Tyrande Whisperwind carefully picked her way through the rocks of the
cavern, ears pricked and mind alert for any type of suspicious movement.
She'd left her snow-white tiger, Kyore, outside the cave mouth, in case a
threat arose from outside. And also to keep her lover, Furion, from trying
to stop her.
Furion Stormrage was a righteous and careful leader; he always did things for the best, in his eyes. Ten thousand years ago, when the demons invaded Azeroth, he caught his brother constructing another Well of Eternity after the original had been destroyed. The Well had been used as a portal between the normal world and the world of demons, allowing the power-hungry beasts to enter Azeroth. Furion was not about to let that happen again. He had been infuriated, and cast Illidan Stormrage deep into the very cavern Tyrande was navigating now, binding him to rock with unbreakable chains to insure that he'd never see the surface of the world again.
But Tyrande was determined to change that. The demons were invading again and her people needed all the help they could get to fend them off. Illidan, Malfurion had told her, was a fantastic fighter, a prime example of a demon hunter. She wanted to negotiate with him, to see if he had the will to defend his race for his freedom from imprisonment. If he had not gone insane, it would surely be an offer he could not refuse.
She reached a sealed gate in the rock, engraved with old elvish symbols her teachings and immortality enabled her to understand. She spoke three words in an ancient tongue then watched, hands trembling slightly, as the gateway opened and revealed a small chamber. A figure sat huddled in a corner, unmoving, his limbs entangled in various forms of chains, both physical and magical. This was Illidan Stormrage. His skin was much paler than the rich violet hue of a normal night elf, his long hair unkempt and his hands and feet coated with a light dust, making his skin seem even whiter and giving him an almost ethereal appearance. He was barely clothed, showing old scars of lacerations and injuries through the worn leather garments. Only his blindfold remained perfectly intact, looking like it had been weaved yesterday.
Tyrande silently cleared her throat and spoke. "Illidan Stormrage. I am Tyrande Whisperwind. Perhaps you remember me as the High Priestess of the Moon. I have come to make a deal with you. Our people and the world are in danger of being overcome by the Burning Legion once again. We are rallying every possible ally we can in an attempt to finally banish them from our world. We would consider you a great asset to our cause and offer you your freedom from this wretched abode in exchange for your services."
Silence.
Suddenly the pale figure stirred, a deep, raspy voice coming from the sharply-featured face of the demon hunter. "There is no 'we' in this, is there, Tyrande? This is you; my brother wanted nothing to do with it, did he?" Illidan slowly sat up straight then slouched back against the stone face. "As much as I would like to try and seek his favor out now, I'm sure he would rather I continued rotting away in this forsaken prison." His thick eyebrows moved downwards underneath his blindfold. "He doesn't know you're here."
"No, he doesn't not. This was a choice I did indeed make myself and I accept any consequences of it. We need you. He does not see it but we need everyone we can possibly get, which includes you. You are a fine example of our kind and I'm sure when you have reason, you are a dedicated fighter." Tyrande found herself trusting Illidan and taking pity after hearing his emotionless voice. She moved closer to him, and crouched beside him. "Please," she said firmly. "I know you will have to face your brother again - well, in fact, so will I, now - but this is fate of our world. This is more important that something happened so long ago, this is now, and it is neccessary. Furion will have to realize this at some point. I'm sure his forgiveness is attainable if you try for it."
Illidan did not speak. He rose, his ageless body and muscles rippling in the movement. "I have had time to think about my past actions while I have been down here. I want to restore my brother's faith in me, and the rest of society's faith." He turned to Tyrande. "You, being the head Priestess, should know how much my kind are shunned by the rest of you. My brother despised the path I took in life. He wanted me to become a druid, to use the magic of the land and spirit. Not only did my actions relating to the war years ago irritate him, but also simply the fact of who I was. It is a guessing game whether he will ever care for me again, like when we were children. I would like his approval of my life, being that he is my kin. But while I regret my actions upon the Well, I do not regret my choices in life." He paused, fists clenching and unclenching. "I will fight for you, Priestess. I will fight for you and my brother and our people. But I will also fight for myself, for honor and rite. I will prove myself to be the worthy denizen of this world that I am." He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I thank you for allowing me the chance."
Tyrande was thrilled by his response. Without any hesitation, she spoke more of the old tongue, releasing Illidan's bonds of ten millenia and freeing him for her purpose. "Come with me then." She led him out of the cavern and into the first day of his renewed life.
