The Greatest Bag Theft In History

Lore World's End Tavern: Role-play and Fan Fiction
1

It was quite sinister, the young blood elf scout thought as she sat atop the rooftop of the Magus Commerce Exchange in Dalaran pitying herself and angered, how did they do it? She wondered how on Azeroth and beyond anyone could steal and simultaneously replace her Archivist’s Elegant Bag, much less the entire supply of them, only to replace them with a simple sack of tools with a blank piece of parchment. She furrowed her brow, “Was it an illusion this whole time?”

It was not yet clear to her, but perhaps such an insight was a true epiphany! She had to investigate this further, luckily, she still had her late mother’s field journal and trusty truegold pen. She writes down her thoughts about temporary glamours, hoping to later solve if the items were not stolen, but simply were an illusion and never as fine as they appeared. Then she jotted down her thoughts on the less-likely theft, and how such a feat could have been accomplished. She decides no mortal has such power.

Her thoughts return to the gift given to her by her father, The Archivist’s Elegant Bag. One she’s certain he’d worked very hard to procure, as his only respite from the Silvermoon City Dungeons was the parole work on the Dragon Isles with the Azerothian Archives. Their mutual obsession with top-of-the-line fashion wasn’t the only thing she shared in common with her father. It was a markedly Sunglimmer trait to fret over such things as textiles and accessories. She didn’t know anyone else in all of Azeroth who would obsess about this enough to help her solve the greatest fashion mystery of all time.

Then, for the briefest moment, she wondered if he’d orchestrated the entire thing. She laughed abruptly, amused by that thought enough to return to Silvermoon City in order to schedule a visit with her incarcerated father. With any luck, he’d be able to deduce at least something about the current inelegant bag she now wore. Climbing down quickly from the perch overlooking the streets and procured a portal for a small fee to arrive in Silvermoon City.

Once there, she jogged lightly to the city’s dungeons, entering the queue for visitation. She was grateful that her father was still named among the prisoners here, as opposed to others she’d only known to work closely with her father such as Magister Hathorel, Fanlyr Silverthorn, and the notorious Thalen Songweaver. It was a popular rumor that Grand Magister Rommath still has them hard at work on secret projects, refusing to waste such talents. She understood military might and technological development well enough to not venture too deeply into certain lines of inquiry, but this one -The Elegant Archivist’s Bag- most certainly wouldn’t get her erased from reality. Right?

It was a long wait, about an hour, but she was finally granted visitation. She’d brought her attorney. She didn’t think she’d need that long and knew he wouldn’t be able to inspect the new bag outright without proper authorization. However, with a few carefully placed bribes to the Spellbreakers there it wasn’t too hard to have them look the other away, for a small moment. Just enough time to allow her to say what she has to say to him in relative peace.

Her father, in full regalia of the Blood Magi, sat at a fine table in a finely decorated prison cell. She stood outside a scarlet enchantment, transparent enough so they could see one another, but an otherwise impassable barrier. She pitied him, he still wore his Sunreaver Onslaught tabard despite being disgraced from that order, and she knew he had no remorse for his actions in all the years of conflict between the Horde and Alliance. He was mentally ill, refusing to believe in his own exile from The Kirin Tor and The Sunreavers, and with a horrible withering curse bestowed on him during the last legion invasion his mind was often in shambles. It was beyond her how he was ever granted a thing such a parole.

He looked up, smiled, recognizing her instantly, then rose to greet her, “Daughter, this is unexpected. I wasn’t expecting a visit so soon, how are you enjoying your time with The Sunreavers?”

“I’m here on business,” she lied, pleased she’d seemed to have caught him lucid, choosing to ignore his question and redirect him, “That backpack you were awarded for working with the Azerothian Archives for your parole work, do you remember it?”

Her father, Zaldin Sunglimmer, approached the scarlet barrier, amused and responds, “Of course, I worked very hard for that. I knew you’d love it the moment I saw it. Lovely craftsmanship. How is that official business?”

Yvonna, annoyed already, explains, “They’ve all been stolen. Well, replaced, rather. All of them. And with a rather unflattering bucket of sorts. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, because it offends me so, but I did bring a small piece of it. I have some more documents for you to sign, surrendering the last of your claims to this family’s fortunes, as agreed. I’ve wrapped it along mother’s fountain pen.”

Her father raises an intrigued eyebrow, his mind clearly at work, he teased, “Official business indeed. I do love official business. I’d be careful though, official business might get you where I am, or worse, The Violet Hold.”

With that, Yvonna left him, heading to the exit. Their family attorney, a goblin bombgineer named Nelaht Tunetinker, would handle the rest and report back to her. She hands off the fountain pen, wrapped in a strap of the bag, and set herself about the city, awaiting the goblin at a local pastry and tea shop stationed near the Reliquary stoop in the Royal Exchange. She had already finished a carrot cupcake and first cup of tea when she saw the goblin hobble over to her table.

Nelaht Tunetinker was an intelligent and haughty goblin, who had acquired a Thalassian accent in his last ten or more years living in the city, had served her family well since just prior the last legion invasion. Looking very pleased he had arrived only to return her pen and say, “Synchronous Thread. Go find Soridormi.” After that, he left, having several other clients to attend to. Yvonna wondered just how many warmongering ex-Sunreavers he represented as she watched him go.

Soridormi, she thought, Synchronous Thread? The name she knew, but she had no idea what Synchronous Thread was. How was she to procure an audience with the prime consort of the bronze dragonflight? Well, she’d never been to the Dragon Isles, but the things she’ll do for fashion…

2

Nelaht Tunetinker was sweating, not due to the sweltering heat of the late summer, but due to the task now at hand. He’d file the papers giving the youngest daughter of the Sunglimmer Estate full reigns of the house with the remainder -and bulk- of their financial holdings to be gifted and divided amongst the estates of House Sunreaver, House Silverthorn, House Songweaver, and that of Magister Hathorel’s house. That would be easy, Tunetinker understood military industrial intelligence complexes and their need for covert financial ties to avoid culpability in any aggressive action by any one faction. Trickery did not make the bombgineer sweat. As an illusionist and litigator, he was keenly aware of trickery. No, what his client had just asked now was ridiculous. He hated ridiculousness.

“I’m serious Nelaht,” Zaldin Sunglimmer, his longstanding client and friend, says as teasingly and unserious as ever, “You must help me escape.”

