Darnassian:
Min'da: Mother.
Kal-tora: Literal: "Birthnight". Birthday.
Elune-Adore: "Elune be with you."
Arane: A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for "nightmare/s".
Embrace: Kaldorei calendar, marking the joining of Elune and the Blue Child. (1:500)
Erana-dora isil: May translate to "You have my thanks" or "A thousand thanks upon you".
Stormrage
Silgryn Stareye's frostsaber growls menacingly with Illidan's approach, his borrowed beast being the first to perceive the danger and starting to fidget in obvious discomfort. Illidan attempts for gripping the reins a little tighter, pulling to one side to maintain control of his mount.
A moment later, Silgryn apparently decides to have mercy on him, an amused snort following as he rubs his saber's furry cheek. "Easy, Shakar, it's just the lad," He says, soothing his beast with an evident tenderness in his voice. "He's a friend of your Min'da… I think,"
He hesitates for a second, his gaze traveling to Illidan's face for a real answer. "Uhm, pardon me?" Illidan can only wonder, blinking twice.
Silgryn tilts his head to the side for a moment in apparent consideration, until he seems to recall what he just previously said. "Ah! This is my girl, Rak'shakar! That's riiiight, you're my favorite girl, oh yes you are…" He coos in a faked voice, rubbing the saber's ears more thoroughly and delighting in her purr. "She's sister of Rak'shareh, Mylie's saber. Of course, only Mylie can ride such a fierce lassie. Have you seen her?"
"Her frostsaber, you say?" Silgryn nods absently, more focused on his 'girl' of a saber, "I am afraid I only did once, when I first met Myli—Mylenne," Illidan corrects himself quickly, assuming it wouldn't be good to overstep certain boundaries. "She seemed to be quite fierce, indeed. Does not look like a friendly beast, unfortunately…"
"And you appear to be quite the friendly one when it comes to naming people, I'd say," Silgryn teases, looking at him through the corner of his dull silver eyes. "Friendly as well as bold, of course. A little odd too, given the particular place we happen to meet,"
Silgryn's gaze travels behind his shoulder, although never lingers for too long before resuming his path along the road, a certain air of confidence following him and certainly showing in his mischievous smirk. His frostsaber obliges to his requests as if she doesn't need any indication, barely needing a small pull of her reins to start moving once more.
With his saber still looking tense and edgy—although being a little more manageable than before—Illidan decides to travel beside the violet-haired man, his mind racing with questions. "What are you doing here, then?" He opts not to step up to his teasing game, not if he can help it.
"Should I be somewhere else, lad? You already know how they call me…" He answers in a cryptic tone, making Illidan's brows frown in confusion. "You did your homework, haven't you? It's written all over your face."
What—really? How so? Illidan wonders, although he does his best to not voice it, getting oddly conscious of his own reactions. "If you do not like to be called for your House name, then I do not see why you take your title so seriously…" He then continues, carefully avoiding the silent traps his companion seems to be insisting on placing.
"That's because I'm literally a wanderer. I rather prefer the ladies to call me Sil, though. Oh, but you can do too!" He keeps his banter, the mischievous smirk plastered on his face growing more and more within each second passing.
For a moment, it feels like Silgryn's amusement grows along with his irritation. "Uhm, thank you, but I would rather not," Illidan just says back, pursing his lips when his voice comes out a little harsher than he'd like.
The elder Stareye just laughs at that—if he's laughing with him or at him, Illidan can't really figure it out, yet his suspicions are on the latter.
Is this man always so at ease with everyone? He can't help but ponder to himself as they go along the road, the cobblestone streets guiding them to Suramar's outskirts and the small towns settled around the city.
He knows pretty well he hadn't done anything to, certainly, win Silgryn's… approval—besides of the small fact that he'd helped his niece to find her way around the Moon Festival unrecognized, that is. Regardless of that, Illidan also can't forget his fiery stare when he found them, right after finishing with Mylenne's disguise.
It had been the look of a feral beast, decided to defend its cub at any cost. And yet, as well as the worst part of it all: It also had been the look of someone who had placed himself in danger's way many times over—who had protected Mylenne many times over.
