Conquest of the Horde

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 1


I recall that some time back Sir Versich asked me why I did not keep a journal. To be honest the thought had never truly occurred to me, but in hindsight perhaps it would be for the better. If I had done so before perhaps I would remember my family. Perhaps I could remember more of my life. Perhaps I could remember my name. My possessions are fleeting and are often lost or find themselves destroyed, but I will endeavor to keep this tome safe. With my phasing memory, perhaps in the future this book will come to contain a bit of myself within it. Or rather, a bit of who I once was.

My, I digress. I suppose I should have known this. If only I could be so talkative when in actual conversation, but instead I find my words choked and stuttering. So awkward and so forced, it is almost embarrassing to be in the company of those not already accustomed to my oddities. So few are though; and those new faces I do meet rarely ever appear again, at least in any near time. If nothing else at least I may rely on Sir Dawnsend's hospitality.

Ah, Sir Dawnsend. So far all memory since my resurrection has been retained, but should ever it too begin to fade I hope that in the least I may remember him. Were it not for him I would not be here. I would be still a recluse in my lonely chapel, or staying in a wintery prison still, I imagine. I hope my presence here has not been an inconvenience to him, or his family. I wish them all the best. Perhaps in the coming trials in the Plaguelands I will be able to repay my debt to him in some capacity. I suspect he doesn't even feel it as such, but such notions are difficult to abandon.

In the matter of the Plaguelands themselves, I partly yearn to return. To be in the service of the Argents once more, and finally leave this disastrous series of events behind me. While I will never forget this time, it is one I wish to be apart from now. It has gone as I should have foreseen it; crushed hopes, broken hearts, and regret. The sooner I may leave this 'vacation' and return to daily life, the better. I only hope Sir Briarthorn feels the same way. I left with little in terms of farewells, but there was little more I could say or do. He is a good, kind man-- a strong paladin whom I would proudly stand and support in the Argent's service. But if he seeks love, he deserves better than I. He deserves a woman who can be a part of his life. A woman whom his family can meet without being repulsed, and a woman whom can accompany him through the streets of his own land. He deserves more than a frail husk such as I.


I had promised myself that I would not become too emotional in this ledger. I suppose I can hardly keep from it, though. Emotion is something I cling to, after all. Emotion is part of what separates me from the mindless hordes I see torn down by the warriors before me. Emotion gives mirth to my voice and purpose to my step. It is folly then to deny it, I suppose.

Ramble, ramble, ramble. I must be terribly boring; good then that this tome is meant only for my eyes. I still feel weary from the bitter cold and the excitement of the day, and so I will retire to bed now. Not to absence of thought and adrift in dreams, but to a wandering mind and a deafening silence. It has been years since I've truly slept, and I miss that feeling so.

Prattle, and depressive prattle at that. I conclude here for now.


~Endling

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 2


When compared to the events and musings of yesterday I don't think I can summon the substance to write another page of such length. If I'm going to keep a daily journal I suppose I should try, though.

Today has been... interesting. I've been keeping myself occupied walking the village, sorting through my clothing for the travel ahead, and helping pick through some of the salvaged materials from the overtaking of the town.

Well, to be completely honest I am bored. Very bored. I suppose this is an overarching theme of my ill-conceived reprieve thus far. Idle days, for the most part, only now and then interjected with the chance meeting of another to keep company with. I know it is wrong to complain; I am comfortable here, and safe. There are others on the field of battle right now, locked in combat in the Plaguelands or in some distant battlefield in the north. I suspect that many of them would happily take a mild day rather than face the perils they contend with daily.

I should be there. I should be amongst the downtrodden and the weary rather than resting in this inn. Even now I could be mending the wounds of another, or following soldiers onto the field of battle. I realize that I am far from relied upon within the Argent forces, but I cannot help but think that my absence is only a detriment. I can accomplish nothing here-- perhaps it would simply be better to ask Sir Dawnsend his future post, and travel there ahead of him. But then, he did mention that he would be setting forth soon. I've no clue of what I'm meant to do.

