Prince Anduin Wrynn sat in one of the small tertiary oratories of the Redridge bishopric, surrounded by the accoutrements of his research. Moments earlier he had slammed the tome in front of him closed in frustration. He held his head in his hands, fingers pressed hard against his scalp in between tufts of blonde hair. He was holding his breath and grinding his teeth, and was unaware that he was doing either. The study he sat in was sparsely furnished. The area he had cleared for his work on the mighty oak desk that dominated the center of the circular room had given ground to the amalgamation of research materiel until the volume he was working out of sat on top of no less than three entire paradigms of theological texts stretching back to the time of the Troll Wars.
Not since the reign of the Arathi tribes had the kingdoms of men been threatened as they were now. The Alliance is beset on all fronts. The Iron Horde pour through the Dark Portal in greater numbers every day despite his father's success in Draenor. The southern kingdoms of the Eastern Continent remain as untamably wild as ever. The Alliance's influence on Kalimdor has waned substantially since the Cataclysm, and under the Troll Vol'jin's leadership, the Horde has consolidated its holdings, riding the wave of a renewed espirit de corps.
Anduin could not help believing himself responsible for the immense task of turning the Alliance's fortunes around. Certainly that rogue Khadgar had no interest in the fate of Stormwind, maintaining as he does such intimate ties with the Horde. But what is to be done, the Prince cannot imagine. He had buried himself in his studies, hoping to find the answer in the ponderous musings of the great theologians of the past. He had started full of expectations, with the vast quantity of writings produced by the Arathi monks from their scriptoriums in Strom. Initially, he had found the Arathi to be too warlike in their disposition and interpretation of the Light. His education had taught him that the Light's primary purpose was to heal, to inspire, to drive back the darkness by its mere existence and the purity of its practitioners conviction. But there was nobody he could turn to with his questions. No guide to show him the way. The only beings in existence more thoroughly versed in the Light than he are the ephemeral Naaru. He has tried many times to seek A'dal's advice, but whenever he managed to make contact with the Naaru, he walked away more confused than before. He was beginning to find the Arathi scholars' tendency toward direct action bold and righteous, where once he found it impertinent, wreckless.
Such were his thoughts as he released his head from his grasp and slumped back into the plush cushions of the high backed leather chair he had commandeered from the main Cathedral's offices. The Princely countenance, teetering dangerously as it was on the edge of despair, was granted a very timely reprieve by the smart snap-click of Lady Jaina Proudmoore's knee-high white elekk leather boots upon the cobblestones of the short pathway leading from the road up to the tiny oratory's front door. Anduin listened with anticipation as Lady Proudmoore made her way forward. Indeed, his mind went curiously blank as he heard with trepidation the snap-clicking stop behind the great wooden door of the place An image of the Lady composing herself: back straight, shoulders set in the regal posture she assumed when making one of her grand entrances, appeared in his mind's eye. His spine straightened reflexively. Just before she opened the door, Anduin remembered himself and made an attempt to resume a posture of polite indifference. He succeeded only in making himself appear quite ridiculous when Lady Proudmoore's disturbingly blue eyes alighted on him from the doorway and his spine resumed its erect position of its own accord.
"Your Grace," she said, bowing stiffly in greeting.
"Lady Proudmoore," the Prince managed in reply. There was an awkward silence during which Lady Proudmoore exacted the full power of her gaze on Anduin. For his part, the Prince found himself focusing his eyes on a curious succession of objects. First, an oddly shapen cobblestone near the Lady's left boot, then a very plain looking stained glass window he hadn't noticed was there before, and finally, the corner of the doorframe within which Lady Proudmoore was still standing.
"I suppose I'll just come in then." she murmured, as she stepped into the dark oratory. The Prince tried valiantly to recover his composure as Lady Proudmoore strode up to the part of Anduin's desk where a map of Draenor, littered with markers, indicated where his father's regiments currently fought. Even the tiny clay cavalrymen seemed to wither slightly under her scrutiny.
For his part, Anduin was hard pressed to discover the source of his uneasiness around Jaina Proudmoore. She had been present in his life since before he could remember. Unlike the others, he did not shy from her ferocity following the destruction of her homeland, Theramore. On the contrary, he welcomed it. But still, her mere presence had the uncanny ability to make him say and think the most peculiar things.
