Author: Helvetica Sans

On closer inspection the Burning Crystal reminded Helvetica even more of a glass of Mt. Dew that someone happened to be blowing bubbles into. All it needed was a crazy straw and it would be complete. Rough, white flagstones paved a circular area around the crystal and supported clusters of frilly benches and strange, hovering shelves filled with random books. Here and there a pot bobbed in the air, spilling over with ferns and flowers of various colors. All the while she stood and examined the area the crimson eyes of the crystal watched her with a plotting, voyeuristic glower.

Upon her arrival at the kill zone, blade in hand, Helvetica girded herself and made a few practice swings with her bastard sword. These warm-ups would have had more meaning, however, if she had anything to kill.

Helvetica felt overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and throngs rushing all around her. Surrounding her, dozens of other stick thin blood elves slid past, their glowing eyes skittering by as luminous blurs. Once and a while a blue name floating above a pastel head caught her attention, such gems as “Bubblehearth,” “Omgelf,” “Dulcewynna,” and “Toosexyformysword.” She stared in awe at the alabaster ponderous curves and sweep of the tower she stood next to, a yellow inlay etching flitted playfully across the opalescent surface and transitioned across blood red pincushion bubbles before finally reaching the summit of the goldenrod and red roof.

The sight of the tower captured her attention so totally she didn’t look where she was going—or maybe it was the male blood elf, dancing and stripping down to his skivvies. None of this mattered, of course, because while admiring—and backpedaling—she bumped into someone else. They went down together in a mass of easily fractured limbs, bleached hair, incandescent eyes, and even managed to tangle their eyebrows.

The screen flickered and refocused on vision of verdant green fields, trees, and golden bordered buildings with a vaguely Arabian curvature. The view pulled forward as if it were a small child being dragged forward by the line of a kite and the voice dropped somewhat into a liquid baritone—reminding her somewhat of a movie preview announcer—as it began to narrate an eloquent and looping speech.

“For nearly seven thousand years the high elves cultivated a shining, magical kingdom hidden deep within the forests of Northern Lordaeron—”

“What’s Lordaeron?”