---------
The rich green fronds of a giant fern brushed against Darkweaver's skin, making more sound than his footsteps upon the ground. Darkweaver was a demon hunter, a warrior against what stood for pain and suffering for his people. He had been taught how to use demonic power against itself, to dispel the evil forces of the undead and buffer his own strength and abilities. He carried twin-bladed weapons forged with the power of the demons, the standard material tool of the demon hunter. He practiced various techniques and spells, amplified by the channeled energies of the evil force, which he wielded against the armies of undead and unearthly troops. Darkweaver took his profession seriously; he wore a blindfold at all times, even while sleeping, in order to better develop his senses other than sight, including a "spectral" sense and other spiritually-based perceptions.
And right now his senses were telling him something was lurking outside the grove.
He had been sleeping peacefully until he felt a disturbance in the flowing energies around him. He had probed the area for a familiar presence, one of another of the elves perhaps creeping around. But he had been met with nothing, which roused his suspicions. Only those who had learned to shield their thoughts from others could hide themselves from his kind; it was a useful scouting trick and employed by many.
Darkweaver continued creeping silently through the brush, listening and probing the area for the lurker. The target was not an undead ghoul, which would have been extremely easy to discern, but something else. Hopefully just another of his clan but one could never be so sure anymore. Orcs and humans had been moving around the area regularly, exploring and ultimately disturbing the peace of the land. Many of their brethren had been sent home missing an appendage or two but yet they never learned when to stop.
A loud rustling of leaves to his left alerted him. He took the chance and darted to his target, leaping swiftly upon it.
A piercing, female scream stifled itself as his weight pinned the intruder to the ground. His blades were out and at the creature's throat, shining in the moonlight. Beneath his hands and feet, he could feel the landscape of a thin body, lightly clad in the smooth leather garments made by his people. His Mindsight surveyed his catch and suddenly froze on an ornate pendant between the hills on its torso.
He gulped. This was a Priestess.
He quickly retracted his blades and moved off the poor girl, whom he could hear was breathing very heavily, perhaps in shock. Darkweaver could feel his face burning and the nervous twitch in his left cheek begin to act. Not only were the Priestesses of elven society very, very important figures, but they also held the least love for the demon hunter and his blasphemous ways. Accidentally catching one out on a midnight stroll was not exactly the way to becoming a popular figure with the people. "My lady, I apologize for this mistake, I couldn't tell whether or not you were malignant and I was just doing my duty as protector of the grove. Usually one does not walk with their shields up so close to the heart of our land, I thought perhaps you were a spy or-" A gentle hand over his mouth silenced him.
"It is alright, hunter," a slightly quavering, dulcet voice replied quietly. "It was my stupid mistake to walk at night with my shields on and without my guardian. I won't tell anyone if you won't." She removed her hand and cleared her throat. "I'm not supposed to be out anyways. Lady Tyrande says the risks of an ambush outside the area are very high right now and that we are to stay close to the main encampment. But, I needed a walk..." She trailed off.
Darkweaver heaved a huge sigh of relief internally. This was one of the younger Priestesses, most of whom were more easy going than their superiors. "But still, my lady, I'm sorry if I caused you any pain or alarm..." He proffered his hand and helped her rise, then began brushing the dirt and leaves off of her, being careful not scratch her with his long nails. "My name is Darkweaver if you wish to refer me to your elders for chastisement." He winced involuntarily as he said that last word.
The girl giggled and took his hands in her own. "No, Darkweaver, I'm sure this was all just a mistake of judgment. Please, accept my apology for being foolish. My name is Felore Moonray, if you ever need a reference from the Priestesses." She squeezed them, sending a strange ripple through his body. "I should be heading back now, though, to make sure this hasn't attracted anyone's attention. It was nice, um, crashing into you." His Mindsight flared as she smiled at him then dropped his hands and took off carefully towards the main part of the encampment.
Darkweaver shook his head, almost wondering what just happened. He returned back to his dwelling for the night, thinking about Felore and the sweet softness of her voice and touch.
---------
"Felore!"
Tyrande's sharp voice pierced the air over the chamber. Felore winced, the small blue flame on her palm dissipating with a wisp of smoke. She had been caught daydreaming again and she knew the High Priestess was not going to let her get away with it one of these days. In fact, Tyrande had been drifting closer to her throughout the session today and was probably just waiting for her to get that far-away look in her eyes. Felore closed her eyes and hung her head, sighing and waiting for a lecture on inattentiveness.
