walked with Kings and Princes, spoken sweet words to Queens and ladies of a court so powerful it rivaled those of any other race. But those times were long gone now, a faded majesty that would not soon return. Instead he was left with the weeds that time had allowed to grow along the foundation of all he'd built.
Heirs existed throughout the House. Useless, decadent heirs that were good for little more than throwing galas or commissioning art. The times of heroic elves of Quel'Thalas riding forth to do battle with the trolls or tending to their perfect lands were long gone. Children, grandchildren, cousins and second cousins all clamored for their privilege, their pampered existence amongst the spires of Silvermoon. They demanded, cursed his name, and plotted. Many had been culled, the weeds growing too tall and drawing his notice. Others had given up, drowning themselves in drink, bloodthistle, and the endless decadent gatherings of the top of the top nobility within the fading realm.
All disappointed him. All wished for him to finally take his rest that they might wrest what he'd spent centuries building, forgetting that he'd sacrificed the lives of more elves than they could ever imagine to create it. And none of them would have any of it for as long as he had the power to ensure that they would suffer, suffer an eternity of waiting for him to die.
A smile crept across his decrepit lips as a final plot dawned on him. A delicious, sweet test of those who would have his throne, his wealth and his power. When it was all over, he would either be rid of one of the many nuisances that buzzed around him like flies, or even better, he might finally find someone of his blood worthy enough to continue on once he'd passed. In a low tone heard only barely by his servant girls and the seneschal before him, he whispered his plan, "Allow my son to discover this information. Let us see what he believes he can do with it. Do not let him know that I am aware of any of this. Let him believe that he might have discovered an opportunity to please me. My time grows short now, and I wish to see who is truly worthy of doing what must be done in the end."
The seneschal bowed once, his tone neutral, "It shall be as you say, my Lord. I have kept this information from Lord Orthan's spies, but I shall allow one of them to accidentally 'discover' it and will report back to you on their movements."
The old lord on the throne nodded, his grin fading as he waved one of his shaking hands, dismissing the seneschal to do his duty. As he leaned back against the plush cushions of his throne, the grin returned to his face. Soon his wayward son would see an opportunity to act, and would make decisions that would test his mettle. Better yet however, it might just test an heir he had, until this moment, never considered as worthy of his attention.
In the darkness of his throne room, he sat and waited for his plots to advance.
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