"Oh why, that's too bad! Your loss, then," Silgryn shrugs off his silence, also taking him out of his reverie. "So, I'll take it you're looking for my niece. Bah, of course you are, you wouldn't be lurking around the Temple otherwise…"
The way he talks about Mylenne, as well as his—nearly—defensive behavior when it regards to her; all those small hints make Illidan only consider that Silgryn looks too much of a fatherly figure… and yet they call themselves uncle and niece?
Illidan points out the obvious. "Could not that be because I have friends there?"
"Yeah, right… friends," He snorts the word, clearly not believing it. His smirk widens then, an amused gleam in his silver gaze, "Oh, check this out! 'The Sorcerer and the Priestess', how does that sound for a novel title? Catchy, isn't it?" He waves his arms exaggeratedly, playfully winking at him.
Illidan's lips press together as if he had just tasted raw kimchi. "Now you are just trying to piss me off." He scoffs, adjusting his balance on the saddle and rolling his eyes in exasperation.
Silgryn pulls his frostsaber gently to the right, an amused cackle following him as Illidan's saber tries to keep up the other beast's pace. The picked road takes them further to Suramar City and farther away from Meredil and his home, yet he could be damned if he decides to come back to his house without any real answers.
"What can I say? Must be in our bloodline, or maybe we Stareyes are just that charming." Silgryn admits, half-apologetic but seemingly indifferent. "But Mylie's fine, lad; I wouldn't be idly wandering around otherwise…"
So, he's not just bluffing. He actually knows something.
"Where is she if not attending to her duties at the Temple? Is she alright? Hiding with you, perhaps?" Curiosity gets the better of him, questions upon questions escaping his mouth without a second thought. "Or is her father keeping her locked up somewhere?"
His companion nearly stops trotting, "Whoa, whoa! Aren't you thirsty for knowledge?" The elder Stareye cries as he cocks his violet head at him, looking surprised. Yet it only lasts for a moment, for then he snorts and says, "Why, yes, of course! Silly me, I almost forget what you are! But why the questions, though?"
Answering with another question—that's a game Illidan right then notices he dislikes. "I beg your pardon?"
"Why are you so concerned about her, lad? I'm not the one to meddle on what she'd told you or not." Silgryn insists, giving him a knowing look as his frostsaber resumes her walk, a small conceding tone in his voice replacing his never-ending teasing.
The answer comes more easily than expected. "I have not seen her in four months, Silgryn. Nobody tells me anything of her whereabouts, and I…" He sighs tiredly, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth when he next says, "I just want to know if she is alright."
"Aaw, did my little niece already carve herself a spot in your arcane-stained heart? Never took you for a romantic, lad." Silgryn beams at him, a wild gleaming in his silver eyes showing his utter delight with their conversation. "Oh well, actually never knew sorcerers had a heart…"
If it were for Illidan, he'd have settled his companion's saber and his waggling violet eyebrows on fire at that point, certainly reaching the end of his patience. And yet, Silgryn's gibe surprisingly triggers the reminder of another conversation, with another more acquainted kaldorei in his stead—though sometimes just as annoying as the man currently beside him.
"… Oh, but you liked it. Better yet, you loooooved it! I bet you can't stop thinking about her now…"
That's a question he'd been blatantly avoiding those past four months. Why am I doing all this? Is it because of that utterly heartbreaking look she gave him, the last time he stared at those bright silver eyes of hers? Is it because he'd started to care for Mylenne all in a sudden?
Why does he bother? Why does he care, at the very least? He knows what usually tends to happen when he gets involved with entitled, noble Ladies such as her, and most of the times everything ends up pretty badly. So—and with that already acknowledged—why he's so entrenched into solving that strange mystery that is Mylenne Stareye?
Why he's so interested in a female he barely knows?
His companion clears his throat, recalling Illidan's attention. "Well, jokes aside, your curiosity is not a real answer," Silgryn objects, his usual self-assured posture softening a little—for once. "You should be more careful with trying to mess with a girl like Mylie. Regardless of what do you think of her, you're forgetting we're still quel." He says, a warning tone in his voice with the mention of their noble status.
Illidan rolls his eyes at him, irritation more than evident in his golden gaze. "I am quite aware of that, believe me…"
"Alright. So, honestly then… why do you care, Illidan?"
