The Greatest Bag Theft In History

Lore World's End Tavern: Role-play and Fan Fiction
21

Yvonna fell flat on her face into the dirt. Rising to her feet she was completely in a daze. No, she thought, this can’t be right. She looked on in a confused state as several dozen individuals were waiting outside what looked to be an extravagant party. It seemed to be a rather strange gathering, and in her scouting gear she felt a bit out of place. At least, when she had her previous bag, nobody doubted she had style. It made the standard uniform work.

Shuddering at that thought, she realized a couple of things. First, that she was indeed just like her father. At least, in her fashion priorities. Secondly, that the two young elves accepting what appeared to be bolts of cloth and gold bullions reminded her of two elves she knew. Thirdly, a gnome with pale blue-white hair and bronze fixtures inlaid in her hairstyle, bronze trimming embroidered on her mostly plum dress, her hands and feet seemed to glow from the boots and gloves she wore, and she was spying on the party from behind a tree. Yvonna, dusting herself off, and simply just had to comment on those shoulder pads, “Oh my goodness, I love your shoulder pads!”

“Thank you, I made them myself,” she says, momentarily distracted before going back to her spying.

“This is Eversong Woods,” Yvonna says, almost asking, more seriously assessing her situation now that she’d gotten that important matter out of the way. She took in more information, realizing, “That’s my house.”

That seemed to distract the little spy from her spying enough to ask the elf, “What?”

“That’s my house,” Yvonna pointed at the manor. She couldn’t believe it, so she just blurted it outright, "That looks like me over there."

It looked like her, but more importantly, that lapel coat, you couldn’t find them anymore anywhere. It was her, and the elf beside that other her was her brother Nimitta. This was that party, the one she’d forced to porter for instead of enjoy, which was excruciating considering the looks. The glamor of it all was something that still occasionally -certainly presently- filled her mind with wonder. The realization was setting in, “Oh no…”

“Hey lady, for that being your house, you don’t look real invited to me. You gotta’ pay in cloth or stupid metal to get in,” the stylish gnome spy taunts, smiling.

“Well, there’s your problem,” Yvonna says, citing a few verses of old family edicts, “When leisurely about, chin up and don’t pout. If you wish for lots of clout, with a look, scream and shout. Be fashionably late so as to accentuate the fate which spins that your arrival was pertinent to their survival.”

“Do you…” the gnome woman starts to ask suspiciously, “Always rhyme like that? Is that supposed to be social advice? You some kind of fashion scout, lady? Trying to get in on this party too?”

“Fashion scout,” Yvonna scoffs, then it hit her, she couldn’t help but to then start laughing and humoring the poor woman with a voice laced with friendly sarcasm and total nonsense, “Yes, I’m a fashion scout, I’m… reporting for the Sunreavers, you see. I scout in the field for them sometimes, too. Hot on the trail writing a lovely story.”

The young woman approaches the lovely gnome and extends out hand in greeting, introducing herself. With much skepticism, the temporal not-so-gnome accepts the friendly gesture and introduces herself in turn. The Infinite Dragon then spies herself from another tree, having been watching her own back, and gave herself a big thumbs up. It was the sign given for future friends.

“By the way, would you call that an infinite blue you’re sporting? The hair, the gloves, the boots, it works,” Yvonna genuinely complimented, a powerful image in her mind’s eye, “Though it is funny, I see a vision of you with so much more. Adorned with the Jewel of the Firelord, only it isn’t that, it is that same infinite blue though. Also, a flowing cape of glittering sand that color as well, filtering down, slightly translucent. Perhaps like those I’d seen worn in the paintings of the Sylvanas before the fourth war or that of Queen Alecstraza and Lady Ysera’s guises decades ago.”

“You know what,” the gnome flared, switching instantly to a polite tone, agreeing with the elf, “You’re onto something.”

Yvonna was stunned. The gnome snapped her fingers, and the vision that had been in her mind appeared before the scout’s eyes. This must be what Larold deals with. The gnome, who clearly was a master transmogrifier, then conjured a familiar face to admire the new look. It was clearly a fierce one.

The not-so-gnome felt more than infinite, so much more that in her own excitement she exclaimed breath taken as if in a dream, “So much Morchie.”

“I know,” the familiar face agreed with the second instance of herself, giving a debonair twirl. Relishing the moment.

Yvonna looked back to the ongoing party, the line at the entrance was growing short. If her father was inside as she suspected him of being then she’d hoped he could get her home. Yvonna thought that the gnome looked like she wanted to get into the party just as bad she did though, so she offered out of kindness, “I could probably talk our way inside.”

22

Narrowing his eyes, Pyropustraz breathed in and glared at the ridiculousness before him. Operation what, the frustrated and nervouse evoker thought to himself as he sat below the risen chair that his associate, the ambassador. He had no idea what this had to do with stopping the fated deaths of those in the past via timerunning, but he was certain that another anomaly had just appeared somewhere outside the manor now.

He got up to leave immediately. He couldn’t’ take any more of it. Operation Put That Bag Back Where It Came From!?! SO HELP ME, Pyropustraz screamed in his mind. Certainly, anyone staring at the evoker in his guise would be able to determine that he was about to explode.