I'm sure all of this will prove very helpful to me in the future. This journal is going to just be my complaints and my idle troubles, at this rate. Just prattle, just the same prattle which runs through my mind as usual. I feel so useless, and this journal is just reminding me of that.

I've the mind to simply throw this book away. But I suppose there is some reason why I've been sitting here scribbling on, purpose or not. I don't find it entertaining, nor is it very therapeutic, as I find myself more and more inwardly frustrated just penning as I am now.

...

I'm going to set this aside until I feel I have something of more substance to write in it. At this rate if I'm to make daily use of the thing then I feel it would only lead to depression from just how lively a life I live.


~Endling

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 3


It is... Midnight. Everyone seems to be asleep. Besides the lamps outside, only the stars above and the warm hearth in the inn light this village. It is by the fire's side that I am writing, since I long ago gave up the possibility of any rest tonight. I've been away from the field for so long that I have begun to feel... rejuvenated. Somewhat more whole, and much more composed. Lately I find myself talking with less and less of that obnoxious stutter I'm constrained to under normal circumstances, and with that greater fluency I am allowed to be somewhat more verbose than I'm usually allowed.

Not that I've had the chance to really explore such capability. Another day of watching the rain and musing on the days to come today. I expect Sir Dawnsend will be upon the inn tomorrow to depart; how sad that I should begin to feel this way only one day before returning to the battlefield of the Plaguelands. I will be of more use there though, instead of lying about this inn all day. Rather merciful as well that I will in the least have the companionship of Sir Dawnsend, who can at least summon the patience to deal with my more feeble moments.

I won't need his patience though. So I pray, at least. I must show him that I am stronger now. That I can support both him and his troops in combat. I grow so weary of being the weak link-- having to be carried or accompanied after my fatigue has become overbearing. I want to be able to march alongside those warriors, not drag behind. I wish to aid them, not slow their progress as they wait for their frail mendicant to catch up behind them. So I pray, and so I hope I will show my worth tomorrow. It has been some time since I followed him into battle, but lately I have pondered-- will I be good enough?


Ah, yes-- There was some method to this madness when I first began writing, I know. As I have found time and time again, my memory seems to return most frequently when I am at rest as I am now, and be driven away when I am more active in combat. Because of this such memories are ever so fleeting-- Always coming and going, and I fear sometimes never to return again. As I sit here I have thought back as far as I may, and have mulled over what little I can grasp.

A name, even a name would be sublime. Time and time again I do recall that the initials are there-- S.L. Beyond that, almost nothing more than the clouded thoughts that I recall at night.

The night is drawing on. Despite my refreshed state of being, I do suppose that I should endeavor to rest as much as I can in preparation for the travel tomorrow. So at that I close this tome, and return to my bunk.

Only tomorrow. Part of me can hardly wait, but the other is in dread of it.


~Endling.

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 4

So tired...

Yesterday was exhausting. I've a bit to say, but hopefully my rambling won't be too off-putting.

...To myself.


The operations yesterday seem to have just all blurred together. Constant work all day as wounded came in and fresh soldiers marched out. I had meant to dispatch with Sir Briarthorn upon his unit's arrival, but my services were needed elsewhere. Shades, ghouls and abominations aside I still am grateful to be a part of this work; it's perhaps the greatest effort I have been able to participate in throughout the span of my time in the Crusade, and I consider it a blessing to be able to serve.

That... is not the only blessing I have felt, though.

Is it a blessing at all?

Sir Briarthorn's return has been nothing but uplifting and encouraging to me; of that I make no other claim. But despite that I cannot help but feel... tentative about the matter. The heart is willing, but the mind is clouded with worries and fears. I enjoy the time he allows me to spend in his company, but how long will this last? It must seem silly-- to be enamored with the prospect of love and yet fear the crushing fall of it all in the same time. I so dearly wish to be the one Sir Briarthorn is seeking, but all in the same I cannot help but feel that I fall short.