The mention of his name makes him flinch—and it's a surprise that Silgryn recalls it, at all—tightening his grip on the leather reins as his eyes narrow into crinkled slits, feeling quite uncomfortable with the voicing of his own thoughts.
He's not accustomed to having doubts about himself or his own actions, yet with Mylenne's case, Illidan is slowly getting into the realization that he's doing exactly what he most despises. And as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—a full minute goes by and he just… can't.
What should he say, anyway? 'I am unsure' doesn't seem like an appropriate answer and he wouldn't dare voice such a thing; not if he can help it and save himself some decency.
So he curses himself, Silgryn, the Sisters, the Goddess, and the whole city for how stupid he's starting to feel—most of all, he curses the mere moment when he thought that empathizing with someone else couldn't lead to consequences such as the current.
Empathizing, caring, being compassionate; holding such… feelings, that couldn't possibly lead to anything good for him. It could only mean trouble, therefore becoming weak, fragile and vulnerable. It leads to developing a soft spot that can't be used for something good or convenient.
Most of all, it points to a gray spot—to a dangerous place when he starts to question every single movement, every word he says, every tiny thought nagging his mind. And how can he handle a gray spot when his world has always been black or white, good or evil, convenient or inconvenient, beautiful or boring?
Illidan never notices they have stopped until Silgryn's violet mane enters his line of sight, looking at him with a tilt of his head—almost as if he's seeing him for the first time. "Huh, that's what I thought," The elder Stareye concludes, the teasing long gone. "You're quite odd for a sorcerer, you knew that?"
When they lock eyes, Illidan observes there's something different in his silver gaze this time. Certainly not a distrustful look, not a playful one either—if he can only judge with the hand scratching his violet stubble, or the nearly downcast smile tugging at his mouth.
It's more as if Silgryn just had realized something he didn't.
When Illidan's heart goes racing with apprehension, he suddenly comes to the conclusion that he actually prefers the previous Silgryn rather than the current one—the one who appears to look right through him.
"Do you actually have a problem with sorcerers, or is it only you trying to get on my nerves?" The words come out of Illidan's mouth in a rush, his brain barely following, yet ultimately approving of finding a way out from that dangerous line of conversation.
Silgryn's soft and nearly sad gaze quickly shifts into a knowing one, easily catching up with him as he snorts, "Besides most of them being a huge, arcane-tainted piece of 'gryph shit? Why, I rather don't!" His shoulders lift in a shrug, seemingly careless to get into further detail, "Good of you to ask, though,"
Illidan is about to definitely give up on the entire conversation, reaching the inevitable conclusion that he will not really get some real answers from Mylenne's uncle and he'd do better to bid farewell, minding his own business for once.
Although he can only frown in confusion when, in the next minute, the elder Stareye searches his pockets and then hands him a piece of parchment, folded in two, holding it with two fingers.
"Take it before I regret it, lad," Silgryn insists, pushing the paper into his hand when he hesitates to do so. When he searches his lilac face for answers, his companion thankfully obliges, "It's from a friend of mine and I can assure you it's reliable. But I'm warning you, you never got this from me…"
Illidan just stares at him, confused and feeling odd with the abrupt change in his demeanor. "What is it?" He can only ask.
He looks at him sideways. "A way for you to get your answers," He says as if it's obvious, tugging at the reins of his frostsaber and resuming his pace on the road, not waiting for him to tag along this time. "By the way, if I get to hear one wrong move from you—and believe me when I say I'll know—then you might as well really enjoy it, for you'll be dead by sunrise…"
"Am I not supposed to get those threats from Mylenne's father?" Illidan wonders for a moment, humming when Silgryn's only answer gets to be a loud cackle. "Well, that explains a lot…"
The elder Stareye turns to look at him one last time, his beast already eager to get moving, "The night Lord Desdel gets to care about something beyond his noble name, his longsword or his own flat backside, then let me know, lad. I'll need to take shelter somewhere before the world crumbles into the abyss!"
His last joke elicits a cackle out of him for the first time in the night, relaxing in the saddle of his borrowed mount as Silgryn lazily waves him farewell and gallops away, disappearing on the further corner of the street, apparently on his way to Suramar's outskirts.
