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It was astounding that after so many failed attempts, Pragas finally had a legitimate date. In fact, by his recollection, he'd needed to use a spell on the last women he'd courted to even keep her there after the first ten minutes of their dinner. The fact that his girl said yes to him was particularly surprising.

Not quite so surprising, in fact quite fitting, was that she also happened to be the student of one of Dalaran's, and his own, enemies other than the Horde: Medivh, the Guardian of Tirisfal. He was the one who brought the destructive Orcish hordes to Azeroth in the first place, and was able to escape all assassination attempts since then. He was responsible for the deaths of countless lives over the course of two bloody wars, resulting in the almost complete destruction of two kingdoms. This would be just his luck.


Pragas Proudweaver sat on a stone bench in one of Dalaran's many courtyards. He shuffled in his hands a small deck of runed and numbered playing cards. He brushed his hair back behind his head and started dealing the cards on the seat next to him into a specific pattern, playing one of his favorite games of chance. He didn't bother to watch the few various citizens who went about their business. He just focused on his game as he stroked his brown goatee in pondering thought.

A sudden breeze passed over the bench, sending a few of the cards fluttering to the ground. Pragas shrugged and bent over to pick them up. On the same breeze he caught an enchanting, flowery smell he'd never smelled before from any potion or herb. His attention quickly faded from the cards and he glanced upward.

A young woman walked through the courtyard. Pragas pushed his reading glasses back up his nose and studied her carefully. Dressed in robes with a dark red pattern, she stood out slightly from the other residence in their violet wizards garb or other light-colored linens.

Smiling slightly to himself, he quickly finished picking up his cards and stood up, walking towards her general direction.


“Excuse me,” Pragas shuffled back slightly after colliding with the woman he'd spotted earlier. Of course, he had to run after her, then take a few shortcuts down sides streets and alleyways in order to bump into her again, but his plan worked all the same. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she said, slightly startled. She looked up at him. She noticed he was dressed not quite at the height of Dalaran fashion, but still wore his violet and gold-trimmed robes elegantly. He had taken off his reading glasses and let his hair flow down past his shoulders. She looked at him quite intrigued.

“I'm Meri- Meridith Darrow,” she suddenly found herself blurting out. Her light pink cheeks growing more rosy. She looked down, “Sorry. I should watch where I'm going.”

“It's quite alright,” he said. Luckily she was looking away, so she couldn't see the slight redness around his collar and the perspiration on his temples. “I'm Pragas Proudweaver. But you must be in a terrible hurry. I will let you get on your way.”

“No. I'm not in a hurry,” she pointed out, “I'm just going- somewhere.” She paused. “I have business.”

“With whom, Miss?” he inquired.

“A... wizard. I'm with a delegation from Karazhan.”

Pragas stopped. His smile froze and slowly sank. Curses at the Guardian started to fill his head. But he glanced at this lovely female before him, and all in the same instant he came to a fantastic plan. His smile suddenly lifted again before she had time to notice, and he gained a slight twinkle in his eye.

“Well does this place you are going happen to include an inn?” Realizing he'd jumped into things too early, he stumbled, “I mean to eat. I was hungry and wondered if you'd like to sit with me.”

Meridith looked up and smiled at him, and then wrinkled her nose lightly. “I'm sorry. My business will keep me a while, and then I must be moving on,” she glanced at the slight expression of disappointment in the back of his eyes. “I'll be back in a week or so, I'd love to take you up on that offer then, if you're still willing, Mr. Proudweaver.” She smiled brightly.

Pragas grinned, “Of course, Miss Darrow. That would be wonderful.”

“Good. I'll send a missive to you when I am to return, then we'll meet at this spot again.”


Pragas returned home that evening with a lighter step and a million things racing through his mind. And at the end of that night, in his quarters, he started to do something he hadn't done in a long time. He opened up his notebook and wrote:

“...Love's hand does toil
With long, silver thread
To sew together two hearts
The fates instead to part”

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