It is... simplistic, in a sense. I may wish all that I can, but that will not change what I am. I cannot walk the streets of Stormwind or the halls of Ironforge alongside him. I can hardly be in any romantic presence with him I would assume, lest he be branded traitorous or wicked for associating in such a way with a 'forsaken'. I can never give him the full comfort another lover could; I could never give him a family of his own, either.

Do I wish him to be by my side? I do. But can I ask that of him knowing what he must alter or give up in order to do so? Of that I am not sure. He is a good man, and he deserves more than I. That much I am certain. But then what am I to do? Shall I be the one to withdraw from him? I could hardly bear the thought. Just as I would be pained to think of him doing the same.

I've no idea what to do. Perhaps I will enjoy this serenity while it still remains.


I leave for journey with Sir Dawnsend come morning. Though the battle shall carry on without us here and I long to serve the crusade, I cannot let him undertake this search alone. I owe him so much. A healing hand to aid him or a voice to keep him company is the least that I could do to repay him.

...I still feel that firm hand upon my shoulder.

I will conclude here.


~Endling

-Endling-

The text until the final two lines has been scratched out, but remains decipherable.

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 5


I had almost forgotten what the skies above Lordaeron looked like.

It has been... years, since I have been able to see the sky that I once knew. The one I used to look up to in the restless nights in the abbey, the stars I used to stare at as I drifted into sleep. For about a month I have been in the Plaguelands, and up until now I have only seen that confining haze as I sent my eyes up to the heavens. One might say that I am only being poetic in watching those twinkling lights tonight, but I feel something different when I sit in this cloister. I feel closer to home than I ever have before; even when I walked the streets of Brill before, prior to my self-exile. This monastery-- this sanctuary is like my old abbey. Larger and grander, but still humble in its own ways. The cathedral... The vault of the roof, the strong pillars holding it above; they all call back to memories long lost to me. And that altar...

I have not been able to truly rest since I came to stay in Hearthglen. Always my mind prattles on, weaving thoughts and ruminations which I have difficulty fully mulling through-- torn away from my fleeting attention as another subject takes its place. The Crusade has found triumph, but there is still so much for us to do. Still so much for me to do. Even as battle has ceased for now refugees lie upon our doorsteps. Soldiers still fight to hold from the scourge in the camps below, and I have heard talk that the Scarlets seek to return even still. I know that they will never reclaim this place, but how many more lives must be lost to prove that?

And then there is Clovis. I... am still so very uncertain. I desperately want to believe he is earnest. I so greatly wish to have my worries put at ease; but worry is a constant plague to me, and even still they persist. What more can I do? What more can I say? What is it I am seeking from him to make me believe? The heart is so willing to take his hand, to throw myself into his embrace-- but the mind is so fearful. So distrusting. So protective, because it knows just how vulnerable that pining heart is. I so dearly wish this affection we show could be called normal. I so dearly wish I could grant his wish, and be alive once more-- But while the heart again soars at that constant wish, the mind knows better. It will not happen. It is a fact I have known and assessed many times and... that he says that change may yet come so hopefully only shreds those wounds open once more.

How many years must pass before that hope is extinguished? And even still will he remain at my side? Even still will he be so unwavering-- when I can provide him with no joy other than my damned, quivering, weak voice? Words of comfort stunted by an intelligible stutter. That is all I can offer him. That is all I can offer anyone, for my healing serves purpose only in the field of battle. Will he love me even still? Will he love me, or will that love be marred with pity? Am I to be his uplifting companion, or his sorrowful chains to bear?

And yet if he is earnest, I wonder if a person who is to fret so much deserves such a gentle man at all. I wonder if he can see it as well. My nervous nuances, my shifting disposition, my hurried demeanor... I can only wonder what he makes of such things. I hardly know what to say of them either.

Even still, a part of me can only cry out to accept it. A part of me wants only to know he is truthful. Oh, how happy I could be if only I could know. How happy I could be if only I could be blind and naive once more, and accept this blessing for what it truly is. I fear if I do not, I will lose it; but yet if I do, I may be harmed... harmed more terribly than any holy flame or biting blade could ever hope to.