After reaching with the conclusion of the night being one of the most interesting—and utmost perturbed—nights he had in months, Illidan then turns back, returning to the road leading further north and to Meredil, growing eager to get into the solitude of his home.
When he finds the road he then recalls it—the note. Slowing its trot a little bit to be able to use his hands, Illidan unfolds the parchment as he goes, a very elegant and apparently careful handwriting showing in the piece of paper.
"My friend,
The Night will bring a Saber to Lord Moonblade's ball for his kal-tora, scheduled for the next full moon. It appears a streak of Violet will be shown as well—a peaceful gift, perhaps?
I recommend caution, for there's this golden-eye still lurking around. My little birds sing with friendlier notes about him—which is odd as its best—yet it's wise if you keep your wariness. I'll hear some more songs further into the week.
Now, regarding the weather, the Storm had been insistent on the Temple as of late. Are you certain it's been two months going on like this? I've been watching it myself as you requested it but, while it's been quite an amusing sight, I believe the clouds are coming close to drift by for good measure. Let me know if this will call for a small push in the right direction.
Who'd have said? I think I grew fond of this tempest already. I certainly wouldn't mind for some more singing, and I might even do it for free—but only if you ask nicely, of course.
Elune-adore, my friend. Looking forward to seeing your lovely face,
A."
"I can't believe this!" He exclaims, jaw clenching and teeth gritting in no small repulsion. "He'd been spying on me!"
Despite his nearly horrified expression, his best friend only cackles loudly with his reaction. "Well, you certainly haven't been very secretive about it, Lid…" Syrana points out as she takes some time by securing the knot of the fur cloak she managed to get him.
"And what if I haven't? That doesn't give him the right to do that, Syra!" Illidan complains, smacking her smaller hand and retying the knot himself. "What would you do if you find out you've been spied all along?"
A funny smile is plastered over his best friend's face as she turns away, pulling a full-body mirror from one corner of her huge dressing room with a flick of her wrist. Bright magic pours out of her fingers just as easy as it seems like, the confidence in her skills quite evident when she doesn't turn to see if it's adjusted properly.
"Hmm, I think I'd be a little flattered." The navy-haired woman shrugs as she pulls the laces of her black corset a little tighter, "But, honestly, this is not about you being spied on, Lid, and you know it."
"Bah, again with the mystery?" He can only snarl—he'd reached the end of his patience a long time ago, but apparently, the whole world still insists on not giving him straight answers. "Alright, what is it this time?"
"You're just mad because that man hadn't come to tell you what he knew," Syrana elaborates as if it's obvious, "And probably terribly pissed off as well, because you lost some months by walking around in circles without getting any answers by your own hand."
Illidan can only sigh heavily with her statements, forcing down a growl of disdain that threatens to come out of his mouth. Yes, he's pissed—and that doesn't even amount how really pissed he is—and the mere thought of having to reach such levels of frustration only for then to get the very little answers he managed to account…
Then again: Feelings. At that point, Illidan is quite certain he rather prefers to attempt for near impossible spells instead of dealing with such things.
Arcane manipulation, he can handle—and more than well for his fellow partners and his own expectations—but, his own mental state?
"Sometimes I just regret calling you my friend…" He only mutters back, straightening up and approaching to the large mirror placed at his right, eager to focus on meaningless details.
Syrana just laughs wholeheartedly, "Oh, but you just look what your incredibly beautiful friend is doing for you! Nobody gets a free pass into a Highborne party as easily as you have, Lid." She teases, playfully bumping him with her hip before facing him a little more seriously, "Just remember, if someone might get to ask, you are you again?"
He scoffs, recalling her previous words just as easily as when she agreed to work in blending him into the party they're currently dressing up to go. "Lord Eradan Darkweave, your distant cousin from Ameth'Aran. Tagging along with my younger and oh so lovely relative after many Embraces of not seeing each other," He opts for some mockery, a small attempt to sound a little less rude.
Syrana never softens as much as he'd expected, signaling him to continue instead as she walks behind him, his big figure shadowing hers on the mirror, "Yeah, yeah, and I've only heard so much about Lord Moonblade's popular masquerade balls…" He rolls his eyes when he's sure his friend is not seeing him, instantly noticing he'd failed when she smacks him on the head. "Ow! Hey, I just said it! What else do you want, woman?"
