Last update: 03 September 2013
14 August 2013
Afternoon in Stormwind City. An empty bar, before opening time. In a corner, a shimmer of green light, small at first, blooms to full intensity in less than a second, then just as quickly fades, leaving the man behind. He stands at two meters, cyan hair long and thick, from which protrude impossibly long ears. As the green luminescence fades, the blueness of his skin becomes apparent. He inhales slowly, hands close into gentle fists and release as he just as slowly exhales. His eyes open to reveal no pupils or irises -- just two points of light, which roam around the room briefly.
I remember this place. Friends gathered there. Saying goodbyes. A lute player. A lady in red and a song.
He looks down at himself, hands lightly caress the beige, chimeric, leather armor, brush the hilt of the glowing dagger strapped to his left hip.
This is what I wore that night -- leisure wear, for show, not for combat.
He leaves the empty bar and steps out into the sunlight. Stormwind. The City. People go about their business. Water gently laps the sides of the canal, the otherwise placid surface disturbed by a rowboat further down. A moment to get his bearings and then a slow walk in the direction of the bank in the Dwarven District. He takes in all of it, no hurry, studies it with parted lips and a half smile, as if the world could contain no greater wonder. A guard walks patrol. He stops the guard, asks the date, calculates how long the Dream Time -- relative to this world, anyway -- lasted ... one year and seven months.
He enters the bank, checks inventory ... it's all here, not one piece missing. His eyes and hands wander slowly over his possessions, evoking memories, coaxing many a smile and several chuckles. Mist clouds his eyes as he comes to the Feralheart set.
My pride and joy. My greatest personal achievement ever. Wait -- second greatest. Defeating Anzu has to take first place. But this beautiful leather is a close second and will eventually be my transmog base ... if I stay long enough and if the Consortium still offers the service.
Later, he'll discover that the Consortium is alive, well and definitely offering the service.
He dresses. Replaces the leisurely chimeric leathers with the high grade stuff he wore for combat, that he's not worn in over a year and a half.
I remember nothing of my time in the Dream. I know that whatever I did there was important. I also know that, while there, I had amnesia about my time in this world. I suppose that's part of The Pact, a way to keep us focused on where we are and what we're doing, free of distractions such as longing for our time in one world or the other. I can live with that.
Do you have the message?
A frown. He shakes it off, steps out of the bank, checks the map ... puts it away, focuses on the Spirit of the Talon. The large and colorful bird quickly ascends, catches an updraft and soars away from the city.