The goblin lawyer couldn’t help but to let out a laugh, “You are jokin’ with me! It is kinda’ hard to tell with you ever since,” he pauses, gesturing to his old friend, “Your situation…”

The Blood Mage, amused, shakes his head and chides his friend in the same tone as before, “You weren’t listening, my friend.”

With that, Nelaht grew annoyed, taking the recently signed legal documents and placing them in his briefcase along with client’s daughter’s pen, arguing aggressively, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I caught you on a lucid day. You sure this is a good day to sign your will and testament?”

Zaldin waves dismissively, asking exhaustedly, “As good a time as ever. Now, are you going to help me?”

“I have helped you,” Tunetinker laments, enraged, “I got you transferred from the Violet Hold! You don’t even know the magic I had to work with the parole board! Every single time you wear that damned tabard -and I don’t know where you keep gettin’ them- you get a charge for impersonatin’ a Sunreaver. I don’t even fight those anymore!”

The goblin sighs, feeling his anger subside swiftly, ebbing into sadness, he continues, admitting, “It breaks my heart to tell you this buddy, but you’re gonna’ die in here. As soon as the parole board hears about those minor infractions, you’re never gonna’ taste free air again.”

The blood elf yawns, bored, saying confidently in retort, “Don’t be so sure, Tunetinker. The tune in my ear says differently. This curious strap is out of synch with the timeline. Two timelines, previously scheduled for convergence, are now merging. The object exists in paradox, likely from the materials with which it was made, and I simply must escape for my research, into time rifts, you see. Timeweaver Delormi would know all about this, but Soridormi would know which timeline. I need my Synchronous Thread to be sure…”

Nelaht, unable to hear further, interrupts his client, “Whatever, Soridormi, Synchronous Thread, fine. I’ll tell your daughter that, and I’m done. You’re crazy, Zaldin. I’ve got a legal obligation to tell the Spellbreakers you’re asking me to help you escape because I think you’re serious. As your friend, and because you saved my life, I’m gonna’ ask you to STOP. DO NOT attempt to escape. STOP asking me to help ya’ do that. We ARE DONE HERE, I will see you again at your next hearing to talk about those minor infractions I mentioned earlier. AND SO HELP ME, if you get ANY MORE between now and then, you can find a new lawyer.”

The blood mage watched his old friend leave in an angry rush. He knew the goblin to be true to his word. Nelaht sauntered over to the The Royal Exchange to meet the young heiress Yvonna to exchange the information. He’d already alerted The Spellbreakers, who did not seem worried or surprised in the slightest, but he’d leave all escape business out for the girl. With far too many other cases to deal with, he returns to his office, with an uneasy feeling.

3

A simple enough strap, it seemed, but the temporal energies swirling about it in flux was something he’d only glimpsed briefly when visiting The Bronze Dragonshrine for his research. He had no idea who had caused such a disruption. Was this the ramifications of the recent endeavors of Eternus? The mystery was enough, enough to distract him from the song in his mind and the curse burned into his flesh and soul by the Coven of Shivarra, for the moment. That’s all he’d need.

“The goblin said you’re hoping to escape,” The Spellbreaker, the brawny one, who’s name Zaldin explicitly is determined to never remember taunts him from across the scarlet barrier, “You don’t get to leave except with the express permission of The Grand Magister or the Reagent Lord. That’s never going to happen again. It was a miracle it did in the first place.”

Another spellbreaker, the more impish one, who’s name Zaldin explicitly is determined to never remember chimes in, “Your little vacation to the Dragon Isles is over. We’ve got plenty of researchers who aren’t fel-addicted disgraces to our people to research all that timey-wimey-whatever you should leave to the bronze dragonflight anyway.”

The brawny one states, “And no amount of gold from that pretty daughter of yours would ever get me to turn a blind eye to your crazy.”

The impish one adds quickly, “I would if she asked me to marry her.”

Cute, Zaldin thought to himself, still admiring the strap that had been smuggled to him earlier in clear view of the two taunting guards. The comment was almost enough to have him want to know the name of that spellbreaker. Almost.

“Are you sure that neither of you would like to help me escape, then,” Zaldin asks, not looking away from the strap, enthralled by the simple piece of fabric torn from a bag. Two bags lost in time-and-space in a dance for dominance… He could almost sense when and where too… Almost…

The two spellbreakers, unamused, immediately grow bored of the prisoner and start to walk away. One saying how it is such a waste, the other agreeing. Zaldin, lapsing from lucidity, merely laughs maniacally. It was all too ridiculous.

4

A violent and ancient song aches throughout his consciousness alongside visions of battle on the Isle of Thunder as he rages against the forces of The Silver Covenant, The Mogu, and The Zaldalari. In the thick of a battle, several members of his battalion have been slain and he is enraged, unable to hear any call for retreat in the clamor of battle and the roar of the thunder. He is struck down by a member of the Kirin Tor Offensive, an elf with frost magic who scorns him for working alongside trolls, orcs, and undead. Calling him a traitor. That elf moves to slay Zaldin, who lies bleeding out and still conscious.

Zaldin’s blood flows from his chest into the mud. He’d landed on something uncomfortable, but it was hardly noticeable with the ice lance most certainly putting a hole in one of his lungs. Then he felt it, the intoxicating and familiar power, once siphoned before the restoration of the Sunwell as instructed by Rommath from the Illidari. The Fel. Whatever he fell onto was surging with it.

“I’m… not a traitor… for that,” he managed, spitting blood, hardly able to muster the words, blood pouring from his mouth, excruciatingly finishing, “I’m a traitor… for this.” Then, drawing in that promise of power which doesn’t restore him of his wounds, only giving him a taste of the power of chaos, a fel-flame envelopes the silver covenant mage as they scream in pain, unable to stop the immolation, until they are reduced to a pile of ash. He knew her well, she’d been a dear friend to his wife Auralia when she was alive. Such a waste, he thought.

Then, welcoming a death which would not yet come, Zaldin felt a hand on his chest pulling him up by his tabard through a window into a scarlet room. He saw the face, that of himself, and heard the maniacal laughter coming from a vision of himself he did not recognize, that of a monster. The imposter tosses him like a rag onto a cold floor of a well-furnished prison cell. Zaldin thinks to himself watching the doppleganger cross through a bronze shimmer into the rain and mud before losing consciousness, what a strange way to die…

5

It was already too late, an errant time rift had appeared in the Silvermoon City Dungeons. An anomaly had slipped through. The dracthyr tried to hurry through the city streets, heading towards the direction of the newly opened rift that he could sense, but the rift closed just as soon as it appeared. Pyropustraz could still sense the anomaly though. Timerunners all over Azeroth were causing instability. He thought, alongside some colleagues, it was centralized around the Sin’dorei and the Zandalari. Soridormi and Eternus have differing methods regarding the true timeline and newly recruited Timewalkers have been called to reign in errant Timerunner mishaps. Timerunners, without any oversight, were attempting to save the fated dead in the timeline.

