The heat is different in Shattrath, sweltering where Silvermoon was dry and sun-baked. Liadrin stared out over the city from the Scryer's tier, the slanting light of the late afternoon making is seem for a moment that she was there amongst the glittering spires of the city she had left. The city that had been taken from her by the Scourge, and her own blind choices.
Shattrath was her home now, until she could forgive herself as easily as the Naruu had forgiven her. Turning from the terrace Liadrin made her way to Voren'thal's study, admiring the tidy space even as it made her feel even more disheveled. She had tied her hair up hastily that morning, and could feel loose strands plastered to her forehead with sweat; her armour was scuffed in places, and she could feel her hands itching in her gauntlets. In contrast Voren'thal was as serene and composed as usual, the only signs on his own work the inkstains on his fingers.
They usually met to discuss goings-on in Shattrath, whether there was any news from Silvermoon, the movements of the Sunfury and Illidari and how their own forces might gain advantages against them. Of the goings-on in Shattrath there were many, and their tactical discussions were long and serious, but news from Silvermoon was rare. So Liadrin was surprised when Voren'thal told her that he'd received a letter from the Magisterium and that a small party of Magisters would be arriving in Shattrath within a few days.
3
Liadrin is ashamed to admit that between speaking to Voren'thal about the party of Magisters' arrival and the day it was going to occur she forgets all about it. She is constantly busy overseeing the training of the Shattered Sun recruits, as well as attempting to actually strategize with the Aldor commander of the Shattered Sun, and dealing with the droves of mercenaries and adventurers who have decided to throw their lot in with the Scryers.
It is only when a messenger from Voren'thal arrives that she remembers, and she can't decide whether to curse her poor memory or what is probably some flighty group of hot-shot Magisters come to 'solve' everything, but nonetheless she goes to greet them.
They had decided—long ago, before even the Regency, when the Sin'dorei were broken and looking at a world torn away from them in a few days of horror and death—that they would do the best they could to keep hospitality, even when they were stretched thin or far away in foreign lands. Sometimes Liadrin thinks that there is no place more foreign than Shattrath, nowhere that they are more out of place. She's grown used to hearing the whispers what quiet when she passes, muttered nicknames that sprang from the Lower City and passed into the mouths of Aldor recruits. Hearing 'the veiled city' and knowing they mean Silvermoon has never ceased to sting, though. Her people are many things, reserved and cautious and prone to self-interest at best and dilettantism at worst, yes. But the muttered disparagement always made her think of the first few days after the Invasion; when she had tended wounds by hand instead of with the Light that had abandoned her; when she had changed bandages and checked the progress of the clumsy, unpracticed stitches which seemed to be the only thing holding Lor'themar's face together; the desperate defenses against the mindless packs of Scourge left behind as the survivors rushed to fortify the few holds they had left to them in their own homeland.
3
She arrives on the Scryer's tier just as the portal from Silvermoon opens and their guests step through it. A motley group if she's ever seen one; their leader is obviously of the Magisterium—his finery leaving no doubts of it—but the others look like an odd assortment of scholars and scoundrels.
"Seer Voren'thal, Lady Liadrin," he inclines his head politely, "I am High Examiner Tae'thelan Bloodwatcher of the newly-formed Reliquary of Silvermoon."
He motions around him, his monocle polished to gleaming, "These are my colleagues," he says, and another elf in an awful white jacket and black wide-brimmed hat stepped forward with what could only be their visitor's gift.
Liadrin accepted it, trying to smile as she closed gauntlet-ed hands around the surprisingly heavy package and thanking them for the gift.
Quickly she handed it off to an attendant, and allowed Voren'thal's interest in whatever the High Examiner was there for to carry attention away from herself. As she strode back towards the lift down to the main city she thought for a moment she could feel someone watching her, turning just quickly enough to catch the High Examiner staring after her and then hurriedly averting his gaze.
If there was a gift she wanted, Liadrin thought, it was a future beyond betrayal; and no strutting Magister could give that to her, she had to forge it herself.
Notes: I'm sorry I'm so bad at staying on topic, originally I meant to have a lot more Tae but Liadrin took over like boss. On the bright side I managed to work in a little bit of my headcanon of Liadrin and Lor'themar becoming friends when Liadrin was one of the few priestesses who wasn't crying in a corner post-invasion, and that outside of rangers who knew practical first aid the elves where very dependent on the Light and magic for healing spells. So Lorthy's big jagged scar is from when Liadrin was closing the wound the best she could and he was trying not to pass out from pain. Also, Tae's ~richly polished monocle~ and Belloc's lack of fashion sense make cameos.