Night Falls on Dalaran

Night Falls on Dalaran

Night has fallen on Dalaran. The sounds of combat and the screams of the dying in the Violet Citadel have gone silent, a battle played out only rarely these days. Tiphaine walks through the floating city as she does on many nights. It's a sleepy place, but far from deserted. Most of those who chose to live here prefer seclusion and respite from grisly deeds and memories that still haunt.

 The city has a rich, if somewhat fragile history. High Elf wizards built Dalaran in the Alterac Mountains. The city was later destroyed during the Second War. The Kirin Tor, however, who'd first built the city, rebuilt it and erected a defensive dome. When Dalaran was later threatened by the Lich King and other cohorts, the Kirin Tor magically moved the city into the skies over Northrend.

Tiphaine's walks are usually soothing, but this night is different. Tiphaine is disturbed. Something is stirring in Dalaran. Tiphaine doesn't question her intuition. Changing course, she wound her way back to Sunreaver's Sanctuary and slipped without notice into the Filthy Animal, the disreputable inn where she rents a room on the second floor.

She stares at herself in a steel mirror anchored to one wall with an aged dagger. Her comfortable cobalt armor is light and worn, feeling like a second skin after all these years. She doesn't even carry a weapon. Her gaze swivels to a dark corner where a battered wardrobe looms, seeming to silently admonish her. How long has it been? She asks herself. Too long, the blackened wood seems to reply.

Tiphaine begins removing her every day gear, piece by piece, and replacing it with gear pulled from the wardrobe. That gear is lovingly cared for, each piece having its own story to tell, and in perfect condition, despite the length of time it languished in the dark. Satisified, she sorts through her arsenal of weapons and chooses the Crow Wing Reaper, strapping the two-hander across her back. Tiphaine closes her eyes for a moment. She is still Tiphaine. When she opens them, the eyes are hard. She is a Death Knight. Tiphaine leaves the inn and the whispers that grow behind her.

Her thoughts go to her daughter, Fist. They have a complicated relationship, and rarely speek or visit each other. Though neither will acknowledge it, mother-daughter ties still bind them.

Something threatens. Dalaran is no longer safe. Azeroth itself suddenly feels vulnerable. The question that worries her most is whether Fist is in danger. Fist has gone into the past, into Draenor, where she can't follow. Tiphaine never lets such details get in her way. She is going to go get her daughter.

Alone in Draenor

Plumrosefist (aka "Fist") stands outside her Level 2 Town Hall surveying her Garrison. She's done well for herself. There are the expected buildings: the mine and the herb garden, the necessary barracks, plus a storehouse, tannery, and barn. She's reached level 97 and has a solid gear set at i582, some of which she crafted herself. She has her followers, and the wolf that goes wherever she goes in Draenor. Beyond that, though, she is alone.

Fist is okay, being alone. She could always visit Wild or Jocy, but both have their own lives to lead. Fist has no particular desire to insert herself into their affairs. She's always been comfortable on her own. Yet something bothers her. She can't place it. There is a vague sense of forbidding, of something hovering just out of sight.

Fist laughs out loud, shooing such thoughts away. She's young and strong, and she intends enjoy life to its fullest. But she's not stupid, either. Thinking aloud, she has her architect, Gazlowe, show her the layout of the Garrison. Shaking her head, she tells him, "this just won't do." It's time to start building again. She senses that time is limited, too. Something threatens, and Fist means to find out what it is.

Fist was busy for the next several days. Gazlowe hired practically every engineer, carpenter and worker in Frostfire Ridge. She made inquiries about getting a shipwright to design her a shipyard. She also received an ominous visit from the Arakoa. She decides to return with the Arakoa to the Spires of Arak to help with the troubles there. Somewhat to her surprise, the travelling and the ever present danger rekindles strong, positive feelings that she thought had been lost. A second revelation came on the heels of the first. Fist had sunk into lassitude, retreating form the world. Much like her mother had done. Very much like her mother.

A mother-daughter talk was long overdue, but Tiphaine was far away, tucked-in safely at Dalaran. There was more urgent business closer to home. War was spreading across Nagrand, a land just across the water from Frostfire Ridge. The adventure bug had bitten deep, and it wasn't long before Fist grabbed a flight and headed for the city of Wor'var and the bloody battles at Lok-Roth.

When Fist came home, she was well satisified with the progress made. The sense of forbidding never left her, but she was now on her guard, and vowed to stay vigilant. Plumrosefist was level 97 when she resolved to take a more active role in her life.

The stats: Began leveling again at level 97 (53% to 98, i588 gear) on Friday in the Spires of Arak, dinging level 98 at midnight. Hit level 99 at 12:20pm on Saturday. Moved on to Nagrand for the final push. The rush ended in Lok-Roth twenty-three minutes after midnight on Sunday morning.
Plumrosefist is Level 100, i601 gear level.

NOW she is prepared and ready for whatever is coming.