On the whole, The Bronze Dragonflight and The Infinite Dragonflight were doing well enough to hide the fact that all reality might be torn asunder because two bag designs vie for supremacy in the true timeline. As ridiculous as it sounded, it was quite serious. It was unknown if one or both bag designs were a collaborative effort or an unrelated entanglement development in the timestream, but one thing was certain, if the bags were not separated all of reality would unfurl faster than you can say Zovaal the Worldkiller. Thankfully, their organization was working on a solution.

Currently, a bag suggested to be called the Inelegant Archivist’s Bag, created by members of the Azerothian Archives in one version of Azeroth is the dominant timeline, which will result -if not reverted- in a very bad time for all beings in space-and-time. The correct iteration of the bag, The Elegant Archivist’s Bag, is slowly-but-surely being restored to the true timeline by several overworked and underpaid members of the Timewalkers, who don’t like to run.

Unfortunately, it became known shortly after the bags appeared, that temporally aligned or chronologically challenged individuals coming into contact with such materials will usually, though not always, result in some kind of temporally anomalous activity. Exactly the kind of thing he was certain was happening in the Silvermoon City Dungeons right now. It shouldn’t be too difficult to gain access, I’m on official business afterall, he thought.

6

He’d almost forgotten this. That laughter. That face. The monster. The monster he’d see himself become. The moment he’d been waiting for. The when he’d awaken to find himself an incarcerated war criminal, traitor to the Sunreavers and the Kirin Tor. Finally! At last! The rapture of the moment was hard to leave him. The fabric that had been smuggled to him was truly timelost and had reacted to the temporal probing appropriately. What had those archivists made these bags out of?

Here he was on the Isle of Thunder, in the thick of a call for retreat in the midst of the ever-present storm. He should have died there in the mud, but a miracle had occurred. No doubt the creator of the Elegant Archivist’s Bag was a member of the Timeweavers. They must have created the Elegant Archivist’s Bag one day, on a good and productive day in time. Then, on that same day in the rival timeline, they weren’t feeling as good or productive, and created the Inelegant Archivist’s Bag! The Timeweaver in question must be a profound artisan to be mostly-unparalleled in the timeline, but that single unstable day of design execution likely caused a temporal relapse. The joy of the revelation would soon fade as a group of hostile Zandalari approached him, hoping to catch him off guard.

“I will send you straight to Bwonsamdi, Zandalari. My Dazdooga is Shera Ali’kh,” Zaldin bellows at them, taunting them, daring them to face test his flames as he combusts, as if entirely made of flame, empowering his pyromancy. An intimidating enough statement, he’d hoped, and though it wasn’t a bluff he was pleased to see the group of Zandalari flee. He’d come to appreciate their people, having been aligned with them for years now.

Now, where did I go next, he thought to himself, trying with great difficulty what, if anything, he should do with such newfound -temporary- freedom. He set off towards where he knew the Sunreaver encampment was being secured. These were the early days of the conflict here and the portals to Silvermoon remained open for supply lines. He’d use these. Taking a Sunreaver Beacon off of one of the nearby fallen, he knew that the recently secured Zeb’tula would become the Dawnseeker Promontory. He had his heading, activating the magic of the beacon, recalling to the toehold of The Sunreaver Onslaught.

7

Yvonna knew only one person with current ties to the Dragon Isles that wasn’t her father, and that was her eldest sister Louryn. She was slain in the War of the Thorns and raised in service of the Dark Lady before vanishing at the end of the fourth war. Yvonna knew not what her sister spoke of when she mentioned ‘The Long Hunt’ when they met up weeks ago after she’d returned to Silvermoon from visiting Bel’ameth, but she sensed her sister was finally coming to terms with her condition. She was still, by far, the most talented and capable of the Sunglimmer siblings. Yvonna couldn’t help but to mourn the lost future she knew her sister dreamt of having, with children of her own far from conflict and strife.

Louryn had been staying with their youngest brother Nimitta for a while at their family home, but she was known to vanish from time to time, just like him. They were very similar like that, preferring to always be on the move. She missed them. Sythea and Aethys were off sailing the merchant fleet carrying the family stores of enchanted dust, sunglow imports, and textile shipments across Azeroth. Larold and Daniel, her long-dead half-brothers were even active in their undeath and frequented the family home. She’d left most of the affairs of the house in their capable hands, so she could focus on her career with The Sunreavers.

Her time in Silvermoon City would have to be brief, though, as her duties in Dalaran were unfinished for the evening, but she’d send a courier to relay a message to her home and have Louryn meet her in Dalaran sometime soon. She was certain her eldest sister would love to be her guide in one of the most mysterious places in all of Azeroth, considering it a time to connect with the skilled beast master. At least, she hoped she was certain.

She places a briskly written letter addressed to her house in a mailbox on her way out of the city, returning to Dalaran via hearthstone.

8

Larold, her forsaken half-elf brother, approached with the ghost of Daniel, her dead half-elf brother, carrying in the daily mail. As a trio, the three of them had been hard at work organizing the family library. Each of them tasked with gathering lore regarding The Shadowlands and the events therein before moving onto the slightly less daunting task of draconic lore. The library was the largest room in the manor and their task was many months from completion.

“Yvonna wrote y-,” Larold says, his voice ghostly and ethereal, his vocal chords inert.

“She wants you to guide her through the Dragon Isles, may we come,” Daniel, her ghostly brother, chimes in interrupting, far too excited, “Can we join you, sister? Please?”

“Do you always read letters addressed to me,” Louryn asks, feeling her spirit smile, knowing her body does not respond in turn, but takes the letter from Larold’s outstretched hand

“Yes,” Daniel admits shamelessly.

Louryn felt her spirit smile again, and this time, she tried to force her body to respond in turn. It felt inauthentic, but would do. She’d work on that.

Opening and reading the letter, it was just as they’d said, she was seeking a guide to the Dragon Isles. She felt her spirit frown slightly at the thought of returning so suddenly, even if it was to guide young Yvonna. She still couldn’t see Bel’ameth without having flashes of Teldrassil in flames. Try as she might, she struggled hard to not believe herself condemned for her deeds during the fourth war.