Her navy-haired head peeks out from behind his shoulder, frowning at his image on the mirror, "I want you to be serious about this, Stormrage. Most of the Court will be attending tonight, are you aware how huge is that? You really need to step up into the game if you want to look like a Highborne."
He tries not to snort again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in attempts to maintain some composure. Yes, he's conscious—too conscious, sometimes—of how the game of the Court is played, one just doesn't spend decades of befriending a Highborne to not get the basics of it, at the very least.
The game of the Court isn't only huge, but dangerous as well. The expectations for every noble Lord and Lady are always too high for them to even think about failing, or forget how the game is played.
Despite that, Illidan doesn't really understand why the kaldorei call that a 'game' when it's obvious that such parties and attendances are a more political business than something rather entertaining.
"And no, I'm afraid your ravishingly good looks won't be enough; this is a game of lies and faked smiles, my friend, not a beauty contest." Syrana reminds him, a little softer tone in her voice as she occupies her hands with his cobalt hair, pulling gently and arranging an elegant bun.
He opts for casualness; after all and even when his best friend may be slightly distrustful towards his abilities to play, Illidan knows he only needs to be more self-confident—and that, he can do quite nicely. "Aaw, you wound me. Why are you fixing my hair, then, if I can't use my good looks?" He laments, faking a pout.
She chuckles behind him, giving him an apologetic look, "Oh, I can't help it! Your hair is sooooo nice!"
"Milady Starweave, it is delightful to see you!" Lord Moonblade beams at them, capturing Syrana's gloved hands with utmost delicacy before kissing them in a polite gesture. "It is always a pleasure to receive such a stunning Lady as the Weaver of the Skies into my manor. Oh, please, allow my servants!"
Illidan does his best to hide an amused chuckle, his expression hidden behind an elegant, much elaborated cerulean mask with the mention of Syrana's noble title. When said with Lord Moonblade's particular accent, it sounds like a rather more extravagant title than Shalasyr's, the Moon's Weave.
Then again, what is it with Highborne and their needs for ridiculous titles? He's sure he'll never understand—even when he pretty much appreciates the beauty of the aristocracy.
"Erana-dora isil, milord. Although there was no way I would miss this event," Syrana throws a much-practiced bright smile at their host, allowing the servants to hold her coat as she bows respectfully. "We will be talking about this ball for a decade, I am sure of it!"
"And with guests such as you, I can only expect for more than only a decade!" Lord Moonblade laughs, looking very satisfied with Syrana's presence as he moves to the side to allow them entrance to his pompous manor. "I see you brought a companion. Who do I owe the pleasure of greeting?" The man wonders when Illidan approaches them.
Syrana is quick in recalling his attention, stepping beside Lord Moonblade and linking arms together. "Oh, I am sure you remember House Darkweave, my distant relatives from Ameth'Aran? My cousin had heard a lot about your parties and so much begged me to attend!" She glances at Illidan, nodding for him to come beside her, "I hope you do not mind Eradan joining me tonight…"
Illidan clasps his hands behind his back and under his coat as he saunters to his friend's side, "Elune-adore, milord. I am honored to be here," He greets the man with a slight faking of his voice, adding a tilt of his masked head, "You have my felicitations for your kal-tora,"
"And you have my thanks, Lord Eradan," He says back as he elegantly extricates himself from Syrana's arm, kissing her hand once more as they walk through the main doors. "Celebrations have already begun, so feel free to walk around. Duchess Aurore had been praising the Nightwine tonight, so do not mind asking my waitresses for some!"
"Is the Duchess here? How exciting!" Syrana exclaims in joy—and Illidan almost believes her—as she clings to his arm, guiding them both inside as they chat a little about the guests. As they stop near to some marbled stairs guiding to the balconies of the first floor, she stops there, "Oh, but please, milord, do not let us keep you! I am sure you have to attend to other guests."
"I am afraid so," Their host nods in his usual manner after taking a glass of wine from a passing waitress, "But I hope you can save me a dance for later, milady."