Ignorance is bliss, yet knowledge is power.

I... apologize. To myself, yes. This sanctuary, this midnight sky... brings back a wealth of emotions I have tried to suppress. That night sky is much akin to what I feel; such bliss and purity lies in the heavens I see now... but I know that it is a short way from that terrible, noxious mist. A fog that blots out those beautiful stars, and discolors that celestial sea that they float upon.

There are so many who think of me as mighty, in a sense. I have even heard the term 'paragon'. If only they could see these pages. If only they knew how much pain I truly feel, and how it wracks my mind so; would they see such greatness in me then, or only a weak and yearning soul? I am not deserving of their praise. I am so vain, so wanton, so afflicted and groveling... Sir Dawnsend is a paragon. Sir Briarthorn is a paragon. I am only a lowly cleric. And I am so very tired.


...I only feel shame, as I reread this page, yet it was my words which I penned only minutes ago. I must set this down and retire to bed, at least as much as I am able to do so. In closing, should I read this again;

I am sorry. So very sorry.


~Endling

“No, that's simplistic. Moronic.” grumbled the voice of The Doctor. In the crude 'lobby' which had been carved out under his surgery. Before him was another Forsaken, clad in similar dark robes and masked beneath a wooden slab, ghoulishly shaped into a beak of sorts.

“Why the semantics, my friend? You are a bloodletter. There's no shame in that amongst our kind.”

“There are no semantics. My work is scientific.”

“Scientific? I suppose some of it...” said the other undead, voice flippant and with a dismissive tone.

“I take it there is nothing of much meaning to glean from this conversation. So I will remove myself from it” Rodile growled in response, rising up from his chair. No sooner that he did a piercing scream rang out from above. “Mmm... It seems like there is a patient awaiting me, in any case.”

“Do have fun.” chimed the other apothecary, rising up and making his way out of the cavernous room. Rodile shot a venomous glare at him, but no sooner was he away from sight that he began to head up into the clinic proper, twirling a keen blade about in one hand. Coming up from the basement a wicked sight greeted him; a line of covered tables, clearly concealing bodies beneath. Some yet moved with steady or hastened breath, and some twitched violently from time to time. He paid them no heed, striding past into another room where a Draenei lay-- or rather, hung. The broad-chested man was tied taut to a table which had been pulled upright, his cloven feet dancing about in desperation to reach the ground.

Rodile regarded his blade as he entered, tapping along the sharpened edge. Perhaps there was some kind of attraction to the bloodsport. He wouldn't deny that, of course. But to suggest his operation was wholly to sate it was just silly.

He glanced up as another cry of desperation came from the large man. Silence. He grumbled inwardly. Always so cowardly. He had thought this warrior would have been more stalwart. Next time he should find an Orc. Or a Tauren. He strode aside, sinking the large blade into a murky colored vat to soak. From a drawer beneath he pulled out a gag, bouncing it about in the palm of his hand as he came to the Draenei.

“Myes... I can't have that screeching going on. Mm. Bothers the other patients, you see...” he told him, manner becoming quite professional, hands folded as he explained this to the man. “Instead you'll be needing this.”

One quick wrap of the hand and his problem was solved. Oh, what fortune! Silence at last. He didn't mind the occasional outcry, but such constant groveling was simply maddening. As he mused on this he was interrupted by the thrashing of the man below. He slackened his grip, realizing that his vice-like hold on the man had been gagging the Draenei upon the cloth.

“My apologies.” he stated formally, bowing slightly as he returned for the blade, some sizzling audible as he pulled the coated knife from the vat it lay in. A few shakes and he turned back to the Draenei, the man staring out at him in shock with his glowing eyes. Those eyes-- he would need to examine them later. Were they like the elves, or wholly different? He pondered this idly as he came before the barrel-chested man, placing a pair of fingers against his neck.

