"Jassan", sighed Tragique, his shoulders relaxing from the awkward introduction, "you could have just opened the door if you knew we were here, cousin." Tragique motioned for Illanna to enter, which she cautiously did, still keeping a mirthful eye on Jassan. The curious blood elf hadn't moved from leaning on the banister, a playful smile still spread across his bronzed face.

As they crossed the threshold into the foyer of the mansion, the first thing that Illanna noted was the smell. The earthy and damp reek of mildew was strong, mostly due to decades of decay and neglect. A lingering smell of sulfur could be hinted as well, a stink which permeated much of Falconwing Square from fel magic during a previous Legion invasion so many years ago. However, whether by magic or fantastic luck, most of the interiors of House Nethari were still standing. The foyer was enormous, as most high ranking Sin'dorei homes had once been when Silvermoon was whole before the destruction. Illanna could tell that it had at some time been a grand home, with smooth marble floors, stairs, and columns, gold, and red splashed across arches and pillars as well as large doorways that lead elsewhere to the estate. Imposing paintings of unnameable family members lined most of the broad walls, which were also lined with golden sconces. However, cracks and grime now lined the once pristine floors and stairway, and most of the light fixtures lining the walls were now tarnished green and black, many their spelled lights gone, leaving much of the mansion in the dark. Not that she needed much light to see, but it gave the entire mansion a very dispiriting atmosphere.

Tragique broke her observation, "Illanna, this is my cousin, Jassan "Netherblades" Nethari, a Shadowblade for the Uncrowned rogues league," his dialect immediately shifting to martial formality. At this, Jassan gave Illanna a cheerful mock bow. "By all means, Tragique, please continue with your lavish bestowal of all my titles, he grinned towards the Dreadlord. It was hard to tell, but Illanna could tell by his posture that Tragique must have been rolling his eyes by now. "Ahem," Tragique cleared his throat loudly, "and my traveling companion with me is Illanna Dreademoore, High Archivist of the Ebon Blade," gesturing to Illanna. At this, the archivist gave a slight nod to Jassan, taking care to examine him in detail.

Her intelligence reports on the youngest of the four Nethari siblings had been quite difficult to collect outside of Tragique's descriptions. He was quite young, even for elf standards, at 22 years. However, her intel reports still confirmed he was still considered to be master assassin, specializing in stealth and poisons. Many eyewitness accounts had placed him in several key events during the last Legion invasion of Azeroth. Jassan Netherblades had also been confirmed to have been instrumental to the culmination of the Fourth War by several notable world leaders, both on the Horde and Alliance sides. From what she could decern, at least on paper about the rogue was wanton loyalty with the Horde; a trickster for sure. She'd had to be careful around him, despite his jovial appearance. Speaking of appearances, she couldn't also help but notice Jassan's physique. Like most rogues, he had favored a lean yet muscular appearance, shapely muscles visibly notable under his tanned skin; his biceps and shoulders like braided steel, abs solid like smooth granite. A neatly trimmed full beard and goatee played around his full lips, his eyes glowed a light blue like a midday sky, framed by long elvish eyebrows, trimmed neatly, and not a scar visible anywhere on his narrow face.

Still bowing, Illannas eye's met Jassan's, who had apparently been studying her expressions with a coy smile. "Are you satisfied with your assessment, Miss Dreadmoore?" questioned the rogue, with a wink. "I wouldn't mind a full examination if you're interested," his deep voice said smoothly. If she weren't already undead, she would have been caught blushing. One more thing to be grateful for undeath, Illanna thought. "Ah...um..," she started, "I was just..." when Tragique interrupted. "Enough of this. Where are the rest? Have they heeded our call?" said Tragique tersely. Illanna let out a silent sigh of relief, thankful for the timely interruption.

Jassan straightened up smoothly, flicked the slim dagger he had been flipping earlier high into the air, and bit into his apple again, noting sadly that it was almost gone to the core. "Oh come now, cousin," Jassan cooed, "you've only just arrived. Relax, take that gaudy armor off and unwind in our en suite upstairs. I've just spent the last few hours digging out a matching lounge set from the conservatory, though I must tell you everything smells of mold. My apologies in advance if that isn't to your taste." At that, the dagger he had thrown earlier landed right on point into the apple core neatly, which he immediately flipped it around to its handle and continued to finish off the fruit. Illanna snorted, then caught herself and glanced at Tragique, who had been clenching his fists in restrained annoyance. "Jassan," snapped the Dreadlord, clearly frustrated with the rogue's deflecting attitude. "Just answer the question," he continued, calming down a bit, "Where are your sisters? I need to know if they've arrived. Time is not on our side. Not anymore."

The damp air had stilled for a few seconds, Jassan's eyes narrowed for a moment, lips down-turned into an indecisive line. Tragique stood unmoving, like a suit of armor, his fists still bound tight. After a few more uncomfortable moments of the stare-off, Jassan rolled his eyes. "Oh, you're just no fun anymore, cousin" Jassan pouted. He slunk off the banister and gingerly climbed the grand staircase. Illanna looked at Tragique and shrugged in confusion. "Follow. And do mind the door, please. We don't need any more derelicts wandering off the streets getting in," said the rogue nonchalantly, disappearing into the upper reaches of the household. Finally relaxing, Tragique closed the front door to House Nethari with a gentle click. Illanna still gazed at the empty staircase where Jassan had disappeared to. "Oh, I like him," she quipped."If he wasn't so full of himself, I think I'd enjoy his company as well," muttered Tragique. An apple core suddenly flew from the shadows of the upper balcony, which clunked off Tragique's polished helm, Jassan's voice echoing through the grand foyer, "If you two are done exchanging notes on my many accomplishments, you're welcome to join us."

"Not my type, but I definitely like him," Illanna teased. Tragique rubbed the spot on his helm where the apple core had struck and shook his head in defeat. He knew that he had made the right choice to Highlord's Mograine and Bolvar by taking up the task to recruit the Nethari family. But getting them to agree to the quest was proving more cumbersome than he originally thought it would be.

"Let's go," he motioned to the archivist, who suddenly noted the Dreadlord's serious mood. She straightened up and followed him upstairs, into darkness and uncertainty.