From Theron Shan’s Instagram Account: ok so grandpa’s private beach is a little junked up (old man needs to learn to pick up after his epic space battles) but beggars cant be choosers (& space-bnb said no refunds). apparently my all-jacket-all-the-time policy has given me quite the farmers tan. nothing a few days on the beach won't cure
(p.s. – how many datapads do u need to work on during a vay-cay-shun? girl just rolled her eyes & hid all mine when i asked)
The arcanist and the valarjar captain lay together in their crystalline quarters on the Vindicaar. The room was plush, comfortable, it pulled off an alien extravagance even in its functionality for war that only the draenei could manage, it seemed. It offered little comfort for the two elves’ tumultuous thoughts, however.
The devoted minions of N’Zoth had been thwarted, with the help of their friends and allies, and the great storm quelled. Several commanders of the Burning Legion that the two of them had been tracking and hunting had been slain - even a most particularly elusive one - and the Army of the Light gave them lightforged weapons in honor. There were artifacts and treasures aplenty on Argus, though they had to discuss between them which would be best put in the hands of the Scions for study (after the arcanist had her turn with them) and which would be given to Syndicate for fencing or keeping as assets.
But each victory still seemed small in the face of what was happening.
Aranya lay with her head on Halenvar’s chest, listening to his breath, his strong heartbeat. She could tell from the rhythm beneath her pointed ear that he was awake still, and turned her head to look up at his face, his red brows drawn in a glower at the ceiling. He was troubled.
He had every reason to be. Halenvar loved and worshiped the titans, greatly admired all their works, and suddenly seeing Aggramar, corrupted, burning with unnatural hate, dropping from the sky…
It was too much to think, his most-revered titan in such a state of being. Aranya could only wonder at the war of emotions her lover held inside him, channeled into his battle-rage.
Gravity seemed to swim for a moment, and the phoenix-mage looked down at her arm. The glow of her red mana tattoo had dimmed down to almost nothing. Kazakus had told her when she began the Eclipse Syndicate’s partnership with the Kabal that the tattoos were a reserve of great power, and she had been all but living on hers since she was rescued from the Nether and her battle with Tezzakel. Glutting on the dreadlord’s power in order to defeat him was not a move she’d had much choice in making, but it had to be done. In her downward spiral through the after-effects, trying to stave off the inevitable was wearing thin, and most of the people around her knew it, saw it.
She would have no choice but to feed soon.
And there was another problem, one not many had anticipated, but couldn’t be surprised by.
The Sunwell’s radiance was distant here, too dim to feel. It was drowned out to barely even a trickle in the chaotic ocean of fel and void magics that roared all around them, filled their every sense, on Argus. The children of Quel’thalas all needed to find their own solutions to this problem, if they could think of any… and Aranya very honestly didn’t care that her past addictions and recent events meant she was getting the worst of it. She worried for Halenvar more than herself.
Shifting up to place some tender kisses on the warrior’s mouth, she murmured that she was going to go wash, clear her head some, hopefully.
But as the warm water rained down on her dark head, everything that she had been trying to hold down, deep in her mind, just came rising and bubbling up to the surface. She struggled to breathe evenly, as her emotions rushed like the surge of a high tide into the fully conscious places of her brain, demanding to be given their due acknowledgement.
Anger. Frustration. Melancholy.
Off went the water, and Aranya dressed quickly and departed the quarters with a short declaration that she would be back soon. She needed to go out and do something, work off the pent up beast inside her.
Down on the surface of the Antoran wastes, the howl of demons, wails of tortured souls, and the roar of Legion ships and machinery flooded Aranya’s acute, elven ears. The burning smell of fel saturated the air, almost suffocating. The chaotic magics all around made the small, delicate hairs on the back of her neck rise and her skin prickle. A particularly loud screech caught her attention, and she stalked off to pursue its source.
The vile fiends munching on bones stood no chance in the wave of arcane flame that cut through them, like a scythe. Their agonized shrieks and charred hands, clawing at the sky, was just the beginning. Soon the air was filled with the sounds of imps, felstalkers, bats, brutes, and eredar receiving the wrath of the phoenix.
It wasn’t until she started to feel her strength wane that it happened.
An eredar felcaster - silenced with a counterspell and then disarmed with a well-placed twist of the elf’s mageblade - ultimately found herself kicked down onto her fel-pocked back by the Thalassian woman’s booted foot. The celestial sword was driven through the eredar’s midsection, her fel-burning eyes going wide in shock that her immortal life could ever come to an end.
Aranya wasn’t even thinking straight, she was too full of adrenaline,
too full of hunt-lust, too far gone now to stop herself. Her slender hand went to the dying felcaster’s throat, her short nails digging in, her senses surging invasively into the demon’s being and catching tightly to the magical essence of the creature, pulling greedily, hungrily, into herself. As the fel lights of the eredar’s eyes dimmed, the smoldering, fel-kissed eyes of the sin’dorei grew ever brighter.
Aranya hunted, battled, blasted at demon after demon, draining them all as she went, and relishing the sweet burn of such high magic in her veins. Oh, it felt so good! But she always spent as much power as she took in, turning the demons’ energy against them in this way. It made her last for hours, long after she should have been back to the Vindicaar. At last she simply gave out from physical exhaustion, and fell in a slump to the ground, covered in black dust and flecks of fel blood. This hadn’t worked quite as she had hoped.
The sprawled sorceress lifted her wrist with the enchanted bracelet that Halenvar had given her to her lips. “I’ve done something,” she said dully. “… Come get me.” She felt all the regret of a person who’d drunk too hard and heavy and who would have the worst hangover in the morning. This wasn’t along the advice that Theron had given her! She was supposed to have had some plan first, some way to manage and master the magical consequences of sating her hunt-lust again!
You ran out of time.
Aranya couldn’t tell what or who or how those words registered in her brain, whether the voice was in her ear or in her mind. Was it Theron, Halenvar, or A’dal? Whatever it was, it… somehow made her feel just a fraction more inclined to be kind to herself.
She had run out of time, and now she had to figure out what to do about it, more urgently than ever. Before Halenvar ran out of time, too.
What if for the trc show the actor who plays Noah narrates all of the important parts of the show from lines from the book
Like for the opening scene of the pilot he would voice over “blue Sargent had forgotten how many times she’d been told that she would kill her true love” and so on and so forth while blue went about her day at 300 fox way helping her family with readings or at school or something
And then for season 2 it would begin with “a secret is a strange thing. There are three kinds of secrets.” With Noah actor voice over and scenes showing Ronan and his three types of secrets
Or for trk “Richard gansey iii had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness” Because they’re all connected through Noah and he’s been watching them all and he knows them all and he loves them all
Could u imagine