“Myes... You should relax. You'll bleed out much too quickly like that.”

He drew back his blade. Even strokes, he though-- shallow. But deep enough for the mixture to take effect. One stripe. Two. Three. He pulled back before the fourth, just in time to avoid a hoof aimed for his chest.

“Mmm, I've given you the privileged of retaining your limbs. Don't make me change that, myes?”

The Draenei only kicked harder, the table rattling furiously as he shook against the metal bonds holding him in place. Rodile let out a sigh of frustration, watching on before suddenly his blades began to flay into the flesh of the man. Not measured swipes as before but furious blows. One. Two. Three. Sets, not single strikes. Carving gashes instead of precise streaks of red. Four. Five. Six. The kicking had stopped. Seven. Eight.

Rodile stepped back, shaking his head as he came down from his fervor. The Draenei hung limply from the restraints, his head facing the ground and his chest a mangled and disfigured mound of blood and blue flesh. The Doctor stepped forth, his chest heaving with the natural yet useless intakes of the musty air in the subterranean surgery. He placed his fingers to the man's neck once more.

One beat... a pause. Another. Then nothing.

“Perhaps Kilroy is correct in his assessment then.” chimed The Doctor dismissively. He kicked a lever at the bottom of the table, and with a heavy thud that mangled body fell to the floor. “But nevertheless, my pursuits are still a matter of knowledge. Though...”

He nudged the beaten body with his foot, just to check.

“I will need more subjects if I carry on at this staggering turnover rate. A small inconvenience.”

With that he would tug the body over a small grate, yanking a lever to drop it into a black pit below where the grinding of machinery could be heard. He gave the pit a passing glance before meandering back out into the clinic, twirling his knife idly.

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 6


Beneath the Plagueland's tainted sky
I cast up my thoughts and wandering eye
And while still dreamless I will sleep
I wonder what dreams my tired eyes keep,
For if I were to dream at all once more
I'd dream of distant lands and friendly shores
Of verdant fields and an azure sky
I'd dream a dream of you and I.

I'd dream a dream of you and I
And while the world might pass us by
So mindless we'd live, so mindless we'd love
And give not a care for the world above,
And in your embrace I would find my rest
And in my voice your worries repress
For while forever I would hold you more
Let our troubles ease, our spirits soar,

A dream is a dream, and will fade away
So instead the same I wish for day
That upon blighted land and a tainted sky
In sheltered cloister or public eye
While harder it is, so harder I'll try
To live that dream of you and I.

-Endling-

The night had certainly been an... eventful one.

Endling's mind still had not caught up. She sat on the stone bench in her cloister, holding her head in her hands as she struggled to gather her bearings. Things had gone so well at first-- before they left for that peculiar gathering. Since then, though...

She remembered something strange. She had felt something different today. As she sat alone on that dark boardwalk she could remember feeling something amiss-- She had been so used to that gnawing, bitter cold within her chest that that sensation was all but unknown to her. But it was there, like it had never been before. Instead of cold remorse or bitter sorrow her chest was wrought with a fire like no other. A furious burning within, urging and sparking on and on. And when Clovis had come back...

Well, it felt as if something snapped. That question-- it was almost obscured completely in her memory, but she knew its meaning. She hated it. Despised it. It saddened her now, but at that point she could only lock up and restrain herself. As she followed him through the crowd she had... horrible thoughts. Terrible ideas. In her hands welled something that she had never felt before. That gentle glow of the Holy Light would begin to come over her palms, but they quickly became something different. They did not feel like the Holy Light she knew and so dearly held. It was painful. Searing. Scorching, more so than ever before. There was no love in those golden flecks, but anger. It was not a light of mending, but a light of vengeance.


It was... shameful. In a way, even frightening. Just one gesture, or an idle motion of her rigid body, and that holy fire would have struck Clovis. Instead it just burned away, smoldering in her hands and searing her own flesh. Just one wave... And oh, how those voices implored her.

Let him see how the Light's burn feels.