“No, she’ll have to go alone. We’ve got far too much work to do here in the library,” she says, as if it were true, only to tease Daniel.

“No, I’m SO BORED of books,” Daniel the ghost protests.

Larold merely shakes his head, knowing he’ll soon be packing their traveling gear and leaving the house in the charge of Nimitta, wherever his only surviving brother was.

9

There was no immediate commotion as he entered the dungeons through a guarded sally port, but he felt one stirring inside him. A storm of anxiety. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, he thought in a torrent, Not again, what is it this time, I hope I can manage this by myself, he thought in a flash, gulping. He addressed one of the Spellbreakers calm and directly, “Please know, I am here on official Timewalker business and one of your prisoners has just escaped.”

“Do you hear alarms,” that spellbreaker asks their peer, also standing guard inside the sally port.

“Nope,” they respond curtly.

Trying his best to be polite despite his urgency, “Yes, well, you are wrong. Something has happened and a time rift was briefly opened inside the dungeons. I felt it.”

“Who escaped,” one guard probes, clearly bored enough to humor the dracthyr evoker.

Pyropustraz’s eyes grow wide, the cyan glow of them in a blank stare. Something that the two spellbreakers instantly notice. Pyropustraz, about to try to explain himself, is cut off as he starts to do so by one of his peers, a joyful blonde gnome female who rushes up, stepping between him and the two spellbreakers.

“What are you doing, Pyropustraz!? Talking to them,” she says, her voice full of surprise, as she tosses a handful of sand at the two spellbreakers, enveloping them in more superior bronze dragon magic than he’d ever been able to conjure. They were completely frozen in time, “We don’t have time for that. Come on!”

“I thought you’d went on ahead,” Pyropustraz says, more confused, somewhat dazed.

“I am, you were taking too long, hurry up! I’m talking to the warden now, get inside,” his gnomish associate -who he was now certain was likely an actual bronze dragon and not just another mortal timewalker- cries out, pushing at the evoker to enter the dungeons.

Pyropustraz briskly walks inside, passing more rows of spellbreakers who don’t seem to pay him any mind. As they enter into the main complex Pyropustraz sees his companion up ahead, but was just sure she’d been walking briskly beside him. He could hear her talking loudly, about him.

“Yes, my associate is very good, we’ll be sure to make sure your enchantments are a-okay to deal with any errant chronomancers you’ll certainly get in the future,” the gnome says loudly, handling the warden, who seems keenly interested and almost certainly knows or recognized her, and just as soon as the evoker starts to realize what is happening, she looks at him, “Ah, there he is now. Pyropustraz, finally!”

Pryopustraz gulps once again, approaching the pair slowly, attempting to put on his best smile.

10

NO! NO! HOW COULD THIS BE HAPPENING!?! DEMONS EVERYWHERE AND A BULK OF THE SUNFURY NOW FELSWORN!? WHAT HAS BECOME OF OUR PEOPLE!? Zaldin screamed his wife’s name, calling out to her in the fray, his voice hoarse, “AURALIA!!!”

Out of mana, clinging to his blade, a group of fel imps charging his position. He charges them in turn, still with enough strength in his body to attempt to match them, but they were felled by a volley of arrows and spells from allied reinforcements arriving to assist the Shattered Sun Offensive break the lines of demons and felsworn. He could see adventurers high on the terrace facing a menacing possessed Malygos, others mobilizing against enemy reinforcements pouring to serve Kil’jeaden, and Zaldin could only weep. He was seething with regret and anger, he screams hoarsely and painfully for her, “AURALIA!!!”

Advancing slower than the newly arriving reinforcements, due to fatigue, Zaldin presses with others through the grounds of the complex. He feels a pain in his chest, like a blade had pierced it, he can’t even breathe. Trapped in a nightmarish memory, he lies dying on the floor of a much too lavish dungeon cell.

11

His associate had been incredibly charismatic, having effortlessly secured a tour of the facilities, but Pyropustraz knew she’d attempt to route their guide, the warden, to where he knew they both felt the anomaly. He’d been preemptively instructed to handle it and if he should see anything temporally out of place he had to put that thing back where it came from.

They neared the wing where they kept inmates in solitary confinement. He noted that some of the cells were inelegant, and others were lavish. Those inside these cells paid little heed to their group as they passed by, and he wondered if they could see them through the scarlet enchantment that kept them locked inside. The warden and his associate had just walked past the cell which he knew the anomaly was in and the evoker cleared his throat to get their attention as he passed by that cell himself. An elf lay dying on the floor and he could see -even more clearly- a timelost strap of cloth on the floor nearby.

The warden sighs, waving a hand to summon the two spellbreakers guarding this hall of the wing, “How long has he been like this?”

They report they’d just spoken with him and that he indicated he had plans to escape. Something typical of this inmate, apparently. The warden wasn’t amused, sighing, irritated, “Clearly he meant something different. Take him to the infirmary if it isn’t too late.”

Pyropustraz sees his moment clearly, “If I may, I am well versed in some restorative arts. He may not make it if you move him. Allow me.”

The warden looks nervously to the evoker’s gnomish associate, who vouches for him. The dracthyr kneels down next to the pooling blood trickling from an ice lance in the elf’s chest. He could sense that they were near death and in the throes of a nightmare. He would have to pour living flame into the wound as he removed the lance, but all the while keeping the patient asleep. Firstly though, he retrieved the strap, and could sense it was from a time before the dracthyr had been awoken.

The mana pours from out of the preservation evoker and into the blood elven mage, slowly restoring him, but the elf was timelost, and there was no rift to mend. This was the anomalous event. Damn those bags, he thought to himself.

12

Yvonna grimaced in a cold sweat, it had only been three days and she’d already received a parcel eerily addressed to her from an individual known only as Chronocloth. It was far too formally addressed, ‘To: Yvonna Maria Sunglimmer, Heiress of House Sunglimmer’ and the handwriting was familiar. Impossible, she thought, then questioning the courier who just handed her the parcel, “This was lost in the mail?”

The courier shrugged, not know much else, explaining, “Yea, somebody found it and a bunch of other things that needed mailing in a mistakenly routed mailing portal, or something.”

Yvonna, bewildered, cites, “The date says this is almost twenty years old…”

“Yep, have a nice day,” the Kirin Tor courier rushes off, having several other deliveries.

