((Might be a lot more to come when I'm not working my ass off - in the meantime, this is one small side effect of having Ilarra in your brain finding lost memories for you. She shuffles things around before she leaves. Just a little thing I couldn't get out of my head.))
He was asleep. Through the nothingness that used to be a wall came a memory, as they came each night now in place of dreams. They were vivid and real and not dreamlike at all, Delion seeing and hearing and feeling each moment again.
"Were you born in Stormwind?"
Delion sat on a wooden chair. The chair had been made of trees, that had been hewn into pieces and put back together in another shape. The walls were the same, as was the floor and roof. The large, dark desk that the human sat behind in his own sharp-edged chair was made of the same. The odd creature didn't even look up from the parchment he wrote on, though the question was the most absurd he could have asked.
The freakishly tall, oddly proportioned, stretch-eared, ghastly-eyed, fruit-coloured creature blinked once, tilting his head to the side the better to catch this new language. "...Not Stormwind, no." He was flattered that the human asked, nevertheless.
The master of Personal Documentation and keeper of Citizenry glanced up through his tiny glasses, issuing forth a glare that Delion could only guess had been honed over centuries of bent-backed bookkeeping.
"Then where, exactly, were you born." His tone held the likeness of weathered stone - eternally gritty and grey.
"I've never heard of it. Spell it, if you would."
"I don't care if you're one of those, I just want to know what people call you."
"-Delion-. I am apologise."
That stone look again. "Your -full-, name. Please."
"No, stop, just. -Stop-. No one is going to say that, you can translate it and we'll call you that."
"That won't do. Profession?"
"Tailor. Or, weaver."
A long, long suffering look, and a scribble of quill. "Your new name is Delion Oreweave. Remember it, because no one else will. -Age-."
Those eery, glowing orbs blinked again. These new folk were slow. Patrick's week had been absolute HELL dealing with them all - at all hours of the night. Seriously, what the bloody blazes was wrong with wanting a night's sleep? He repeated again, for good measure.
"-Delion-, -Oreweave-. What. Is. Your. Age. -Years-."
It cleared it's throat. "...A four and two decades and three milennium."
You know what? Fine. He perfectly, neatly and with a straight face wrote the digits "3024" in the appropriate box, and to hell with it. Let accounting work out -that- pension. It wasn't his problem.
Moving on, anyway.
"Gender." He couldn't wait to retire.
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