He wishes to see emotion. Show him your anger.

It had been all she could manage to snuff those pleading voices away and carry on. She knew if she could make it back to her cloister that all would be well. That she could rest, and forget, and let this searing heat be quenched. But, as they came from the portal back to Hearthglen she found herself led aside. Clovis wished to speak to her.

She once more felt those gnawing voices as he spoke; his words were almost lost completely under the insistent tones. All she could manage to him in response were murmers of acknowledgment and nods of affirmation, for she was too afraid to do more lest her feelings pour forth. She contemplated walking away, returning on her own.

“I love you.”

She had almost missed that phrase amongst the competing outcries within-- But those words seemed to make them quiet, and placate that fire inside her. She felt the tension in her body just drop, and almost fell to the ground as he weary legs gave out beneath her. It was all she could manage to stutter out her response.

He... had said more. She felt guilty now for her lack of attention. She had heard every word, but in her head repeated very few. Part of her wanted to run. To hide what she knew would come. She couldn't, though. Even if she had wanted to, something had locked her in her place before the paladin. In one flourish of motion that restraint was lifted, and she did rush forth-- onto Clovis, arms outstretched.


Wearily Endling rose from her bench, staggering over as she approached the cot on the other side of the room. She was not... angry. But then, she did not regard this as the happiest of experiences. From her journal she tore a page and scribbled upon it, setting it aside to send away later. For now she needed rest. She regarded the bed as she came to it-- but despite being as haggard as she felt she found her mind wandering to really rest at all. With both of her hands folded she would ease back up, letting out a defeated sigh. A gentle glow came from between those palms, and for a moment the room was illuminated with a flash of light, radiating out from the priestess. With that the world around her blurred. She fell back and landed against her cot with a hard thud, body rigid and unresponsive. She stared out from her tired and restless eyes, keeping vigil through the night over her unmoving body as she slept. Or, at least came as close to sleep as she had ever known.

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 7


The pendant... What of it can I recall?

It was a gift, I can remember that much. Given to me by a mentor, when I resided in the abbey. It was blessed and alight in a dim glow of Holy Light at point; it was but a small amount of magic consumed when at first it was given to me, but he told me the metal of the amulet was of some particular interest-- Lightforge, he called it. Though but a simple spell spell was cast upon it its glow was beautiful and comforting. At night I remembered clasping the pendant to my chest, or staring into the light which danced about it. I believe that the priest had given it to me to help sustain me or lift my spirits. It was given to me shortly after my mother passed and I was first taken in by the monastery.

It was seldom the case, but I remember vividly that it had more use than just being a lovely trinket. Though it was not much, there was still an amount of holy energy stored within; to heal or ward against injury, should it ever be needed. Once or twice I did use it in my own stead to aid in mending another-- but when the flame began to die down I stopped, seeking the aid of the priest. It was... fairly easy to rejuvenate its flame. From that point on I could tend to it.

Then... I suppose all that remains is how it came to its current state. That much is still a vivid memory. It has been years since I woke from the Scourge's grip, but even now I still feel that dull, aching pain from my palm. Still there is that signet burned into the flesh of my hand. It was... shortly after I awoke. I was distraught-- shocked, begging to any who would hear that I was simply enveloped in a dream. That I had not awoken to be surrounded by the undead, or the bodies of slain priests beneath them. I did not wish to believe that dim pain I felt as I was upon that holy ground, nor that I could possibly be like those creatures I saw darting out from the chapel door, fleeing from either themselves or the Light's effigy within the church. When at last they had emptied out and I was left alone I pulled that necklace from my neck and gripped it tight, kneeling before the altar in prayer.

I clenched that amulet in my right palm... and dropped it moment after, clinging my wounded palm against my chest. The pendant clattered to the floor, gleaming with a disgusting ichor. The pendant's light had been snuffed out, as well.


Sir Clovis was right, though. I can recall those twisting weaves of metal and the gleaming jewel which sat at the center of the Light's emblem-- It had a pristine silver color to it, banded occasionally by tiny rings of gold. As he said, it was quite lovely once. Just as I was.