With a more casual wink, Lord Moonblade saunters away and finally leaves them, an amused chuckle from Illidan following when he's sure there are no prying ears nearby.
Syrana succeeds in getting some fancy drinks for them on their way upstairs, heading to one of the balconies, managing themselves a nice spot and even nicer vantage point—a huge dance floor conveniently placed in the center of the main floor right before their sights.
"So… Weaver of the Skies," Illidan starts, not even caring to hide the sheer amusement in his voice as he leans his side onto the balcony's railing, nursing his Nightwine glass with two fingers.
"You can't mock me, you idiot," His friend playfully slaps his arm as she joins him, "You don't even have a title!" Comes her whisper after leaning her arms on the railing, her back yet straightened and chin lifted high—the very image of a Lady of the Court.
Glancing along, he spends some minutes by watching other Lords and Ladies sharing some drinks, some of them wearing multicolored masks and some others chatting and mingling, layers upon layers of elaborated gowns and suits, easy giggles and easier smiles.
A part of him is aware that he should feel, at the very least, slightly disgusted with such display of opulence—or that's how his brother would feel if he happened to be in his place. He's sure Tyrande wouldn't approve so much either, surely preferring to hang out in open places, feeling the silver moonlight from the Goddess caressing her slight tanned skin, or the night wind toying with her long hair.
But regarding him? Illidan is quite at ease among such company; pretending—as well as dealing with magic—is one of the things he does best.
With the companionable sound of music pounding around them, he and Syrana spend some time relaxing and subtly tagging the noble kaldorei she can recognize, taking a walk around the first floor with arms linked.
"Don't speak. Officer Annoying on our five," His friend mutters, using her drink to cover her lips as they go, turning them to the side and pretending to admire a huge painting of the Goddess.
Fortunately, Officer Latosius just walks past them, too focused in his guard to notice them. "Ugh, and here I thought it was enough with having three Spellblades in the same place. Who is he in guard of, though?" She keeps her voice low, only for Illidan to hear.
"How would I know? Weren't you supposed to know the shifts?" He points out, trying to catch a glance as subtly as he can, "Lunastre, perhaps? They still don't have a Spellblade and if the Duchess' daughter is hanging around…"
"What? Why would Lady Ailen have two—oh…" Her breath hitches when Illidan shots a confusing look her way, "Oh, dear Goddess, you didn't know…" Her voice comes out neutral, yet Syrana does her best to keep her surprise from showing, quickly emptying her glass with one gulp to regain some composure. "Well, this is awkward…"
It takes Illidan less than a minute to take two and two together. Among the Moon Guard Officers and Spellblades—high-rank guards who only answer to Conjurers or the Houses they pledged to protect—he's sure that the Guard Captain or the General wouldn't be called to attend to a place such as that, leaving only two Officers despite Latosius probably hanging around.
One is Latara, which they've already seen beside a noble Lord from House Feathersong; and the other…
Illidan rolls his eyes, the cerulean mask conveniently hiding his sheer irritation. "Hargo'then…" He growls low, striding to the closest railing to take a scan of the main floor, a new objective already set in his mind. "So, he must be the 'golden-eye' Silgryn's friend talked about,"
Syrana smiles and waves to a couple of nobles nonchalantly ogling her as they walk by, grabbing two more glasses with that usual grace of hers on her way to him. "Well, that couldn't be more obvious, you know," Her face paints the perfect picture of enjoyment, despite the tone of her voice speaking out with evident exasperation. "As far as I know, he's here as a civilian, though. And this isn't official yet, but I've heard something about Lady Ailen recommending him for a future post for the Stareyes."
He blinks twice, hardly believing her words for a moment. "Why, isn't that great…" Illidan snarls with clenched teeth, doing a hard work of keeping his face from contorting in sheer frustration. "Although I wonder why Lord Stareye would allow any sorcerer to tag along with him or his daughter," He muses, more to himself rather than to his friend.
"It's not like he has any say in the matter," Syrana shrugs slightly, the small movement for only him to see as she keeps smiling and saluting every pompous noble that walks past them. "It seems obvious to me that Lord Stareye is trying to forge an alliance with the Astravars. Can't find any other way for them to sneak into the Court of Stars otherwise…" Her lips barely move as she speaks, taking precious care of not be heard by unwanted ears.
