Insulting.
There is something to laud in every magic, but some are more deserving than others. The swell from my battle with The Burning Legion carried me back to Azeroth with a thrill I’ve not felt in centuries. My cup overflows and I relish the contentment. I was right to anticipate just how much the Legion would satisfy my thirst. Returning to my wounded Azeroth, I thought I could enjoy a well-earned retreat, perhaps even taste some hedonist pleasure that bored me centuries ago. I could take another lover, again enjoy a mortal’s brief lifetime of physical pleasures and naive, yet entertaining, emotions. Any race or lifestyle was of my choosing. A woman this time? Or a man? Should I deign to have children again? Shall I choose mother or fatherhood, or refuse such petty designations? What mortal life had I not tasted yet, or tasted in some time? My cup runneth over, any life was to my choosing till I took up my pursuit again.
But however sated my powers are, even the Legion did not dwindle my curiosities. My threads tugged at new possibilities across the sea. I turned my eye to it, my gaze flush with my victory, and gazed upon dogged insult to my blessed kind. To call themselves witch. Imitators. Children. Insult.
Massive effigies left untended in the woods, built of wasteful bone, skin, and sinew. Towns blatantly under thrall, with no sense of skill or subtlety. Benign forest creatures hungering for flesh, a paltry show with no intended purpose other than provide fodder for mortal campfire tales.
The witches of Drustvar were intoxicated with power, but hardly to my level. Yet for all the power they accrued, their mortal minds were too small to wield it properly. They left themselves open to the most idiotic of heroes, who needed no more to be physically present and brandish the most basic of swords. I watched as the heroes of Argus swarmed upon them, towering like the oversized heroes they were for such a pitiful foe, striking down the crude effigies as children do to toy blocks.
Still. There is something to learn in every magic, however insulting or crude. I sent my greatest student, her power as flush now as mine. It took years to pull every fiber of talent from the shy shell irony cruelly chose to let it reside. No latent ability should go wasted. She also has talent for discerning unfamiliar magicks—and backwater witches. Her origins will forever be charming. Yes, my perfect eyes were sent to Drustvar, operating as she wills. Now my gaze watches as a protégé of my magic counters the infantile magicks of yet another mortal brand of witches. So common, so crude. Unremarkable. Insult. They will not live long to retain that title, and whatever valuable curiosities can be ripped from their methods, I will dissect and bend to my will. My darling will see to it.
My cup runneth over, their power will hardly rival the Legion’s. But a drop of flavoring, just to taste. Along with all their spilt blood.
((A villain lurks. PM should you wish to join forces or be set in her sights.))
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