“Now, about those who might find such a bag useful,” The ambassador continues, “Oh you know those folks. This sort of thing is right up their ally, all those… gathering tools… Is that a map? Really into exploration, those folks…”

“NO SPOILERS,” another gnomish woman calls loudly over the crowd as she enters into the dining hall, interrupting the other gnomish woman speaking. They looked strikingly similar but were in complete contrast to one another. The outfit screamed eternal, infinite, and regality. The way she wore it as she entered the room informed those not already aware that she was the boss and she had their complete attention, “They’re no fun.”

The way she entered into the dining hall astounded everyone. She gave a twirl and four finely dressed timelost earthen individuals in golden attire and the current-not-original Elegant Archivist’s Bag. They carried a palanquin shaped like an hourglass and she sat upon a comfortable cushion inside it quite smugly. Joining the bulk of the party, elevated slightly, in tandem with her counterpart in the most ostentatious way possible.

“Who invited you,” Pyropustraz sneers, quite rudely. It earned him a glare from the host and an alarmed look from his companion. Many of the guests relished the drama.

23

“You need an invitation,” Yvonna asks in false bemusement, entering into the room, eyeing an evoker who’d made a rude comment, “I was under the impression this was an event open to the public. The doors were wide open…”

Yawning, the Sunreaver Scout goes to pour herself a glass of Dalaran Red. She’d acquired a taste for it. She couldn’t help but to smile, bringing the glass to her lips, thinking about how the past versions of herself and brother were just transported through time and space via her new friend. Yvonna understood why her powerful new future-friend was done with talking and instead wanted action, but she’d very nearly forgotten.

She had no idea of the ludicrousness of this night but she certainly underestimated it. She knew of the next guests to be arriving. Very seriously considering whether or not this entire situation is really real or if the magical reaction had knocked her unconscious, she was pulling off her bemusement well enough. Though it would thorough soon enough. If this was real, she was going to get her fill of the hors d’oeuvres floating about.

24

“Daddy, did you get me back my backpack yet, because I really don’t think it has been worth all the effort,” Another Yvonna rushes in, looking mostly identical save she had hardier boots and a chain link vest. She whined loudly as if she owned the place, “You should return to prison and explain how this isn’t all my fault so I don’t get arrested. You’re going to ruin my career here…”

25

Walking in with the look of nostalgia all about her, another Yvonna comments loudly, “Oh, come now, it isn’t all about you.”

She wore a wrist corsage of bloodthistle with golden berries and vermillion hexweave ribbon. Much more serene in her gait as she entered the dining hall with a clear strength in her voice, “At least I brought the synchronous thread we dropped. For shame, Yvonnas.”

The latest Yvonna goes to join version of herself currently filling up on conjured hors d’oeuvres and drinking wine. That version of herself then spits up the contents of her mouth all over the floor. She was laughing, then soon, everyone was. Not at these Yvonna, no, but at the latest coming into the dining hall.

26

“Well, you didn’t bring enough chronocloth, or a spare outfit this time, it seems,” The latest Yvonna says, entering in a golden dress and blasé tone. She waves a hand to Larold, still in his silver mask, smiling coyly. A dracthyr evoker stands up and starts to scream briefly, before being pelted by sand and frozen in time. The party guests seem to think this is all a part of the entertainment.

“Fashion conservation,” The latest Yvonna taunts shamingly to herselves, teasing, “More like fashion conversation, but do go on… I’m sure nobody will would rather be entertained by our musical guest instead.”

27

The radiant song complimented the tempo of the fel whispers urging him. He couldn’t hope to understand it, but it wasn’t ceasing to amuse him in his increasing madness. The vestige of sanity could only make room for the horrors unfurling in his mind. That small glimmer of the mage lamented as the intrusions burned a fel path through time as they raced towards the radiant song. He knew his mind was like a vessel now, a conduit for foul schemes that would go uninterrupted, and it disturbed him.

The spectral arms that phased from his shoulder regions unshackled him without much difficulty. Zaldin wanted to scream but could not move his lips, a piece of his soul had burned away to undo those shackles. His body lurched upward then off the raised bed, placing bare feet onto the cool floor of the infirmary. The staff rushed towards his body, alerting the guards, but he was already invisible when they reached him. His soul was burning.

Your soul is strong, enough to sustain my spell, a thought not his own, a soft feminine voice, you called me here, yet you resist the fel?

Zaldin dared not reply, he wasn’t resisting, he couldn’t resist. The demon just clearly hadn’t burned away enough of his soul yet. Is that what it meant? The possessed blood mage could only feel himself move carefully throughout the complex, passing the corner from the infirmary before an alarm was raised. He could feel himself laughing giddily yet sinisterly, he liked to laugh like that, like he was winning in a game with extreme advantage or getting away with some well-intended mischief.

“The fel designs here have only struck a chord,” Zaldin said, moving his lips, “this swell of signs clearly they sing for my sword.”

He knew this song, and it was nearly silenced by an arrow rushing by snapping into the wall ahead. Those tracking and in pursuit of them had heard him. The fiend could contain his screams, but not his song! His possessed body lurched forward, dashing, and again burned away at Zaldin’s soul, causing sparkling spectral ash to rise from his form.