Tyrande's sharp-featured but beautiful face came down to a parallel with hers, her eyes gleaming softly. "You should stop thinking about him," she said softly. Felore looked up, eyes wide. "He's distracting you and stealing your concentration from me, which is something we can't have right now, not when we are so close to conflict and you are about to reach the next step in your training."
"I'm sorry, my Lady." Felore bowed her head but raised it again quickly and whispered, "Who are you talking about?"
A mischievous smile crossed the High Priestess' lips. "What can I say? I'm worshipped by all our people for a reason. You can't tell me that a small bit of information such as a possibly disastrous run-in between a demon hunter and one of my apprentices would escape my attention." Her soft hand caressed Felore's cheek lovingly. "Especially when that apprentice is one who is most determined in her studies but suddenly stares off into nothing and loses her concentration in the middle of teachings for some reason today." She rose fluidly, causing the other apprentices in the room to return their attention to their work, but stared down at Felore for a few more moments. "And please be careful, my child. He is a demon hunter. Never give them your full trust or access to your heart."
Felore sighed and nodded acknowledgement to Tyrande's statement but she could not get the image of Darkweaver - his very name sent shivers down her spine - out of her mind. He had such a gorgeous, well-defined body and long, flowing midnight blue hair that had played on her face and chest in the cool night breeze. He had seemed so sympathetic and genuinely apologetic for the mix-up. And she wanted to feel that warm, lusciously sculpted body on hers again...
A sudden bang from outside attracted the attention of Felore, Tyrande, and the rest of the girls inside the room. Tyrande quickly strode to the door and cracked it open to see what was going on. Suddenly, she was thrown aside as an enraged Furion Stormrage stomped into the room, his hands clenched tightly and his teeth bared angrily. The assembled group of priestesses stared at him, frightened by this rage that had overcome their Lady's counterpart.
"TYRANDE!" he bellowed, turning in her direction. The High Priestess faced him, breathing heavily from being flung off the door and into a wall. She glared at her lover, who returned the nasty look. He grabbed her by the arm and forcibly led her out of the temple, slamming the door behind them.
Felore and her brethren sat in shock, staring at the door and each other. Furion was known for his calmness and serenity - this outburst was something completely alien to them.
What could have possibly happened... Being the inquisitive girl she was, Felore rose and went to the door, cracking it open as Tyrande had, to see what was going on. No one was outside. A burst of chatter from the other girls erupted behind her but Felore chose to ignore it. She carefully crept outside to search for her mentor.
After a good ten minutes of surveying the surrounding area and finding nothing, Felore gave up and began her way back to the temple. She had explored out past the normal borders of the camp, where she usually went on her walks and would have to hurry back in case Tyrande returned soon.
A familiar patch of trampled brush caught her attention. Her heart leapt into her throat as she recognized the spot where Darkweaver had tackled her the night before. Is he...? The possibility of a punishment forgotten, Felore began to carefully creep around the area, looking for the demon hunter. She searched for traces of his presences here in the past but could not find any. She smiled inwardly. That meant he was adept at his profession. Exceptional demon hunters were often compared to breaths of wind with very sharp claws.
A thought crossed her mind and her lips pursed, then turned into a frown. Demon hunters were also regularly compared to blasphemers and traitors for using the magic of the demons for their practices. Elven society tolerated them only because they were mighty warriors who fought loyally for their own kind. If an elf man took up the trade of the demon hunter for purposes other than defending the race, he was cast out the forest. Which, Felore could see, was reasonable, but, if he wanted to use it for other ways of good-doing? She loved her people but sometimes could not understand some of the prejudices they held. She held the demon hunters in high respect, only under the priestesses themselves, for their selfless sacrifice of sight and freedom. The will of a being to purposely blind himself and then put himself at the risk of practicing extremely dangerous magic for the well- being of others held her in awe. And just to be able to control that power... The will of the demon hunters was possibly one of the most admirable things she knew of. The contact she had with Darkweaver had almost made the magic and emotions channeled in her veins explode. She never thought she would have the chance to meet personally, though however briefly, with one of these noble and powerful people.
Feeling Darkweaver's "eyes" and energies on her, probing her body and soul, had excited her. Perhaps it was her magic meeting his that caused her to feel almost drunkenly high and ecstatic.