Illidan hums low, trying to catch up with what her friend says as well as doing his best to understand House Stareye's position in the whole chess game that is for a Highborne—if the 'game' itself has some rational explanation for how it's played, that is.
Preferring to keep track of the nobles hanging around the main floor, he sneaks a couple of inches closer to his friend, "But they already pledged with the Lunastres," Illidan can't help but wonder, taking a swig of his glass as he speaks.
Syrana snorts faintly, "And again, unwillingly. He had to, after figuratively stealing Duke Lunastre's betrothed and forging a new Household in its stead." She explains as she rests her back on the railing, adopting a nonchalant pose, not worrying to look at him, "I'd say that was a very small price to pay, though; you just don't stand in a Duke's way if you intend to keep playing the game of the Court and live to tell it, my friend…"
He spends some time in silence after that, nursing his drink and mulling over what he just heard as he tries to maintain his gaze focused on the people below them. Syrana certainly has a point with her assumption of Lord Desdel attempting for an alliance with the Astravars. After all, the Lunastres are the only Great House that never claimed a seat in the Court of Stars, seemingly preferring to have their own estate on the opposite side of Suramar's Highborne territory.
But whatever the reasons for doing that were, Illidan suddenly stops wondering about it, for then a known voice from below reaches his ears, recalling his complete attention.
"Since I was young, I knew I'd find you. But our love was a song sung by a dying swan…"
A tender smile clings to his lips, a faint sigh escaping him with the sight of the singer, drums, cellos, and violins encompassing the lovely sound of her voice. Her long violet hair is arranged into a loose braid, decorated with little stars that only highlight the beautiful and characteristic color of her mane, swinging and falling behind her shoulders as she goes.
"And in the night, you hear me calling, you hear me calling. And in your dreams you see me falling, falling…"
He's not aware that he started moving after Syrana grabs his arm and saunters beside him, walking down the stairs on their way to the main floor. His ear twitches slightly, but Syrana's words come out muffled as for him being too entranced with Mylenne's voice, clinging to him from the main stage located next to the dance floor.
Her blue and long, silky gown fits her body like a second skin, the fabric shimmering so very slightly with the lights pointing at her, arms waving gracefully and bright silver eyes glancing at the crowd before her, her gaze soft, her smile softer.
"Breathe in the light, I'll stay here in the shadows… Waiting for a sign as the tide grows, higher, and higher, and higher."
A flash of cobalt makes its appearance around the multitude gathered close to the stage, although Hargo'then's sudden presence is not enough for Illidan to distract him from the woman above, her form and voice captivating him so strongly as if like a charm spell had been applied to him.
Could that even be possible? He can only take a hard swallow, goosebumps showing in his skin, heart fluttering and breath hitching when Mylenne's oh so bright eyes capture his for a mere moment before drifting away.
"And when the nights are long, all those stars recall your goodbye… your goodbye…"
He knows that he may be giving a good show to his friend, still clinging to his arm, for the way he starts getting conscious of his gawking, but he can't really help it. Somehow he feels slightly sad for Syrana, for he's aware that he might be probably the only kaldorei that can see the true beauty that is Mylenne Stareye—the flashing lights not even as bright as her aura, gleaming and shimmering all over her pale, delicate lavender skin.
Could it be another more breathtaking sight in the whole world than hers? He'd spent two thousand and four hundred years taking and appreciating the beauty in the world he lives in—the soft texture of expensive silks, the whispers of the wind around the forest at night, the strong yet sweet taste of Nightpear Cider, how the purplish-blue mists of his arcane magic sparkle so cheerfully when touched by the moonlight.
"Breathe in the light and say goodbye…"
And yet, so very few things can compare to the stunning display before his eyes. Honestly, could exist anything more beautiful than her?
Unfortunately—and like all that is beautiful—the song comes to an end, leaving him to nearly startle when the music stops and the crowd gives a round of applause afterwards. Mylenne bows elegantly and waves to Lord Moonblade, who's standing nearby, before walking down the stage.
Illidan observes her braided violet mane as she strides around the multitude and conveniently away from Lord Stareye, looking too entrenched in a conversation with a masked female to care to pay attention to all the fuss around.