Burn little ember, death is the law, the deeds I have foreseen send thee to the maw, the demon chimed spitefully from within, hoping to torment him with his own memories, How could kinslaying hope to redeem a failed sunfury soldier now serving Hellscream?

“A melody swift, cutting the wrong, fiends fear when they hear my final bladesong,” Zaldin cried out, defiantly, feeling his soul withering with each passing moment, yet he could not relent. So he sang on, “With Illidan’s gift, I’ll join the throng, to send them to doom back where they belong!”

An arrow made purchase in his right arm, Zaldin felt it, but he was distracted by something entering his field of vision from the ceiling. A burning red star that glimmered into view, as if summoned by the song itself. The blood mage felt his entire body burning as it rushed unnaturally quickly through the dungeons in hopes to escape them. The enhanced movements burned his soul too.

“With the sting of each note against demon devices they’ll deny not the power of our sacrifices! The Burning Legion shall fall! It will be extinguished! I am their assassin until this soul I relinquish,” he continued to sing, pained, more of a scream, “I will wage war against them with their unholy fire! I’ll weather the swarms with it earning their ire! They will not stop us even when our weapons grow blunt! They will not stop us! We live for the hunt!”

The arrow pulled at his arm, tugging him back onto the floor. He heard the guards yelling to seize him, and spellbreakers rushed to his position, but he could see that the archer who’d fired the arrow was fleeing in fear. That had burned away at him too, and the song felt like a whisper though his body wailed it clearly. The demon controlling him burned at his soul, summoning portals which outpoured imps to combat the oncoming guard. His body continued to flee, and the blood mage could sense less and less with each passing moment. That star though, it was furious, he could tell. Though he hadn’t the faintest idea what it was.

“Raging through endless torments, into darkness we go! Oh Thero’shan rise to Shan’do! Or else shall we fall, whilst heeding the call of discipline and hate! Until the Legion’s death that call is my breath until they’re hewn from the threads of fate,” Zaldin’s soul sang, wrestling with the demon that had possessed him, his words escaping his lips in a defiant crescendo. Two arrows swiftly made purchase. One in his left thigh just shy of the femur and the other through his right knee. He fell to the floor.

“They’ll reveal their true names so we can spare others the flame. Bright and blinding, an eternal and binding chain. Our deeds laid bare, without shame, from a storm that raged in more than name. No afterlife to tether just a blade twisting in the nether to end The Dark Titan’s claim,” the blood mage says, barely audible, warm blood draining from his wounds. The demon was screaming, enraged, unable to control his body any longer. It left him then, vanishing. All Zaldin could manage was giddy laughter there on the dungeon floor, like he was winning in a game with extreme advantage or getting away with some well-intended mischief.

28

“We’re babysitting,” Larold explained flatly, trying to hide how incredibly amused he was, and he was honestly just trying to enjoy the scenery at this point. He tried to reason with his siblings and the nether drake, “Any second now, actually.”

“Nonsense, again. Really, Larold,” Louryn exclaims with a frown.

No, really, he thought to himself. It was just, well, they’d have to see. Then, as if on queue, two sin’dorei youth appear with a look of sheer bewilderment on their faces. A young Yvonna and Nimitta, a decade too young to be their true selves but everything was as planned. Felirlym let out an exasperated sigh and he was about to really let into Larold but the ghostly voice of Daniel interjected first.

“Toss him off the cliffside,” the ghost instructed in his most regal tone.

Larold laughed and complimented his brother, “That was a good joke Daniel.”

Well, it would have been if Felirlym hadn’t taken it seriously. The nether drake was much faster than himself and in a majestic transformation had sent the forsaken hurdling over the edge of the cliffside. His timelost siblings screamed, but Larold was laughing as he fell. Good one, Felirlym, he thought.

He could see time rifts outpouring sheer chaos in the valley below. It might take him forever to climb back up, and it was frustratingly impeding his ability to alter time. He felt locked out. Crashing hard against a slope he rolled to regain his footing and slowed to a slide as he rammed his fists into the earth to stop his descent. Now the climb back up might take five minutes.

29

Zaldin beheld his oracular vision unfold before him into utter mundanity. His two youngest children appeared in front of their siblings and Felirlym in Valdrakken. It took much to not intervene when Larold was cast off the cliff side, but his desire to return the temporally displaced youngsters was his first priority. They’d be eager to see him.

At last, he carried an Archivist’s Elegant Bag. It had taken too long to restore the things and far too many Synchronous Tailors than it should have. He still suspected that the culprit of such a temporal heist was at large though he still felt ridiculous for following a lead regarding blue wizards and fully suspected that it was fel agents of Azerwrath, which was much more plausible.

He called out to them, levitating over, “Beloved family, so good of you to have arrived. Right on time it seems.”

“Daddy,” the younger Yvonna yelped in surprise. Still alarmed by the armored nether drake, staring at him with a look of confusion and bewilderment.

“It looks like him,” Nimitta appraised, equally bewildered, clearly not convinced, “Why are his eyes glowing like that?”

Felirlym and Louryn stood at attention immediately. Louryn saluted her father and Felirlym bowed his head in reverence. Daniel, however, floated over next to his father, and embraced him. The ghost mentioned, lightly, “I knew it was you.”