Naturally, it was no great secret to anyone else what distressed the young Prince about Lady Proudmoore, but they had the good manners to keep it to themselves. For Lady Proudmoore was nothing if not striking.
In the time it took Lady Proudmoore to come to the conclusion that she approved of King Varian's deployments in the field, Anduin had regained some control over his senses. He motioned for the servant, Cecil, to bring tea and bread. Cecil appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to carry out his master's bidding. Anduin cleared his throat as if to address Lady Proudmoore, but abandoned the notion when he found he had nothing interesting to say, and settled for walking to a window and opening it. He stood for a moment, enjoying the autumn breeze and taking deep, meditative breaths. Refreshed, he turned smartly on his heel and asked Lady Proudmoore if she had met with success in Dalaran.
"Not as such, no." She didn't seem inclined to discuss the matter further, but Anduin could not be satisfied by such a vaguely enticing answer.
"'Not as such'?" Anduin queried.
"The Archmage mantains his position of neutrality on the matter."
"Fool." Anduin remarked, far too casually. Jaina's eyes sharpened.
"A fool, he is not, and you know it." Anduin let out a sigh.
"Oh, I know, but confound it, there is nothing to be done at all by anyone, anywhere it seems!" Echoing his earlier thoughts out loud sounded childish. He tried again.
"The use of the Mana Bomb constituted a breach of magical law. It is his domain! He should have acted long ago. Justice recoils from it!"
"It is a position you know I share, but there's nothing for it. He is most unmoveable on the matter."
"Indeed."
"And you, your Grace? Have you hit upon anything useful?"
"It is possible. I must say I am not well disposed to our quest at present. We have had nothing but dead ends so far. Even the modicum of success I entice you with now is but a return to a previous line of inquiry. The scholars of Arathor-" here Lady Proudmoore interrupted.
"Mercurial zealots, I thought they were?"
"Your ladyship knows those were my initial thoughts, but after reading what more recent scholars of the Light had to offer, I find them more agreeable upon second consideration."
"And what do the monks of Strom suggest?"
"A great deal, in fact. It had been millenia since the War of the Ancients. The agents of Sargeras had not been seen or heard from since. The Light was by far the strongest force in our world. The histories are replete with accounts of fearsome Paladins altering the very landscape with the force of their blows. The most disciplined Priests could blanket entire armies in impenetrable shields! Some of this, of course, is exaggeration, but nonetheless it speaks to the power of the Light in those days."
"I daresay these monks would be as awed by the arcane power wielded by the great Mages of our age."
"Perhaps." The Prince, taking the bait, affected an exaggerated ton of voice: "But as we both know, Arcane forces are as a gnat when compared with the noble power of the Light!"
"How dare you, sir!" Lady Proudmoore retorted with mock horror. "To think that a prissy little Priest would be able to stand before the torrent of ice and fire which I would rain upon his head!" Proudmoore continued, punctuating her words by causing a gout of steam to issue from either of her ears. Anduin could no longer hold in his mirth, and let out a series of choked guffaws before collapsing back into his chair. Lady Proudmoore smiled warmly at him, and for once, the smile seemed genuine enough to reach her eyes.
"They speak of power, but how should you tap into such energies?" the Lady queried, once both had regained their composure.
"There is a text which has been lost to time. Burned in some troll raid or other during the decline of Strom. I should very much like to ask The Black Prince about it, but of course he is impossible to find."
"I find myself idle just at present. Perhaps I could travel to Tanaris and seek him out at the Caverns?"
"Perhaps you could."
"Then I will take your grace's leave."
"Don't be silly, my lady. It will be past midnight on Kalimdor just now. Pass the night here. I have a suite at the Redridge Inn which Cecil has booked for me under a false name. Please make yourself at home in one of the rooms."
So it was the Lady Jaina Proudmoore, after casting a cloak of invisibility upon her person, snuck into the Redridge Inn and fell immediately asleep upon a bed in Prince Anduin's suite. The Prince spent the better part of the night at his studies, and slept on a cot in the oratory he asked Cecil to bring from the inn. In the morning, Lady Proudmoore undertook to travel by magic to Kalimdor while Anduin endeavored to make a dent in the growing pile of correspondence that had made its way to him via various clandestine routes which he trusted none but Cecil to manage.
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Originally Posted by Wyrt
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