She wanted to see him again and experience that feeling for a second time or perhaps more...
Furion Stormrage was a righteous and careful leader; he always did things for the best, in his eyes. Ten thousand years ago, when the demons invaded Azeroth, he caught his brother constructing another Well of Eternity after the original had been destroyed. The Well had been used as a portal between the normal world and the world of demons, allowing the power-hungry beasts to enter Azeroth. Furion was not about to let that happen again. He had been infuriated, and cast Illidan Stormrage deep into the very cavern Tyrande was navigating now, binding him to rock with unbreakable chains to insure that he'd never see the surface of the world again.
But Tyrande was determined to change that. The demons were invading again and her people needed all the help they could get to fend them off. Illidan, Malfurion had told her, was a fantastic fighter, a prime example of a demon hunter. She wanted to negotiate with him, to see if he had the will to defend his race for his freedom from imprisonment. If he had not gone insane, it would surely be an offer he could not refuse.
She reached a sealed gate in the rock, engraved with old elvish symbols her teachings and immortality enabled her to understand. She spoke three words in an ancient tongue then watched, hands trembling slightly, as the gateway opened and revealed a small chamber. A figure sat huddled in a corner, unmoving, his limbs entangled in various forms of chains, both physical and magical. This was Illidan Stormrage. His skin was much paler than the rich violet hue of a normal night elf, his long hair unkempt and his hands and feet coated with a light dust, making his skin seem even whiter and giving him an almost ethereal appearance. He was barely clothed, showing old scars of lacerations and injuries through the worn leather garments. Only his blindfold remained perfectly intact, looking like it had been weaved yesterday.
Tyrande silently cleared her throat and spoke. "Illidan Stormrage. I am Tyrande Whisperwind. Perhaps you remember me as the High Priestess of the Moon. I have come to make a deal with you. Our people and the world are in danger of being overcome by the Burning Legion once again. We are rallying every possible ally we can in an attempt to finally banish them from our world. We would consider you a great asset to our cause and offer you your freedom from this wretched abode in exchange for your services."
Silence.
Suddenly the pale figure stirred, a deep, raspy voice coming from the sharply-featured face of the demon hunter. "There is no 'we' in this, is there, Tyrande? This is you; my brother wanted nothing to do with it, did he?" Illidan slowly sat up straight then slouched back against the stone face. "As much as I would like to try and seek his favor out now, I'm sure he would rather I continued rotting away in this forsaken prison." His thick eyebrows moved downwards underneath his blindfold. "He doesn't know you're here."
"No, he doesn't not. This was a choice I did indeed make myself and I accept any consequences of it. We need you. He does not see it but we need everyone we can possibly get, which includes you. You are a fine example of our kind and I'm sure when you have reason, you are a dedicated fighter." Tyrande found herself trusting Illidan and taking pity after hearing his emotionless voice. She moved closer to him, and crouched beside him. "Please," she said firmly. "I know you will have to face your brother again - well, in fact, so will I, now - but this is fate of our world. This is more important that something happened so long ago, this is now, and it is neccessary. Furion will have to realize this at some point. I'm sure his forgiveness is attainable if you try for it."
Illidan did not speak. He rose, his ageless body and muscles rippling in the movement. "I have had time to think about my past actions while I have been down here. I want to restore my brother's faith in me, and the rest of society's faith." He turned to Tyrande. "You, being the head Priestess, should know how much my kind are shunned by the rest of you. My brother despised the path I took in life. He wanted me to become a druid, to use the magic of the land and spirit. Not only did my actions relating to the war years ago irritate him, but also simply the fact of who I was. It is a guessing game whether he will ever care for me again, like when we were children. I would like his approval of my life, being that he is my kin. But while I regret my actions upon the Well, I do not regret my choices in life." He paused, fists clenching and unclenching. "I will fight for you, Priestess. I will fight for you and my brother and our people. But I will also fight for myself, for honor and rite. I will prove myself to be the worthy denizen of this world that I am." He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I thank you for allowing me the chance."
Tyrande was thrilled by his response. Without any hesitation, she spoke more of the old tongue, releasing Illidan's bonds of ten millenia and freeing him for her purpose. "Come with me then." She led him out of the cavern and into the first day of his renewed life.