Zaldin smiled, noting the growing confusion on the two timelost youngest, and addressed those assembled, “I have come to help fulfill a prophecy and a promise. If you are here, it is meant to be. We have little time and none of you are prepared.”

Louryn groaned at that, taking note of the glowing bronze light coming from her father’s eyeless sockets. His garb was ornate silver and blue gems and he radiated with a power akin to the light, but succinctly different. Irritated, she presented the briefcase and asked, “I suppose this is all payment for, such preparations?”

Zaldin nodded in response, instructing, “The bullion is enchanted so that it doesn’t appear as the antique bronze it truly is. We must seek out Iszinormi at once.”

“Where are we, father,” Nimitta asked immediately.

“When are we,” Yvonna asked, finally taking in the scenery, mouth agape in awe.

“No time for questions, children, hurry into the inn,” Zaldin commanded.

Felirlym sighed in disapproval, not wishing to return so suddenly after the embarrassment earlier. He returned to his elven guise and peered over the cliffside, scanning for Larold. The forsaken monk was still moving, climbing steadily up the side of the mountain back towards the city. Turning from the view, he followed the rest of the Sunglimmers back inside the Parting Glass.

Iszinormi, all three instances of her, scowled at Zaldin as he guided his family inside. Taking the briefcase from Louryn and walking it over to the three instances of a bronze dragon, he presented the contents to them. He states, “As agreed.”

Yvonna, ever the curious one, wasn’t far behind him, and began to interrupt the transaction, “Does this have to do with the party?”

“You know that they sorted that out today,” Iszinormi, the whelpling, laughed. All instances of herself ignoring Yvonna.

Zaldin furrowed his brow, handing the briefcase to a much more intrigued Iszirnormi wearing her elven guise. He replied curtly, “Such a relative term…”

“You’re a bit late in the season to purchase our wares,” The drake Iszinormi states, bored.

“Though, exceptions could be made,” the guised Iszinormi advises her other instances.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen you tailors coming and going, shearing and sewing. One of you is bound to get lost trifling with powers beyond yourselves,” the whelpling Iszinormi mused.

Zaldin scoffed at that, chiding the whelpling, “You insult Delormi.”

Yvonna huffed and returned to the table where her brother and the others remained seated, waiting for Zaldin to return. Felirlym kept looking over to the entrance likely watching for Larold to make an appearance at any moment. Louryn looked as angry as ever, though her face was not reddened by the expression. Nimitta and Daniel sat patiently, conversing with one another about something called the Shadowlands, which Yvonna pointedly ignored. She was far too interested whatever was going on with the bronze dragons, the briefcase with antique bronze bullions, and that bag her father carried. It was lovely.

“Yes, I misspoke there, I should have insulted you, Timelord. Always simultaneously in cooperation and conflict with one of us it seems,” the drake Iszinormi says smoothly, knowingly.

“This thread is quite important, and those with little to stitch and mend time anymore themselves may be given bolts to tailor them then a greater destiny,” Zaldin stated, cooled.

“We know not who pulled those strings and your theories of Azerwrathian incursions does not bode well for your sanity, Timelord. However, considering the anomalous circumstances at hand, perhaps we should look into these blue wizards,” the guised Iszinormi teased as she conjured away the briefcase with a wave of her hand, soft sand falling to the ground.

“You can’t be serious,” Zaldin hissed, insulted more by the fact that Iszinormi had skipped through the debriefing he was about to give and went straight into ridiculing him.

“Of course I’m not,” the whelpling chirped, “These things happen! You’re overreacting. Now, place your order.”

Zaldin immediately began listing the names of various sorts of items. Equipment, from what Yvonna was attempting to overhear between the also very intriguing conversation between her brother and her other brother, apparently. Daniel, the ghost, after having had introduced himself, was attempting to expound his observation of time and space in reference to his stay in the Shadowlands and how such oracular information, as observed by mortals, could have a multitude of factors but was most likely non-locality striving for synchronicity. Felirlym and Louryn seemed to be learning from him. The Timelord couldn’t help but to crack a smile at that.

Larold, having long waltz in by now, had brought in the silver fragments of his mask, covering his face completely, sapphires where his eyes should be. This was before the younger siblings were desensitized to the undeath all about his face, and in general, after all. The other Sunglimmers seemed to ignore him, but Zaldin had noticed his approach along with Felirlym. Zaldin had no idea how old Larold was now, but he sensed his once apprentice and master -his son- was greatly diminished. Larold was regarding him at the table through his mask. They were both seeking answers to a thread in time that would be banished into obscurity forever. Who would remember it? They would.

Zaldin just kept placing awakened items he received from each of the Iszinormi one by one inside the Archivist’s Elegant Bag, clearly enchanted with extra space. He was almost finished, and annoyingly the bag was quite nearly full. He had to hammer it down a bit, then he placed a scroll with instructions for his family sticking out of the top opposite the hammer. He lined the pockets with rings and trinkets then set it on the ground, turning to the table where his family gathered waiting for him. He nodded to Larold, then vanished. The overstuffed bag remained.