"Well, seems like a nice time for a dance, don't you think?" His friend takes him out of his reverie, not waiting for an answer as she gracefully pulls him along with her, heading towards the dance floor. Another singer takes the lead and music starts pounding once again before Illidan can notice, "Come on, Lid, I have an idea. You'll thank me later…" She insists as she grabs his hand, refusing an argument from his part.
He grumbles under his breath but doesn't pull any resistance, doing a quick recall of the choreography the dancers used the previous turns as they walk down some small stairs, settling behind a line of five couples before heading inside.
Three steps forward, one step backwards, one spin to the left with hands rising up, then face the partner; the routine comes to his mind just as easily as if remembering a spell, growing up more confident as he presses his palm to Syrana's, facing each other as they stride around the dance floor in circles.
"Not that I really mind, but why are we doing this, again?" Illidan wonders, this time not keeping his voice down as the music does its work in muffling it—as well as the constant chattering from the nobles above.
Once the couples complete a full circle, they set for the new steps; Syrana's gloved hands going to his shoulders as his settle around her waist, "If you stop focusing here…" She teases, shamelessly glancing down to her breasts, "Then you will get it, you silly,"
One of his eyebrows quirks up in suspicion, a hum leaving his lips as he attempts to slow down their steps a little bit, trying to catch a glance at their surroundings as subtly as possible. His humming easily turns into a growl when a flash of violet and cobalt waves across them.
Once more, he has to thank his choosing of wearing a mask, for his irritation couldn't be more evident without the cerulean veil over his face; irritation that slowly builds up with the flirty looks that Mylenne and Hargo'then share as they sway with the music.
For a moment, Illidan seriously considers sending a silent curse in Hargo's way—maybe a blinding spell, or a small gash to ruin his civilian clothes, or a subtle gush to make him trip and fall over, perhaps all of them at once—but Syrana starts giggling before him, pulling at the hem of his vest to recall his attention.
"Don't even think about it, Lid," She laughs as he keeps throwing daggers to the couple with his eyes, growing more annoyed with every smirk and wink Hargo'then sends to his partner. "This song is ending, anyway, so here's my plan," She elaborates, doing some effort in taking some distance from the offending couple, "I'll be taking Hargo and you take your girl for the next dance. It's a deal?"
Illidan quickly returns his gaze to her, nearly slack-mouthed, "Why, aren't you the most brilliant woman I ever had the pleasure to meet…" He praises, his face brightening with her very clever idea.
Syrana will probably claim for a huge payback further into the week, but he doesn't care in the slightest as—a minute later—the song concludes and the dancing stops.
After his friend sends a wink his way, they're quick into getting in line with the five other couples—three on the left and three on the right—he and Syrana doing an elegant bow before Mylenne and Hargo, being replied with the same gesture.
Syrana is the first to step forward, flashing a wicked smile to Hargo and shamelessly ogling him up and down. "Hargo, dear, it's very nice to see you here!" She greets him with a sultry voice, offering her gloved hand to him, "Spare me a dance, my friend?"
Mylenne seemingly fights to keep her polite smile as Illidan strides to stand before her, noticing how uncomfortable she starts to look, quickly bowing and asking for her hand before she hesitates any further.
"May I have this dance, Lady Stareye?" He asks, looking straight to her bright silver eyes, using that precise tone of his that he knows it has his nice effects in women.
As his friend effortlessly takes Hargo to the other side of the dance floor, her breath hitches for a moment, silver eyes narrowing in suspicion when she finally glances his way. "Uhm, sure…" Mylenne breathes, apparently trying to keep her neutral expression as she offers her hand back.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't have to insist further this time," Illidan points out, mouth curling into a dashing smile as he captures her hand in his, straightening up and bringing her a little closer, his free hand going to her waist.
As the music starts once more, his smile widens when her eyes blow wide, traveling instantly to his masked face and really looking at him for the first time in that night. A small gasp escapes her mouth, may that be for the slight tingle in their linked hands or for something else, Illidan isn't quite sure. Right when they begin swaying, she speaks—her voice coming out weak as if not daring to believe it.
"Illidan…? Goddess, I… is that really you?"
A-N: Mylie sings 'Oblivion' by M83.
