Telinthos stood in the libraries of a dungeon nestled under Caer Darrow casually paging through a tome highlighting the history of Quel’Thalas. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he found a particular passage in Old Thalassian he was having trouble understanding.
“A little help here would be nice,” a female voice called out. Telinthos glanced up to see Xaniale locked in combat with a cultist, his poisoned dagger glancing off parries and a well used shield. Her hair swished from side to side as she danced a lethal pattern around her adversary, her breathing labored and brow glistening with sweat.
“Don’t play with your food, my dear.” With a flick of the wrist, a bolt of pure arcane energy coalesced and hurtled towards the cultist, striking him hard and sending the resulting corpse flying across the room. “It’s unsightly.” Telinthos turned back to the book, once again concentrating on the aged words within.
Scholomance, as it had come to be called, was a den of insidious machinations and dark gatherings. From one end to the other, every wall covered in shelves, every shelf in tomes and every tome in lore. Cultists dedicated to the Cult of the Damned gathered in covens, practicing their dark arts and exchanging information too dangerous to be expressed in open air. The dungeon environs humid and smelling of sweet death and rotting flesh turned Telinthos’ stomach and countered what little appetite he had earned blasting cultists into oblivion.
“I believe I’ve seen what I need. We can go now, ” he said, flexing his hands. “Dalaran?”
Xaniale nodded, cleaning her blade on the body of the man she’d just finished emptying the pockets of. “I need a drink and some food, care to join me at the Wayfarer’s Rest?”
“Splendid plan. Perhaps I can get a bath and a breath of fresh air while we’re there.”
A shimmering portal opened up, it’s doorway showing the bustling streets and clear skies of Northrend. Telinthos looked back once more to give Scholomance a disapproving glare and stepped through the portal.