30

The elf who had just vanished had certainly looked like her father, spoke like her father, and acted well enough like him but Louryn wasn’t completely convinced. She’d never been one for much magic, and she detested being reeled into anything that revolved around temporal magic. She’d prefer very much to not be erased, thank you. Exactly the kind of erased that she thinks she just witnessed. Larold seemed completely unphased by it. Yvonna had seen it too and moved to retrieve the bag, but the others hadn’t yet noticed what had happened.

“Larold,” Louryn pleaded, never understanding anything to do with this sort of thing, she really didn’t want to ask.

“A stitch in time saves the world from its demise,” Larold responds, “The Synchronous Ones who have bested death and lies, shall endeavor ever to sever their ties. For we are the strings that make up the rope, which is the truth of all worlds, pulled by our hope. A hope that those threadbare might be renewed to mend once again when time and space grows eschewed. They’ll find us, the timelost, and strengthen our brood.”

“For a backpack,” Louryn groaned in disbelief, having been watching poor Yvonna try her best to no simply tear into the contents of the bag, or read the note, or just toss out that hammer. What would Yvonna want to do with something so terribly useful as a hammer? She wanted to be a songstress, as Louryn recalled of her at this age.

“Can I have it,” Yvonna asked immediately at mention of it, an incredible look of determination on her face, “Please?”

“You’ll have to ask your father,” Larold answered her flatly, taking the bag, and the disappointment was clear on her face at that response. She was unrolling the scroll Zaldin had stuffed jutting out the top of it with a defiant look.

“Well, I’ll read his letter aloud for everyone,” Yvonna said in a curt tone, as if Larold had slapped her. She than began to read, becoming more surprised and confused the more she did so, “Dearest Family, Yvonna has just stated she’ll read this letter aloud for everyone and so she must, because Yvonna’s reputation is at stake. Even now the Warden of the Silvermoon City Dungeons seeks her, as I have escaped my confines and slipped ten years in the past thanks to a scrap of this bag smuggled into me by my attorney, Nelaht Tunetinker, at Yvonna’s word. This has set a sequence of events in motion that has led me to throw an elaborate party. As thanks for your duty at the door to that party, Felirlym will fly you, Nimitta, and Daniel to tour the Dragon Isles for a day. Louryn and Larold, you must return Yvonna and Nimitta at home as soon as this concludes. Payment for the time rift has been made with every instance of Iszinormi. With luck, this bag will make it safely home with them. They must have every advantage for what is to come. My heart is with you all, make haste, and don’t waste this stolen moment you all have together.”

Louryn sighed, exhausted. What on earth is to come that’s worse than before? The thought disturbed her. What disturbed her more was that she remembered this bag, full of incredible equipment. She’d always respected the note, in the handwriting of an ancestor that must have shared her style for written script, ‘Do not open unless the legion has returned, death has been abated, and the dragons have returned to their ancestral homeland.’ But she recalled once when her father had taken it, left, then immediately returned to return it. Now she understood a little bit more, knowing the nature of the Timewalkers, but that wasn’t what he was doing. He was Timerunning, experimenting with events in the past at a whim without consequences. Her father is no Vargoth, but he did have his proclivities.

“Go,” Louryn found herself saying, smiling, “Have fun.”

At the prospect of flying on the armored nether drake the two elven youth were far too excited. They did not realize that they’d be transformed into whelplings, but were altogether pleased by the actual flying experience, so that Daniel could haunt the armored saddle. Louryn felt pleasure in that smile she wore, and she thought she understood Larold a little bit more in that moment, so she asked him, “Is that why you’re always so nonchalant? You just, go with the flow? Because it all so over your head that it can’t help but to funnel through what’s left of your brain and down through your mouth sometimes?”

“Sister, that’s the first clever thing you’ve said to me since you died,” Larold smiled back at her, “but it comes out what’s left of my mouth and probably isn’t too pretty.”

“I still don’t understand you, or this, not really, but I’m glad we’ve got a future to look forward to. Or, at least, whatever that can be for those in undeath. I’m most happy for Daniel though,” Louryn said, observing the younger siblings take off with Felirlym.

“When they came home after that party with the bag, I saw the tag in your handwriting and chose to believe the youngsters really had done all the incredible things they were bragging about. I had no idea what they were talking about, but that party, it was insane. Yvonna was there, a lot. I mean, a lot of Yvonna, from different times. She sang even.”

“You’re lying,” Louryn started to laugh, still watching the others grow smaller and more difficult to track in the sky.

“Nope, dead serious,” Larold said flatly, then started to cackle.

Louryn felt herself laughing too. That was nice.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Louryn said, going back inside the inn. The innkeeper procured a luggage tag without much difficulty upon her request and Louryn scribed instructions onto the tag. Do not open unless the legion has returned, death has been abated, and the dragons have returned to their ancestral homeland. She supposed she was now not too different from Larold or her father, being complicit in, whatever this was. Oh well, those smiles were worth it, what could be the consequences?

She returned to Larold, and swiped the hammer jutting out of the bag’s side, “A hammer is much too useful a tool for Yvonna. Something to remember this moment, to remind me it is real.”

Larold nodded, approvingly.