The parcel was very heavy in her hands, a rectangular box wrapped in blood-red parchment paper and golden string. She figured it was about the size of a briefcase, but it was full, if that’s what it was. She returns to her room, having had to drag the parcel along the floor, shutting the door behind her. She sits on her cot and begins to tear at the parchment, having cut the golden string, and confirms her suspicions. It was a briefcase, and she recognized it.

She knew it well, the deep green of the leather, the golden embroidery, and gold-plating suggested was the prized possession of her father, one he specifically used for business purposes. She squinted her eyes suspiciously, deciding to open the briefcase by unclasping the golden phoenix-head case catches. Inside she sees a red envelope atop the gold bullion filling the case to the brim.

The gold bullion did not phase her, but the envelope gave her an uneasy feeling. Yvonna hesitantly begins to open the envelope to read the letter. After she’s through, she’s certain she’s done something terrible. For a moment, she contemplates informing her superiors, but how could she without implicating herself in this mess.

Another knock at her door makes the rogue jump, drawing a dagger instinctively in fear. No, not now, she thought frantically, trying to compose herself. She closes the case and throws a blanket over it then moves to answer the door.

13

He’d just knocked, and he waited. Yvonna was taking her time answering the door. He, along with Daniel and Louryn had traveled all the way from Eversong Woods to Dalaran to surprise her instead of having her come to them to set off on their journey, something entirely sensible, so of course he’d thought of it. Daniel, the ghost of his deceased younger brother shimmered impatiently until, finally, the door creaked open. The siblings watched as their youngest sister exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Oh,” she says, a bit frazzled, “It is only you three.”

“We’re here to take you to the Dragon Isles, like you’d asked,” Larold explains, as though she didn’t already deduce that. He’d never been, but was curious what the Netherwing were up to since he’d left Outland behind some years ago. He was most excited for Daniel, who never got out of the manor except when he was haunting Larold or Louryn. He’d also sensed Louryn was nervous about the trip.

“Oh, yes, that,” Yvonna says, sweating, nervously, only having just realized this. She says quickly then slowly, “Let me just… Collect my things…”

The three dead Sunglimmer siblings had all by now grown suspicious of Yvonna’s behavior. Louryn and Larold needn’t ask, because as soon as Yvonna exited the room, their father’s old briefcase in hand, Daniel blurted out, “Why are you acting weird, Yvonna?”

“Responsibilities,” Louryn asks. Frowning, staring at the briefcase. Taking in Yvonna’s poor attempt to hide how nervous she was holding it.

“What,” Yvonna asks, quickly nodding in answer to her sister, “Yes, AND I’m fine, really! Are we ready to go?”

“I’ve arranged for us to stay in the Parting Glass in Valdrakken,” Louryn says to the group, now assembled, “The portal will be readied as soon as we get to the landing. Let’s get off this flying city and back on solid ground.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Larold says, extending a strange hourglass-shaped-spool-of-thread, “You asked for this, we had to get it out of storage. One of the few crates that weren’t confiscated when they took him in.”

Yvonna takes the Synchronous Thread, having no idea what it is or what to do with it. Larold though, knew what it was and what it was for, so he asks her, “Are we off to save the world, little sister?”

Yvonna starts to laugh, she seemed like she needed to laugh like that, it was apparently a relief to her. Then, when through, she explains, entirely serious, “Much more important, brother, we’re going to get me a new bag.”

“I want one too,” Daniel says, thinking how he’d very much like a bag that he could carry as a ghost.

“A stitch in time saves the world from its demise,” Larold says cooly, thinking fondly of the past. Together the Sunglimmer siblings set out towards Valdrakken.

14

Appearing in the Dawnseeker Promontory near Uda the Beast thanks to power of a Sunreaver Beacon, Zaldin smiles confidently. He doesn’t immediately see anyone he recognizes and anyone he does seems far too busy to pay him any attention. Excellent, the blood mage thought to himself confidently. He made his way towards one of the supply-line portals to Silvermoon City, waiting for an opportunity to cross through. Not long after, he slips across the magical threshold into Quel’thalas.

It was busy, in the city, and rightfully on high alert since the Theramore debacle. The Purge of Dalaran had already happened and Thalen Songweaver, now rescued, was somewhere in the city producing Mini Mana Bombs. Apart from his vanity, which was considerable, this was the reason he’d rather be slain than forced into any prisoner’s garb. This was the reason he’d not remove his Sunreaver Onslaught Tabard, and why he had spares that were transmogrified into seven false teeth. And they thought me mad, he smiled triumphantly passing through Murder Row.

In truth, the decision to always be fully adorned in his full regalia was one he’d made after he no longer held any certainty that this event was far off in his own time. He’d lost six teeth -six tabards- to confiscations and had only one last false tooth left. Thankfully, they stopped trying after the sixth attempt to take a tabard from him. If he wasn’t so distracted by his feelings of vindication, he’d have almost forgotten his training. There were certain threads of fate which needed to be woven first.

He hadn’t any gold save the thread and ceremonial plating embroidered into his Sin’dorei Magister’s Regalia, but he knew he didn’t need it, he was a Magister at one of the most opportune times to also be a Sunreaver. Because Grand Magister Rommath now led them at the behest of the Reagent Lord. Zaldin was always explicitly loyal to the Grand Magister, and the Horde, but the blood mage in his madness believed that leaving his last mission undone was the reason he was arrested and that it had nothing to do with The Banshee Queen or Magister Halthorel. He demands a hawkstrider, receives it without question, then heads towards his family home.

It disgusted the elf that even after all these years the Cenarion Circle hadn’t thought to venture north, but he knew they were likely overwhelmed in the plaguelands. It also disgusted Zaldin that despite years of work, Quel’thalas was still in various states of disrepair or perpetual construction. This could be the magical capital of the worlds, he thought with annoyance, growing even more annoyed that the matron of the arcan’dor hadn’t done more to restore the region, thinking on what Thas’alah could become if renewed. He had heard word of the many wretched now receiving treatment. Even those thought too far gone. That pleased him enough with her politics.

After a while, he arrived at the mostly abandoned manor. His eldest son, Larold, kept the grounds mostly secured now that he’d returned from Outland. Zaldin would have to rely on him for something far off in the future, and he’d have to hope it wouldn’t be interfered with. He opens the heavy eversong burl wood twin-doors with bronze fixtures where the sigil of House Sunglimmer, A Massive Red Sun Devouring Two Glimmering Moons, formed when both doors were shut. He entered, finally home.