That's about all I have to recount on that subject I believe. In a much more uplifting note I am no longer bound to the cloister; I've a home of my own. Or at least, one which I share. Sir Clovis is a very generous man, for I know my presence must be... in some way at least somewhat peculiar for him. Perhaps that will be overcome with these new arrangements; In honesty I'm not sure that I've given such things too much thought. I'm rather content with things as they are. For once I'm of the mind that things can only get better from here.

I suppose time will tell. I hope my optimism does not fail me once more.


~Endling

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 8


I cannot say that today was not eventful, I suppose.

Granted it began rather dull; it seems like it is the night that always demands energy and attention, despite my fatigue by that point. It has been some time since I actually managed to find the time to write-- Always preoccupied in some way now. In a way, I'm quite thankful for that.

To begin with I've taken up cooking a bit more actively-- it is, I would think, more conservative on funds for me to simply prepare a meal for Clovis rather than have him dine at the inn constantly. I dare say I could fill a bit more of a variety as well. It's almost depressingly impressive how I can recall such insignificant things such as recipes yet be unaware of so much of my past. Sometimes it feels as is this curse is just selectively cruel in that regard.

But, I am glad I remember them. Insignificant as they may be, I hope Clovis enjoys them. Cooking, cleaning-- I suppose this is about a fair place for me to be with such rudimentary (or perhaps the better word would be 'domestic') skills that I possess. I cannot say I know for certain Clovis' feelings about the arrangement within this humble home, but I find it rather quaint. Very pleasant-- the thought that I finally have a place which I can truly call a home is simply heartwarming to me. After such a long time on the road and between inns a house means quite a lot. I wonder if he understands that-- I hope my gratitude to him is clear enough. If only I were of the mind and ability for such things I could give him gifts, such as what Lady Reigen was musing about; but I have no money, no knowledge as to what he could want... I felt almost selfish, accepting his own gift to me. It was certainly appealing to that fickle vanity of mine, if nothing else. But I cherish it so, nevertheless.


Further on. Even now, as tired as I am, it seems I've found the capacity to ramble. If only this text could be my speech, then I could keep Clovis quite entertained. Or terribly bored. I can never find the ability to be so verbose in speech, though. I'm unsure as to why.

There was some matter concerning a bomb today. I recall being about when last this detective was in pursuit of these devices... though I will admit, I feel as if I had been much more of a dead weight this time around. It wasn't that I was unwilling, simply... confused. And cold. Though Clovis was exceedingly kind to aid me against the chill slightly.

In hindsight, it was a mistake to follow them. I should have remained behind; in the end I only served to be a worry, I imagine. Clovis did not seem very pleased by my use of spells as we were about today-- Worried for my discomfort, I imagine. It is strange; some time ago I recall being under such distress when I was deterred from the use of the Light for my own 'safety'. But this feels different. Not like a child being lectured or a cry of pity, but one for my own comfort. At least, I choose to view it that way. I only hope Clovis does not become overly protective-- While I would never wish to deter him from his watchful guard, at the same time I must still serve the Light. Be it by the use of such spells, or by other efforts. I suppose only time can tell.


...And I've lost my train of thought completely at this point. Irritating.

I should note, I saw something of interest today. A man. He was... an older man, well kept and well dressed. And I am not wholly certain as to why, but he was completely terrifying to me. To the point of a choking silence. Neither Clovis or Krilari seemed to have known him... but, I cannot help but feel as if I do.

I believe I will close this journal for now. Oh, so very tired. Perhaps I should warm myself at the fireside before retiring to bed.


~Landon

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 9


S. S. S. Landon.

As Clovis said, it also appears to be connected to that man. But could it be him?

I've been thinking of him so much now. And his voice... it is his voice. It has to be. So vividly I can remember his stern lectures and his placating tones. As well as his cruel, biting insults and the vulgarity that followed them. Could it really be that he is alive after so long? That he survived the fall of Lordaeron, and has now found his way to this town?