31

The party was eager to hear more about the musical guest announced by the latest Yvonna, then they heard the singing. An alluringly sing-song voice tinged with the fel emanating from yet another Yvonna with burning fel fire where her eyes would have been. Many of the guests, including her father, gasped with looks of concern.

“If you don’t put that bag back it’ll all go to fel, just return me my sack and it might just go well. I’ll make it quick like a priest’s fatal spell. Did you think me fooled? Is it not by fashion I’m ruled? So, now, I’m here to quell,” she sang the verses as she entered into the room, smiling with much malevolence, “All of you.”

32

Yvonna thought that last bit was a bit much. Was she really going to have to make her debut, here, as such an offensive incarnation? It clearly was upsetting her father, who was looking between the two gnomish guests seated opposite one another, deciding who to blame. Wasn’t it obvious? The other guests couldn’t see it either, and were either enthralled by the act or were actually starting to be concerned for their lives.

Yvonna rushed the fel Yvonna, an imposter. Yvonna was no mezzo-soprano. Her voice was contralto, in every timeline, probably. Either way, such a thing was clearly going too far for her tastes. She wondered if her new gnomish friend was feigning the confused expression on her face. As if she didn’t send this one.

“If you know me, I’m a tad immature, but don’t think you can pick on me,” Yvonna lets loose three strikes of her daggers, trying to perform her words as each strike is deflected by the fingernails of the fel Yvonna. She sprinkled the anger she felt into her song, “Pugnacious, for sure. Oh, I’ll settle the score and it shall be done with glee!”

“If you think me tame, and you think I’ll refrain, then you’re just too blind to see,” the true Sunreaver Scout sings out, kicking at the evasive foe who was dodging with ease, basically dancing with her. In fact, she’d just been disarmed of the dagger in her left hand, but that didn’t stop her from continuing, “I’ll rend, then I’ll maim. Oh, you won’t be the same, because I’ll make you more than bleed!”

The fel Yvonna became only more twisted as the song and dance of a duel unfolded before the party goer’s. Her teeth were revealed to be razor sharp as her skin turned a fiery red. This faux Yvonna was more lithe and athletic than the real Yvonna and it showed. The dagger that had been disarmed lay shattered into fragments like broken glass on the steps. The rogue hadn’t even felt, or noticed, that her left hand was shattered. The shock was allowing her to perform like an utter professional.

“If you’re gonna bite off more than you can chew! I’ll spice it with spite and I hope it chokes you,” The real Yvonna sang. Pain shot up her left arm but it was like a whisper to the melody raging in her mind, hardly audible compared to the song on her lips. She rallied, blinking behind the fel fake, her remaining dagger held high, striking down, she rallied hard. The melody heard in her words bolstered by the violence, “You’ll know how hard it can be to be to be my enemy, then that day you’ll rue because I’ll come for your hopes too!”

The fiendish Yvonna reached up disturbingly quick grabbing the dagger bare-handed and shattered it with a clenching fist. Fragments of fel obsidian scattered about, like glass broken against stone. The songstress struck out with her broken hand, slamming it into neck of the fiend as hard as she possibly could. With a sickening slap the blow found purchase with several spikes fixing the mangled hand into place. Yvonna tore it free, further injuring herself. The fiend twisted about and kicked Yvonna in the gut sending her upward. She nearly blacked out at that.

Luckily, she heard her song continue, from other Yvonna who had seen enough to know that this horrible creature was nothing like the rest of them, at all.

33

“Don’t need to fret about what I’ll do, because when I make my move, I’ll have you head upon my wall, given my taste I think you’d approve,” Yvonna, in the chainmail vest, firing off fiery arrows from the Dragon Isles drawn from the bag. The other Yvonna harmonized with her, having each joined the fight. This one, though, vaulted towards the enemy after a barrage. Each arrow making purchase in the creature, but they merely annoyed it, glancing off, scraping against hardened spiked flesh. She couldn’t let herself down, not in front of everyone assembled, so she sang, “It’s not a thing to prove, it’s just not a game I lose, because if you play I’ll make you pay. Here’ the price. Your certain doom.”

34

“You can say that you’ve been warned, so you best hope you’ve never scorned, one who would sing, Ye shant be mourned,” Yvonna speeds to the aid of herself, the fiend distracted by the more armored variant of a further future self. She knew exactly what to do, and that thing had no idea how long she’d had to prepare for this, but she’d have to leave the final verses to another. Her poor rogue self was still trying to harmonize with them, luckily nobody could hear her. She gracefully pulled the golden berries from her corsage and pinched them into the mouth of the scout. Bones snapped back together, flesh slid and reformed over muscle. She’d be fine in just a moment.

35

“Oh, and if you think you’re slick, you see there’s no plot you can get to stick to me, and the only stick you get you see is when I give it to you,” Yvonna sang in the glorious moment, haughtily enough, pouncing down from on high -having blinked into the air- and having planned to briefly slow fall in the perfect lighting. In both hands, she held a golden Staff of the Sin’dorei surging with temporal power both aesthetically and fundamentally. Smashing the head of the staff down onto the head of the now grappled fiendish version of herself.

She just had to come here, again, always trying to one up herself. That last verse was fine, and she knew it. Well, she’d committed. She’d dressed up. She loved this dress, it was perfect with all her jewelry. If any of the spikes from that monster ripped it she might just start screaming, but no, they mustn’t know. Such a thing would never come to pass and she’d make certain of it.