15

“I’m only going to ask you this once, who gave you this contraband,” an irritated warden interrogates, pointing to the fel tome that Zaldin had siphoned energies from before being abducted. The prisoner sat, finally dressed in the standard prisoner garb, magically shackled to a raised bed in an infirmary. It was not difficult to discern that the prisoner had somehow been smuggled this contraband, and the warden already suspected the goblin attorney and the daughter. He wanted an answer though, from Zaldin himself, before he made two arrest warrants.

“The mud,” Zaldin replies dreamily, droning on dully, “The mud, of doomed bad blood. How can we escape the flood?”

“So this is the game we’re playing now,” The warden sighs, not having any of it, seriously stating, “Fine, but it is such a pity for your daughter to now be a suspect. I do hope it doesn’t spoil her career.”

“Auralia and I taught a career is best bought by doing something you love very much, a lot,” Zaldin says, trying his best to keep up in his entranced state. He had enough lucidity to know his responses were only angering his interrogator, and that these words were the last straw that prompted his visitor to leave the infirmary with the sealed tome.

What was that strange draconic creature that had done this to him? Was all of this a terrible dream or some kind of punishment? If it was the latter, it wasn’t enough for what he’d done. He cursed the kinslaying he’d wrought on the Isle of Thunder, cursing himself doubly so. The nightmare of events at the Sunwell Plateau had robbed his children of their mother, and he -with the fires of evil- had robbed them of their god mother. He wondered if their exchange had been different if she’d have been a better parent to his two teenaged children.

Those thoughts and regrets twirl about in the mind of the blood mage, and fel whispers from beyond the veil invade his mind, whispering in a language he does not know but cannot silence, whispering over a song in his mind -that taunts him- growing louder in tandem with them. His mind starts to break, and euphoria sets in, as he cannot deny their designs.

16

No, no, no, no, no! This will not do, Pyropustraz thinks following after his -rather speedy- not-so-gnomish companion. He calls after her, “How are we supposed to put that thing back where it came from if that thing is a person?!”

“Pyro, buddy, you’re new to this kind of thing so don’t worry about the details and just follow my lead,” the not-so-gnomish timewalking companion of Pyropustraz says, trying to alleviate his obvious anxiety.

“I just don’t understand what this has to do with provisioner Aristta’s wares,” he says emotionally exhausted from all the temporal traveling the pair had done over the past two weeks. He wondered why they just didn’t go directly to the source of the issue, but such thinking only caused him to fret further, “And what if this criminal is dangerous?”

His line of questioning only results in laughter, they’d arrived at the manor, but they weren’t the only ones there. Several hawkstrider drawn carriages were apparently bringing guests to the manor. His companion seems to continue laughing at the scene. Was their quarry entertaining!?

“Okay, timewalking pro-tip, try to fit in,” his companion says to her evoker ally as she spins in a whirl of sand and appears fully dressed in much more ceremonial finery than he’d ever seen her in. Sands move about her person, glittering, and the symbol of the Timewalkers appears on her dress. Twirling again, she says, encouragingly and with stellar flair, “Don’t stress, because look at this dress.”

“I’ll,” Pyropustraz gulps his nervousness away and manages a smile, he’d never been to a party, “Do my best…”

“Oh gosh, look, Lord Saltheril is here. Do not embarrass me,” his companion says quickly, offering her hand. It was clear he’d be her chaperone for this event, and there was a line. At least ten other people lined the stairs to the ominous double doors. Two very well dressed teenaged elves in crimson lapel coats stood greeting those arriving. Another figure, behind them, stood hooded in a similarly fashioned white lapel coat with slightly longer train and a silver mask.

How much more ridiculous could this get, Pyropustraz wondered, but his companion certainly seemed to be enjoying herself well enough. He’d attempt to humor her, it was the least he could do. As they approached, the white coated masked figure briskly walked over to them, a few onlookers observe this, and when he’s only a few feet away he says politely to the pair, “Ambassador we’ve been expecting you, so glad you’ve received our invitation. I shall take you to the host, they’re expecting you both.”

“Yes,” his companion says appraisingly, “Yes they are.”

Pyropustraz walked in his guise alongside his companion, who seemed to relish the jealously she indicated off of the one she previously designated as Lord Saltheril, it seemed there wasn’t an invitation required, but via donation of a considerable sum of wealth. Was this a private charity ball? The double doors were opened for them, and they progressed through the vestibule into the grand hall, which was full of finely dressed goblins enjoying Kaja’tinis or other beverages as they mingled and observed magical art installations featuring occasional sand appearing and vanishing as a different scene each time.

None of that would prepare Pyropustraz for the ball room. A full-fledged fashion show was going on featuring various luxury apparel and bags. Dozens of other guests. Music thumped from a goblin shaman wielding the lightning and thunder as music. His companion mingled briefly with a socialite named Haris Pilton that he was introduced to, but having not been paying attention to any of their conversation, he only nodded obliviously. He was completely overwhelmed but so far managing to at least move and nod at times where he was certain enough he should be doing so.

“I don’t think House Sunglimmer has come out with anything hot since that drape, but I’m all for fashion conservation,” the socialite says, still mingling with the ambassasdor.

“That’s why we’re here,” she says persuasively, rolling with it effortlessly.

Not long after that, they were moving again. The host through the crowd and the music. Pyropustraz thought to himself that mortals were certainly intriguing and these individuals clearly cared deeply about how they were dressed. It was like some kind of fashion cult. There was some talk on how it was a pity they couldn’t get somebody named Valeera Sanguinar to walk followed by a comment on how they would commit murder to know who does her hair.

“Well if she told you that she’d have to kill you,” The Ambassador chimes in, joking, passing by the conversation in the midst of the humanoids. Her jest was well received, and it was clear many wished to speak with her, but the silver-masked butler in white that kept guiding them was enough of a deterrent it seemed, at least for the less brash among them.

Finally led to seats that had been prepared for them, they met their host, a withering sin’dorei mage, identical to the anomaly who’s life he’d saved. They reeked of a fel curse not even the strongest cauterizing flame could heal. He seemed solemn, despite the mood of the place, and didn’t even look in their direction as they were presented to him. He was entranced by the ongoing show, so the ambassador sat down in her prepared seat next to him. The evoker sat down in the seat beside her, in silence.

17

His plan had worked, she’d deliberately delayed capturing him so she could enjoy his party, or at least this is what Zaldin thought as he observed his honored guests being led to their prepared seats. All his decisions in life, apparently, would be tested in these moments to come. The last runway model had just completed their walk and now it was time for his speech. The lavish chair in which he rested rose slowly, and the volume in the room lowered.

