Hira Snowdawn

I am Hira Snowdawn. Flight Master of the Kirin Tor, at the city of Dalaran, formerly in the Arathi Highlands, but now floating a mile above the pleasant lands of Crystalsong Forest. I can teach people to fly. Oh, the delicious irony, to be teaching the art of flying in a city that floats a mile above the ground. Oh, I know. I can still teach people to fly faster, but still, you have to be able to fly in order to reach me. Unless, of course, you find your way to the Violet Stand, and ask the little mages there to portal you here. Humans. I suppose I should pity them, but I find them so amusing, with their pathetic little lifespans and their little heads full of the things that seem so important to them. I could almost hold my breath and watch one of them turn from a baby to an old woman. So disproportionately proud of their achievements. I suppose they have a right to be, given their faculties, but there are things I could tell them that would send their minds spiralling down into insanity, drunken with the sheer fascination of things new and exciting.

And still, Cloudwing, and I will surprise you now, I would love to be a Mage, even a Human Mage. Anything, everything is better than this purgatory of boredom that I inhabit now. Oh, to be able to stride forward, into one of the dark places of the world, protected by strong warriors in shining armour, wielding the magics of this world with no objective more sophisticated than blasting the enemy into oblivion. Burn, demons, devils, foul Undead! Disappear, and let your sordid minds spiral down into the Twisting Nether, and there be consumed forever. High Elves, we call ourselves, second only to Dragons in nobility, peerless among the sentient beings of this world. And why? Well, because of something we did not do. When offered the temptation of power beyond the imagination of those who offered it to us, we politely refused. Fel magics. Crude. Violent. Destructive. As much a danger to the wielder as it is to the hapless fool it is directed against. Did the demonic fools expect us not to see that it would change us? Enslave us? Turn us into barbaric creatures no better than themselves?

And still, look at the Sin’dorei. Pining still for the Sunwell, and in the meantime feeding upon the low rot-gut of the fel magics, when what they want is the delicate flavour of the magics that used to flow from the Well, before it was tainted with the carcass of some Daemon-lord. And yet, their numbers increase, and they thrive, while we merely continue to exist. I have no love for them, Cloudwing, and yet, in the depth of my heart, I envy them. I envy them their freedom, the careless abandon with which they feed upon the magics in the creatures of this world, and use it as they see fit. Would it really be so bad? After all, even we must consume the flesh of creatures, or the fruit and leaf of plants, to sustain our own existence.

Oh yes, Cloudwing, I know. We might feed upon the physical stuff of creatures, but never upon the soul. It is bad enough that even we, with our pretenses to highness and sophistication, must end the existence of other creatures to sustain ourselves. To erase every trace of their existence, disallowing them even the rejoining of the Light, would be a crime too horrible to visit even upon these creatures. Look at them, scurrying back and forth over the Landing. Minds full of the things that seem so important to them. Still. To be so ignorant of the futilities of my endeavours, so filled with the sheer importance of the things I must do. Oh Cloudwing, it would be bliss.

Are you as bored as I am, Cloudwing? Let’s do a lap.


Copyright: © 2008,2009,2010 Menno Willemse. All rights reserved.

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