The staff splintered in a crack at the head, on the head of the red raging foe. It was her mother’s staff, how had it been made of wood? Wasn’t it gold? NO, NOT AGAIN. The thing was eversong burl wood that had been grown into the likeness of a staff of similar fashion to the golden staff of the Sin’dorei but sprouting golden leaves at the head which once held a small runestone which broke in two and flew into the audience. She’d ruined it, but it had replaced mother’s staff so she hated it. The moment was ruined, she screamed.

Time stopped.

36

Pyropustraz, frozen in time, would have completely snapped had he sensed what was about to happen. In fact, his compulsive desire to put timelost interdimensional objects and individuals back where they came from was becoming quite a problem for him. The anxiety induced was causing outbursts that sometimes compromised the mission.

Those in the room were being fast forwarded before his senses, but he could make out the general idea of what had happened. Some kind of a dual as a performance, and maybe that was singing that rushed by heard far too briefly to make out the lyrics to. He observed a mutual look of confusion on the guised faces of the temporal dragons present. Then, they both joined him in that moment, time having paused. Each one of them held their own bolt of fine chronocloth which seemed to be heightened in nature by their touch.

“I really thought the last one would get her down, I’m serious Chromie,” the infinite version stated.

“I think we’re almost done here, anyway. Good to see you making such friends, Morchie,” the bronze version replied, rolling up the cloth.

“D-done with… what,” Pyropustraz asked meekly.

“We’re going to make sure none of this ever happens,” His friend said to him reassuringly.

“She really means it, this time,” his not-friend teased him, snickering. His friend glared at her for that as if to scold her, but she’d had her moment and probably not for the first time given the statement. That means it is really bad.

“S-so did your respective flights coordinate efforts to reign in the temporal mortal intrusions and infractions regarding the fated dead? Did we manage to catalogue all the anomalies present at the party? Did the new timewalker recruits finish the mission so quickly? Were the timeweavers able to mend the rifts? D-d-do the bags no longer pose a threat to all of reality,” Pyropustraz asks frantically.

“Oh we’re way past all that baggage now, just tying up some loose ends,” his friend said, just too friendly.

“SPOILERS, it wasn’t me and it wasn’t her,” the other one said confidently.

“The Fel Queen has better things to do than come herself to some mortal party. She’s probably in The Nexus,” Chromie says, shrugging.

“The storm, not the fortress,” Morchie explains for Pyropustraz’s benefit, knowing he was about to ask a question to specify what the fortress in coldarra had to do with any of this. By the tone of her voice it sounded as if the storm called The Nexus had personally offended her, deeply. Only, he wasn’t benefitted by that, it only confused him further.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get sucked in soon enough,” Chromie said with a tone indicating she was very much tired of hearing about it from her counterpart and that she should stop before she gets ahead.

“Ladies, I would like to return home, if the mission is concluded,” Pyropustraz stated, overwhelmed.

“You’re making an excellent watcher so far, Pyropustraz. These weavers are gonna need some supervision. I really appreciate heroes like you alerting me to discrepancies. The Time Keepers don’t catch everything,” Chromie was saying, but he already had channeled the magic of his timewalker’s hearthstone and vanished before she could finish.

“SO, how soon in soon enough are we talking here,” Morchie asks her counterpart, intrigued.

37

“What’s so funny,” a voice asked, seated nearby him. Zaldin found himself appear in a comfortable seat at a table, right next to the ambassador of the bronze dragonflight in her typical gnomish guise. Her look was slightly elevated somehow, like she had just had a big night out at some fancy party. It was some kind of a dining hall, it looked so familiar. Nobody but the two of them and dozens of cowled individuals moved in the room. Most of them were sewing, cutting, or spooling glowing bronze threads -some other colors- frantically as if their very lives depended on it.

“This is my house,” Zaldin stated. It looked like his house. He started laughing giddily again. It just kept getting better and better, because a beautiful counterpart of the ambassador appeared, he thought she looked sinister in all the right ways. This one appraised the mad elf with a look and then just laughed at him mockingly, briefly. He ignored her, stating, far too amused, “Yes, that’s my chandelier! Is this a party!? Is that me?”

Chromie was going through the moments now, surveilling his recent past, and he knew that that was what she was doing somehow. Remnants of some sinister fel song. Some sinister fel promise. He could only laugh maniacally, insane, because the fires were endless and beautiful. Her face grew disturbed as she could see the moments of possession and the events in the thunder and mists of Pandaria.

“That codex is something,” Zaldin said with much amusement, commenting as it was conjured forth by the bronze dragon, as if it was the hottest gossip. He stood up and said in a blasé tone, as if the thing hadn’t broken his mind and driven him mad, “I was going to place it in one of the library display cases until I could have it appraised and sold at auction.”

She’d apparently finished scanning his recent moments and not-so-recent moments concerning the thing. Then, the version of Zaldin that wasn’t himself, but somehow so much more terrifying and old began to move, realizing himself now entering into the paused moment. That version of himself frowned at Zaldin, as if disgusted by him. Well, shouldn’t he be? Chromie began to question him.