---------
The rich green fronds of a giant fern brushed against Darkweaver's skin, making more sound than his footsteps upon the ground. Darkweaver was a demon hunter, a warrior against what stood for pain and suffering for his people. He had been taught how to use demonic power against itself, to dispel the evil forces of the undead and buffer his own strength and abilities. He carried twin-bladed weapons forged with the power of the demons, the standard material tool of the demon hunter. He practiced various techniques and spells, amplified by the channeled energies of the evil force, which he wielded against the armies of undead and unearthly troops. Darkweaver took his profession seriously; he wore a blindfold at all times, even while sleeping, in order to better develop his senses other than sight, including a "spectral" sense and other spiritually-based perceptions.
And right now his senses were telling him something was lurking outside the grove.
He had been sleeping peacefully until he felt a disturbance in the flowing energies around him. He had probed the area for a familiar presence, one of another of the elves perhaps creeping around. But he had been met with nothing, which roused his suspicions. Only those who had learned to shield their thoughts from others could hide themselves from his kind; it was a useful scouting trick and employed by many.
Darkweaver continued creeping silently through the brush, listening and probing the area for the lurker. The target was not an undead ghoul, which would have been extremely easy to discern, but something else. Hopefully just another of his clan but one could never be so sure anymore. Orcs and humans had been moving around the area regularly, exploring and ultimately disturbing the peace of the land. Many of their brethren had been sent home missing an appendage or two but yet they never learned when to stop.
A loud rustling of leaves to his left alerted him. He took the chance and darted to his target, leaping swiftly upon it.
A piercing, female scream stifled itself as his weight pinned the intruder to the ground. His blades were out and at the creature's throat, shining in the moonlight. Beneath his hands and feet, he could feel the landscape of a thin body, lightly clad in the smooth leather garments made by his people. His Mindsight surveyed his catch and suddenly froze on an ornate pendant between the hills on its torso.
He gulped. This was a Priestess.
He quickly retracted his blades and moved off the poor girl, whom he could hear was breathing very heavily, perhaps in shock. Darkweaver could feel his face burning and the nervous twitch in his left cheek begin to act. Not only were the Priestesses of elven society very, very important figures, but they also held the least love for the demon hunter and his blasphemous ways. Accidentally catching one out on a midnight stroll was not exactly the way to becoming a popular figure with the people. "My lady, I apologize for this mistake, I couldn't tell whether or not you were malignant and I was just doing my duty as protector of the grove. Usually one does not walk with their shields up so close to the heart of our land, I thought perhaps you were a spy or-" A gentle hand over his mouth silenced him.
"It is alright, hunter," a slightly quavering, dulcet voice replied quietly. "It was my stupid mistake to walk at night with my shields on and without my guardian. I won't tell anyone if you won't." She removed her hand and cleared her throat. "I'm not supposed to be out anyways. Lady Tyrande says the risks of an ambush outside the area are very high right now and that we are to stay close to the main encampment. But, I needed a walk..." She trailed off.
Darkweaver heaved a huge sigh of relief internally. This was one of the younger Priestesses, most of whom were more easy going than their superiors. "But still, my lady, I'm sorry if I caused you any pain or alarm..." He proffered his hand and helped her rise, then began brushing the dirt and leaves off of her, being careful not scratch her with his long nails. "My name is Darkweaver if you wish to refer me to your elders for chastisement." He winced involuntarily as he said that last word.
The girl giggled and took his hands in her own. "No, Darkweaver, I'm sure this was all just a mistake of judgment. Please, accept my apology for being foolish. My name is Felore Moonray, if you ever need a reference from the Priestesses." She squeezed them, sending a strange ripple through his body. "I should be heading back now, though, to make sure this hasn't attracted anyone's attention. It was nice, um, crashing into you." His Mindsight flared as she smiled at him then dropped his hands and took off carefully towards the main part of the encampment.
Darkweaver shook his head, almost wondering what just happened. He returned back to his dwelling for the night, thinking about Felore and the sweet softness of her voice and touch.
---------
"Felore!"
Tyrande's sharp voice pierced the air over the chamber. Felore winced, the small blue flame on her palm dissipating with a wisp of smoke. She had been caught daydreaming again and she knew the High Priestess was not going to let her get away with it one of these days. In fact, Tyrande had been drifting closer to her throughout the session today and was probably just waiting for her to get that far-away look in her eyes. Felore closed her eyes and hung her head, sighing and waiting for a lecture on inattentiveness.
