We're up to our usual mischief once again! These may not be true 'fables' but all is fair in love and alliteration. Fridays will find our blog filled with the stories behind the coins fished from the fountains, and sewers, of Dalaran. Be careful what you wish for, dear readers!
The city of magic - pah. Not a single person in this city could create what Stalvan needed. Not the alchemists in the square, or the potion masters in the sewers, or the mages that frequented the inn.
What good was magic if it could not perform something as pure as to create love? The spark was there - Stalvan had seen it when she had looked at him, and when she touched him. Surely that spark merely needed to be fanned like a flame to become an inferno? She was young, but he could see the love in her eyes that first time she had given him that flower.
They said that Dalaran was where wonders could be created. Where magic was interwoven in the brickwork making the whole city alive with energy. Stalvan was sure that Tilloa had merely forgotten what she felt for him - couldn't she see that he would love her more than any other, care for her, treasure her? She was his! She couldn't be in love with that... boy. It was Stalvan who had taught her, grown with her, nurtured her, and she was like a fresh spring flower yearning towards him, the warm sun. She was confused. She needed to be guided back to the right path - back to him.
He would return to Tilloa and make her see. He did not need a magic potion. And this city... this city of charlatans could burn in eternal damnation for all he cared, with their pretenses of having power.
Other coins in the series