“You went to the caverns of time before you threw this party, I tracked you,” she scolded.

“Of course I did, I went to warn the timewalkers, about a bag,” he smiled coyly. Then, he flicked his right wrist forward and in a cheeky admission, “Then on my way I saw they were timerunning! And I thought, you know, it isn’t right for all those things they put me into prison for, you know. Awful things. I figured, I may as well actually go do them properly and at least make it fair.”

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” the bronze ambassador exclaimed, exhaustedly.

“I DO, that’s awesome! Eternus didn’t eat you? What all did you get away with,” The rather regal and infinite counterpart of the bronze ambassador asked excitedly.

38

“Well, I’d already done all those other awful things like aiding Songweaver, watching the explosion, and essentially taking odd-jobs for Hellscream in spite of my Sunreaver orders. The usual, but I didn’t really like how mediocre my performance was during those events so I went along with that Timerunner group and just went back a little earlier,” Zaldin began to explain, shaking his head at the shameful past version of himself, “I may have embellished my own accomplishments just a tad, helped myself in disguise. The usual, but better, because it was me.”

“Did you bellow the song of kinslaying,” his weaker past self asked, somewhat lucidly, with a hint of anger. His voice, raspy, hateful, “You can’t blame the Sha or the Old Gods, not even the Fel for what we’ve done. You can’t even blame Hellscream!”

“Of course not, I blame the bronze and infinite dragons for shirking their duties and allowing a fel path through time to embroider itself into the threads of fate, possibly weakening our ability to resist convergence with Azerwrathian breaches. Like the one that has cursed you, well us, forever.”

“You asked for that,” Chromie chided, rapping on the fel codex, “When you touched this.”

“So it is your fault,” Morchie said with much satisfaction to her counterpart.

“You can also blame Elune,” Zaldin said amused to his past self, “Those incendiary runes were there for years after the Divine Bell incident.”

“That’s enough out of you,” The bronze dragon hissed, using her powers over time and space, sending the mage right back to his cell in the Silvermoon City Dungeons in his appropriate timeline.

“Are you going to Kairoz him,” Morchie asked in a tone that indicated she would very much like to see her goodie-goodie counterpart temporally assassinate somebody.

“No,” Chromie replied with a look of mischief that betrayed her intentions, “He should help me instead!”

“Help you Kairoz somebody,” the infinite dragon asked excitedly, sinisterly following that question up, “Who’s it gonna be?”

Chromie sighed, letting out her frustration, taking in a deep breath, she answers, “Kairozdormu.”

“I knew it,” Morchie stated, then started to cackle. Chromie only frowned.

39

:clap: :clap: :clap:
This is the best I’ve ever read.
The seamless storytelling is :star: :star: :star: :star: :star:.
Five Yvonnas is awesome, also!
Edit: I just found why you wrote this! It makes it even better!

41

Zaldin Unparalleled appeared behind a group of spellbreakers and an archer in hot pursuit of a escapee. He stepped lightly, positioning himself carefully, so that portals outpouring imps overlapped one another in the corridor in his line of sight. He waited for the archer who’d fired the binding shot to run past the portals, his brief fearful episode ended, and beyond corpses of the imps slain seconds earlier by the spellbreakers. Two felguards emerged from those portals and then Zaldin, moving with grace, blasts them with an eye beam of holy fire, a powerful spell akin to The Light’s Wrath.

Those portals were gone, even the corpses were too, like they’d never been there at all. The echoes of a old song could be heard, animating the pursuit so he pursued, by levitating. The archer smirked as two arrows crippled the prisoner but then frowned ashamedly when he heard the laughter. This prisoner was well known for their madness.

The archer did not notice when time suddenly stopped, nor did the Spellbreakers. In fact, the laughing prisoner did not notice. Luckily, he’d instinctively floated back around the corner at the right moment. He waited for that extended instance to end, just out of sight of the bronze dragon who had just cast a temporal loop and swapped out the laughing prisoner with another and vanished. The prisoner was essentially identical in every way when time resumed, but the main difference was the pained scream coming from their mouth. The three arrows piercing a bloodied body with severe burns did not agree with him, it seems.

They took the apprehended prisoner, who’d finally stopped screaming, and dragged him through the dungeon, towards the infirmary, seething and reprimanding him the entire way. Zaldin Unparalleled slipped by them at the perfect moment, just out of sight, and pursued the demon. He was late and had no more time for reminiscence. The unseen ones had carved out Kil’jaeden’s legacy, deceived the deceiver, and returned in force to the shadowlands. They’d failed, but such a war waged against all of reality is lightly given up, especially when the timeways are mingled incongruently.

He had only enough power within himself to banish the thing through time using the chrono crystal he’d acquired from one of his most treasured allies. He had to use it swiftly too, because he knew the being of death had spied his approach. Spectral Sight would not be enough in the Shadowlands to reveal her but such a thing could not hide on Azeroth.

“You,” she sneered, recognizing him. Striking out and revealing herself, she screamed, “WILL NOT STOP US!”

Zaldin channeled most of his latent energies into the chrono crystal and blasted them both, sending them hurling through the timeways back to where they should be. One hurled backwards through to the Isle of Thunder and the other far far forwards into the future.