“Beloved Fashionistas, thank you for answering the call. It has been nearly two decades for me since I’d wrote a few of you here deeply concerned with the horde’s improper dye-job of the Prideful Gladiator’s Cord of Meditation. I would first like to announce that this venture will be successful, thanks to our honored guests. That, my friends, is not the only reason I’d gathered you here. I have gathered you to stop the greatest wardrobe malfunction of all time. BEHOLD,” Zaldin states loudly and reverentially to his guests, putting on a show of magic, displaying for all to see, an image of the True Timeline’s Archivist’s Elegant Bag. Some in the room gasp, one person faints, and the rest applaud the display, having never seen such a fashionable bag so ahead of its time.

“Lovely, isn’t it,” he says, allowing those gathered to gander longingly at the beautifully crafted bag, “So, when my little girl came to visit me in the Silvermoon City Dungeons, in the future, to inform me that something had happened to it, but not only her bag, but all of the bags I knew right then and there she’d not only make a fine heir, but that she was a true fashionista.”

Much of the crowd was confused, rightfully so, but a just few of them -the timeweavers amongst them- were far more intrigued than confused. The blood mage continues, “So, there was only one thing that I could do from my prison cell, as my area of expertise has always been timelost fashions. I had to escape and I already had all the help I needed. You see, a single strap of that timelost bag was all it took, to bring me here, to this time.”

Some of the timeweavers chuckled at that, and most of the socialites were at this point even more confused, but thankfully the host continued, his voice booming with horror and urgency, changing the illusory Archivist’s Elegant Bag into that of the Inelegant Archivist’s Bag suddenly, “LOOK AT WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO IT!”

Gasps of horror from the onlookers, some screamed “NO!”, one stated they’d rather face the legion’s return than experience such a travesty. “HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN!?” some demanded. A few of them wept openly at the sight. The blood mage knew he was among his peers.

“Yes,” he said, allowing them a moment, though still, he’d bargain for the less attractive (to him) bag, “I know, it is horrible. Even as horrible as it is, such a simple bag certainly has a place in the timeline, there are those who might find such a tool sack useful. Now, how could this happen? Well, I’ll allow an expert to explain that part.”

Zaldin waves a hand, and introduces the ambassador by name, she stands to greet those assembled and her own chair scoots her up, startingo to rise as the host’s own chair descends back to the floor. She addresses the crowd, “Yes, fellow fashionistas, well… You see… Umm… Thank you all for coming… To… Be a part of Operation Put That Bag Back Where It Came From!”

18

Yvonna didn’t have the luxury of enjoying the new sights of Valdrakken as she’d hoped. The letter from her father, Chronocloth, was clear. Buy Chronocloth. Commission Chronocloth. Ask for donations of Chronocloth. That part, she’d understood. Not the reason for it. Clutching the fancy briefcase she walks through the city in a daze, overwhelmed by the majesty of it.

“Dalaran has nothing on this place,” she finds herself admitting, looking as so many flights of dragons and seeing dragon riders too! She wonders if Louryn had ever had the privilege, so she asks, “Sis, have you flown with any dragons?”

“Many times,” The Dark Ranger pushes past other tourists, moving up flights of stairs, guiding her family to the Parting Glass. Yvonna would meet their family’s draconic ally soon enough there. Felirlym, the netherwing drake, would be waiting for them.

“Me too,” Larold chimed in, “Many times.”

“Really?” Both Yvonna and Daniel ask in unison, surprising each other. They both seemed to be taken in by the scenery and the simultaneous reply resulted in a mutual giggle from each of them. It was only then that the pair started paying attention to their elder siblings. Both of them seemed so on guard. Louryn was constantly scanning the skies and Larold’s eyes were on the streets.

“When I was alive in Outland, apprenticed to our father, I joined him and Auralia for some time there before their duties split them apart. We met Felirlym there, saved his life,” Larold explained as they journeyed to The Parting Glass.

“Before father abandoned her, defecting with Voren’thal,” Louryn comments, a tinge of resentment in her voice. This resulted in a sigh from Larold.

“He didn’t abandon her, he had me stay with her. I failed,” Larold admits.

Louryn stops and turns to look at him, she says in slight shock, before turning to continue onwards, “You… Never told me that.”

Yvonna regretted asking. The topic of her parents always disturbed her, because as the youngest she truthfully was hardly raised by them. She and her older brother Nimitta were mostly raised by Louryn, then later by her twin sisters Aethys and Syhtea when Louryn joined the Horde’s war effort to support their father. The twins were intent to keep the family textile business afloat, literally, as their main shipping vessel The Songweaver’s Shanty, was constantly under attack by Kul Tiran mercenary forces and hired pirates. Nobody really knew what they were up to now, they shared that reclusive trait with Nimitta.

“Not everybody believed that old Scryer, you know,” Larold says, “We didn’t, at least. By our accounts, your father was a traitor. So much infighting since The Third War and it truly is a shame what happened, but they say these things all happen for a reason.”

“Well, not everybody believes that,” The Dark Ranger says coldly, pointedly stating, “Kael’thas chose wrongly, just as Hellscream chose wrongly, just as Sylvanas chose wrongly.”

“Fate bears little choice, sister, you’ll see soon enough,” The forsaken sighs, not having wished to bring a rise out of her.

Yvonna claps her hands and snaps, being entirely done with this conversation, “I’m sorry, but dragonriding is what we were talking about. If we can’t talk on that, I’d like to talk about this family’s future. Not, the past.”

That made Larold smile. Daniel appreciated it too. Louryn was ever inscrutable though Yvonna sensed she was a bit sad behind her still features. Letting out a huff, releasing her frustration, she takes a breath and suggests to her siblings, “Once we arrive, perhaps we’ll do some shopping. You all could use outfits that, well, are more civilian. You’re both retired now anyway, right?”

She won’t have no for an answer.

19

They’d barely made it across two bridges to the Emerald Enclave and from here Louryn stated they’d travel upwards through to the Bronze Enclave. Then, there, they’ll stay in the Parting Glass. He’d waited twenty years for this moment. He was not prepared. He was laughing.

“Yvonna,” Louryn began to scold, “There is no retiring. You can’t even properly die these days! I thought I’d earned my respite from endless conflict but at a certain point you come to understand in this family that you were born for it and cursed by it. It will never leave you, at best, you have beautiful moments in between the horrible violence of war.”

“Is THAT why you look like you’re straight out of the fourth war? Which is over by the way, sorry you couldn’t properly die during it, oh darkfallen one,” Yvonna snidely remarks back at her eldest sister, “I thought we were beyond constantly reminding any Kal’dorei passing by about which side you were on. That does so well for our family outing.”

