The Curse, the Magister, and the Nightingale

Part 1: Voices in Head, Voices in Blade

Nightingale's pointed ears twitched somewhat as conversation outside his tent grew distinguishable. The voices flooded back into his head, albeit faint and steady for now. Returning to reality from his meditative state was like waking from a dream if he remembered correctly. As an elf he prided himself with his acute memory, but not even he could remember the last time he slept; both a good sleep and one clouded with nightmares.

Meditating was as far as he would go to allow his mind to slip elsewhere. In all other cases it was dangerous.

He opened his eyes, blinking so they would adjust to the dim lighting of his tent. Nightingale could hear other Ren'dorei outside conversing and he knew they were growing anxious. Rumors spread like a virus for the Void elves, whether the tales were lies or truths was uncertain. The Void liked to confuse them, to play with their minds in an unending game of guess and face the consequences.

He shifted his legs out, moving to stretch out his limbs that he always crossed while meditating in a comfortable position. He ran his fingers down his long legs to help bring them back to reality, rubbing them gingerly. Nightingale's gaze averted and roved over the small tent he resided inside.

The room wasn't charming and he could've cared less for how it appeared to others. Papers filled back and front with prophecies the whispers offered in comparison to others were strewn across the floor, pouches filled with food and flasks of water or other necessities, pale-faced daggers and knives protruding from the hard floor or slovenly thrown here and there.

There were books stacked, although as neatly and carefully as he dared. They were Magister Umbric's. The elven sorcerer knew more about the outside world than them, and there were more races that grew and thrived over their world. None of the Void elves knew how to speak their language. They were robbed of their education and development as exiles.

Magister Umbric was exiled as well, but he was the apprentice of Grand Magister Rommath, leader of Silvermoon's highest magi. Umbric was told and taught everything, which was a great mistake once their Order registered the actions of Umbric. He was more educated and informed than the elves were comfortable with, but they had no other choice than to exile Umbric. He was feeding information to the Ren'dorei, bringing them the necessities they needed to survive behind the backs of the rest of his Kingdom, as well as encouraging the corrupted elves.

Not only that, but Umbric was studying the vile existence of the Void himself. He stole books from the Royal Archives and journals that the Elven Kingdom considered cursed and tainted.

His gaze turning from the historical books Umbric offered him, Nightingale's colorless eyes fixated over the other thing he kept as tidy and close as possible: his katanas. The surface of his blades were as white as the moon, but the intricate pattern of spiraling lines that branched over and around the surface like a snake glowed a deep and entrancing blue.

Nightingale knew not of the origin of the blades, other than their age. Umbric assumed they were created during the War of the Ancients by the powerful and unsurpassable work of the Kaldorei that first walked the world of Azeroth after Trolls. His explanation was because the Quel'dorei would never dare create something that indicated the existence of Elune, or the night, or the stars.

The Quel'dorei praised the moon goddess no longer, only the warmth and hope of the Sun.

The assumption Magister Umbric brought up about the blades made Nightingale wonder what Night elf created the blades and cherished them to their death to be lost amidst the ruins of what the Burning Legion wrought over their world. That no longer mattered to him because the blades were now his. They accepted him and he welcomed their deadly beauty to preserve his existence and that of the Ren'dorei.