It is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen.
The truth of his tales were stretched thin over the ages but Dionysus cared less for the inaccurate depictions of his manhood carved into stone, than his desires that went unsated. Festivities that spilled over from the constraints of hollow walls out into the wide expanse of space. To memorize the sick glow of sweat, stars and alcohol that revealed itself as people peeled off their clothes– send them in a frenzy the world hadn’t seen since the cries of myth were ripe across his skin.
Brandishing a well traveled vintner as his guise, Dionysus moves about with nothing but stifled delights itching to sprout from the tips of his fingers. He wonders of the people he’s left behind during his reckless flights.
A long wooden box was strategically placed within the compound so that it'd be at the surgeon's eye level should she happen by it, a little tag reading 'ANGAELA BRICE' attached by twine to its golden clasp. If opened, its contents would be revealed on a bed of velvet––– a complete set of titansteel surgical tools laid in waiting, the bases of each capped in glistening gold and engraved with the initials 'A.B.' Nestled between them was a note: "You will always be welcomed here. –– Admiral Vitae"
Night had set upon the spooky corner of northern Lordaeron where the compound sat. It was an extreme sort of night. The sort where the night’s usual crowd of individuals staying up much too late was replaced with those up much too early. That, or those with painful, unsated addictions that kept them from the sleep.
Angaela Brice was the latter.
The surgeon had only just returned to the area. After long hours of bothersome, magical travel to assure no one knew where she was headed and she had finally found her back to the keep.
There was no intent to stay here long. She had been stuck here for over a week and only just escaped the solitude to the bustle of Stormwind City. This was important, though. She made her way through the keep, to the large building towards the back. The little shadowflame torches that lit the place instilled the lost cleric with a comfort that they wouldn’t have only just ten days ago. This already felt like home.
Making her way up the stairs, she quickly entered the Admiral’s office, making sure not to touch a single thing while there. Her backpack was set on the ground and from it she pulled a folder stuffed full of already-signed real estate paperwork as well as a few photographs of the medical office-to-be. All it had to be was read over and approved.
She set them on a cleared spot on the Admiral’s table and quickly grabbed up her backpack before she made her way back out of the room, closing it behind her.
On her way down through the kitchen the glint of gold caught her eye. Sitting on the table was a box; not one she’d seen here prior. She approached it cautiously, turning over the tag attached to the front.
Oops. That was her. Without hesitation, Angie undid the latch and turned back the lid. Glinting, shiny blue metal with bits of gold on velvet. She could feel her cheeks flushing as she raised a hand to reach into the box, drawing out one of the sturdier sets of forceps. Her throat felt tight as she looked the tool over, shaking from the effort of keeping her emotions under control.
Her eyes finally spotted the little engraving at the base of the tool. 'A.B.’ She choked up a little, placing the medical equipment back in it’s place. Angie drew in a few breaths to try to calm herself, her breath wavering with each exhale as she peered down through her monocle at the folded note nestled in between the tools.
She scooped up the piece of paper, hesitant to read it for fear that it would break her. She couldn’t just refuse to read the message that accompanied such a gift. That would be terribly rude.
‘You will always be welcomed here.’ Saying it over to herself in her head. She was right.
A pathetic sob made it’s way from her throat as tears welled up in her eyes. She let out the emotions in the form she was most accustomed to: laughter. Manic sobs of laughter poured out into the room around her as shaking hands worked to close the lid on the box. She bent over, burying her face into her arm atop it as she tried her best to muffle her own emotional outburst.