“YOU ARE SO MUCH LIKE FATHER,” Louryn nearly screeches in frustration.

Larold and Daniel just shared mutual laughter as their sisters argued, something they hadn’t done seen since they’d all been alive together. The forsaken thought it was refreshing, finding an opening in their argument, “I wish you both took more after your mother.”

Silence between his sisters. They both shared her frown actually, he thought to himself, knowing fully well he’d just settled their argument. Yvonna was correct about one thing, though, Louryn’s look was getting attention in the Emerald Enclave but their comments were making it an untenable setting, so he suggested flatly, “Let’s keep moving.”

More stairs. They were almost there. She’d need to use the Synchronous Thread at the Engine of Innovation. He’d need to make sure she did that. Then, and much more confusingly, he’d need to hand out invitations which came in two acceptable forms. The first, a single bolt of chronocloth. The second, a standard gold bullion. The only exception would be a tailor wielding Synchronous Thread.

He knew he’d have to be on the look out for the time thief that his father had warned him about. Louryn’s eyes were scanning for threats too, but he knew she wasn’t searching the crowds for infinite meddlers like he was. His fathers alternative theory that Archmage Vargoth is pure evil was ridiculous, but temporal assassins sounded exactly like something that wasn’t ridiculous.

“We’re here,” Louryn announced, entering the Parting Glass. Larold followed his siblings inside. Felirlym was waiting for them, the armored netherwing drake with markings of the outcast was in his elven guise. His ebony skin, golden eyes, and black hair all finely fashioned. He rose to greet them.

“Larold, Louryn, so excellent to see you again. Are we here for adventuring in the isles,” Felirlym asks them heartily in greeting.

“Felirlym, this is Yvonna. You’ve met Daniel,” Louryn promptly introduces her youngest sister.

“Ah, then that just leaves Nimitta as the only one I haven’t met,” Felirlym says, moving to greet Yvonna, “So nice to meet you at last. I’ve known your family for many years.”

“A pleasure,” Yvonna says politely, she was still annoyed from earlier, but wouldn’t take it out on anyone who wasn’t a sibling, “I’m to understand you’ll aid in procuring an audience with Soridormi.”

“Ah, yes, about that,” Felirlym admits apologetically, “Your request for audience has been denied. I do hope you’ll stay for a while nevertheless.”

“What,” Yvonna says in shocked disappointment.

“Yes, I was lucky enough to get one myself. She said that I was a future friend and thanked me for ferrying around an unparalleled rift-mending timewalking legend, whatever that meant. She also said to tell your father when I should next see him that he’ll never be Zaldin the Infinite because he missed his chance and to please stop asking her if she’ll let him travel back in time so that he can make different life choices… That was mostly the end of the audience though she did say, I know what you’re going to ask Felirlym, tell her I said no,” Felirlym recalls the conversation aloud smiling all the way through.

“What,” Yvonna asks in equally shocked disappointment with a dash of confusion.

“She did mention that I might be called that, one day, when I met her the first time,” he continues to recall, “Though she sounded irritated by that then, and I was only a whelp.”

“What,” Yvonna asks, far more confused this time.

“The Infinite,” Felirlym answers, thinking she means the title, about to elaborate.

“I’m sorry, you know what, I’ve made a mistake,” Yvonna interjects, trying to rein in the conversation, “My thinking this spool of thread means anything, and having my sister ask that of you on my behalf, is a poor excuse to finally be meeting a member of our family.”

“Really,” Felirlym responds surprised.

“The name is yours, should you want it, the attorney has filed all the paperwork, it was one of the minor stipulations,” she says, as if it helped, relieved to have deflected the conversation, trying for humor now, “but I must warn you, I’ve heard it may be cursed.”

“Oh it is cursed, young Yvonna, but it is a curse I would bear alongside those I care for willingly. I accept your paperwork,” Felirlym says gravely in response, wary of the paperwork, should any be presented by the aspiring scout.

“What,” Yvonna asks, smiling in disbelief, she didn’t want an elaboration, she just couldn’t help her own automatic response.

The three undead siblings couldn’t help but to chuckle while watching the exchange. Larold knew the time would soon be at hand, and his poor sister needed a push, so he called to her, lying effortlessly through his perfectly fake teeth and pointed outside, “Yvonna, that titan machine over there will fix that bag you were talking about. Use the thread you asked for, if you still have a piece of it left and it should fix it.”

Yvonna, exasperated covers her mouth with her hand before allowing herself to say what one more time. Larold could almost feel her force her frown upside down behind that hand. Yvonna swallowed and then asked, “Really?”

She bolted outside immediately, Larold announced to the rest of his companions, “Be ready. She’s about to open a time rift to somewhere between the thirtieth and thirty-first year since the opening of the dark portal.”

“What,” his companions ask in unison.

“Go pick up the briefcase she’ll drop,” he ordered casually.

20

Louryn shouldn’t have asked that. Larold always had said weird things. He just blurted them out. Sometimes they’d happen, and sometimes they wouldn’t. She watched her youngest sister do as Larold had commanded, and she vanished right then and there, dropping the briefcase.

“Called it,” Larold said, triumphantly, “Always a good sign, when that happens.”

“Says you,” Louryn, spits out angrily, rushing outside, yelling in frustration as she forces herself to pick up the briefcase, which she can’t help but to peek inside of, which causes another scream. She rushes back to Larold and assaults him with the briefcase, which almost made purchase with his face if he hadn’t rolled out of the way.

“HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT WOULD HAPPEN,” she screeched but needn’t have asked, but of course he did, she thought, “GO. GET. HER.”

“This is an operation,” Larold tried to reason with her, hands held up apologetically, “Operation Don’t Be A Party Pooper, Louryn.”

“Larold…” Daniel the ghost scolded his brother, wishing he’d stop teasing his older sister.

“LAROLD,” Louryn said, demandingly, having nocked an arrow in her bow alarming several patrons of the establishment. Felirlym intervened.

“Let’s not be too hasty! I’ve seen many strange things in my days and usually it is Larold who is the one vanishing through time,” The nether drake says calmly and slowly with an expression that clearly states you’re embarrassing me.

“Fine, and you’re going to explain what’s happening or I’m going to have Felirlym toss you into the valley below. Fair?” Louryn says, arrow still aimed at Larold.

“Fair,” Daniel answered for his brother. Felirlym agreed with him.