Tyrande's sharp-featured but beautiful face came down to a parallel with hers, her eyes gleaming softly. "You should stop thinking about him," she said softly. Felore looked up, eyes wide. "He's distracting you and stealing your concentration from me, which is something we can't have right now, not when we are so close to conflict and you are about to reach the next step in your training."
"I'm sorry, my Lady." Felore bowed her head but raised it again quickly and whispered, "Who are you talking about?"
A mischievous smile crossed the High Priestess' lips. "What can I say? I'm worshipped by all our people for a reason. You can't tell me that a small bit of information such as a possibly disastrous run-in between a demon hunter and one of my apprentices would escape my attention." Her soft hand caressed Felore's cheek lovingly. "Especially when that apprentice is one who is most determined in her studies but suddenly stares off into nothing and loses her concentration in the middle of teachings for some reason today." She rose fluidly, causing the other apprentices in the room to return their attention to their work, but stared down at Felore for a few more moments. "And please be careful, my child. He is a demon hunter. Never give them your full trust or access to your heart."
Felore sighed and nodded acknowledgement to Tyrande's statement but she could not get the image of Darkweaver - his very name sent shivers down her spine - out of her mind. He had such a gorgeous, well-defined body and long, flowing midnight blue hair that had played on her face and chest in the cool night breeze. He had seemed so sympathetic and genuinely apologetic for the mix-up. And she wanted to feel that warm, lusciously sculpted body on hers again...
A sudden bang from outside attracted the attention of Felore, Tyrande, and the rest of the girls inside the room. Tyrande quickly strode to the door and cracked it open to see what was going on. Suddenly, she was thrown aside as an enraged Furion Stormrage stomped into the room, his hands clenched tightly and his teeth bared angrily. The assembled group of priestesses stared at him, frightened by this rage that had overcome their Lady's counterpart.
"TYRANDE!" he bellowed, turning in her direction. The High Priestess faced him, breathing heavily from being flung off the door and into a wall. She glared at her lover, who returned the nasty look. He grabbed her by the arm and forcibly led her out of the temple, slamming the door behind them.
Felore and her brethren sat in shock, staring at the door and each other. Furion was known for his calmness and serenity - this outburst was something completely alien to them.
What could have possibly happened... Being the inquisitive girl she was, Felore rose and went to the door, cracking it open as Tyrande had, to see what was going on. No one was outside. A burst of chatter from the other girls erupted behind her but Felore chose to ignore it. She carefully crept outside to search for her mentor.
After a good ten minutes of surveying the surrounding area and finding nothing, Felore gave up and began her way back to the temple. She had explored out past the normal borders of the camp, where she usually went on her walks and would have to hurry back in case Tyrande returned soon.
A familiar patch of trampled brush caught her attention. Her heart leapt into her throat as she recognized the spot where Darkweaver had tackled her the night before. Is he...? The possibility of a punishment forgotten, Felore began to carefully creep around the area, looking for the demon hunter. She searched for traces of his presences here in the past but could not find any. She smiled inwardly. That meant he was adept at his profession. Exceptional demon hunters were often compared to breaths of wind with very sharp claws.
A thought crossed her mind and her lips pursed, then turned into a frown. Demon hunters were also regularly compared to blasphemers and traitors for using the magic of the demons for their practices. Elven society tolerated them only because they were mighty warriors who fought loyally for their own kind. If an elf man took up the trade of the demon hunter for purposes other than defending the race, he was cast out the forest. Which, Felore could see, was reasonable, but, if he wanted to use it for other ways of good-doing? She loved her people but sometimes could not understand some of the prejudices they held. She held the demon hunters in high respect, only under the priestesses themselves, for their selfless sacrifice of sight and freedom. The will of a being to purposely blind himself and then put himself at the risk of practicing extremely dangerous magic for the well- being of others held her in awe. And just to be able to control that power... The will of the demon hunters was possibly one of the most admirable things she knew of. The contact she had with Darkweaver had almost made the magic and emotions channeled in her veins explode. She never thought she would have the chance to meet personally, though however briefly, with one of these noble and powerful people.
Feeling Darkweaver's "eyes" and energies on her, probing her body and soul, had excited her. Perhaps it was her magic meeting his that caused her to feel almost drunkenly high and ecstatic.
She wanted to see him again and experience that feeling for a second time or perhaps more...