I hope he leaves. I don't want to know. Oh, how I do not wish to find out. If they say that ignorance is bliss, then his absence would be a divine burden lifted from my shoulders. Since I heard him, since I saw him, my mind has been obsessed with the memories of my childhood. Bad memories. Ones I wish had been locked away still and forgotten. But then what else is this journal but a reliving of these past trials? Have I once written of my happy days in the monastery? Where are they? Where in my addled mind have they fled, or have they just been wholly snuffed out? Have they been a fabrication, made to balance these weighted recollections? I know I was at peace once. Oh Light, please allow me to know that peace once more. Please, bless me with peace once more. If not from war, if not from the Scourge, then from him.

He was not a terrible man. He was intelligent. He was well versed in culture and politics, and so very eloquent. He was a decent man to most people, and yet I was so distressed and frightened by him. I suppose I still am.

I was always a disappointment. Always a short-coming to his ambitions, or a hindrance to his greatness. He told me that if only I were born in Gilneas, perhaps I would understand. I'm not sure I ever truly wanted to understand. I know that once I had wished to please him, and grant him that refined child he so desperately wished to make me. But only for so long. Only so long and so much effort before I could no longer grin and bear the weight he placed upon me. How was a child expected to recite such volumes of text as he demanded? One not trained by the scholars of Gilneas' capitol, but a kind housewife who took upon herself the mantle of educating the village's young? How was I expected to recall formalities and etiquette when the guardsmen and councilmen requested a vernacular greeting or the casual wave?

I could not be perfect, nor will I ever be. He was not either. But every misstep and every forgotten word was met with a stern lecture. A second time, a coarse slew of anger. A third time and I often feared he might strike me-- but mother could placate him before such wrath was brought down upon me. I often wondered what would happen should she not be there, restraining his anger if only slightly. So scarce a mercy, but such a great one.

I've... no. I've not written enough. They say it to be therapeutic to write about the past like this. But I'm not certain I believe them, for I only feel all the more sullen and weary. I almost wish to wake Clovis for comfort-- I would not, of course. But the temptation to feel a warm embrace or a kind word in the silence of the night lies so near.

I must be stronger than this. I've not even an inkling as to who that man truly is. I must not fret so much, and yet I still find my mind carrying on. Today was a good day. I should dwell on that, rather than so endlessly dread such things as this. The wonders I've been shown to me should litter this page-- the beautiful rivers of Crystalsong, or those mighty and enigmatic structures which tower in the Storm Peaks. Today's merriment should be what I pen my day's thoughts on, not the worrying of some distant possibility. If only I could write that and truly carry through with it. My will is so weak, though, for I know how quickly the wonder fades to despair. Just as those mighty mountains of the peaks seague into the dead land of Icecrown and the foul constructs of the Scourge in its shadow. Just as that beautiful river of Crystalsong leads from the horrific effigy of the scourge's barrier and the skeletal remains which line its shores. Beauty next to terror. Happiness, and despair merely a short time away.

I've grown so jaded-- just as Tavren said. Jaded and afraid of what is to come. But this home is my sanctuary, just as that chapel once was. If nothing else I can take some comfort in that, and rest well for the time being. The hour is growing late, and I've much more spinning about my mind. So much more to recollect, and preserve within this little tome of my troubles.

But... I am done for now. The din of the hearth might yet provide me with some solace as I rest tonight.


~Landon

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 10


He's still here.

Even worse, now. Why of all people does he find himself drawn to Clovis? Perhaps I am wrong. I still hope that I am... I am just unsure of how to approach this. Perhaps I should confront him? That would require a bit more courage than I think I would ever have the ability to pull forth. I've scarcely the nerve to ask Clovis about the man, much less actually speak to him myself. But I can't help but feeling that something must come of this eventually. Good or bad. I cannot hide away within our home or the sanctuary forever-- Surely Clovis would begin to ask questions, if nothing else. And what would I tell him? That I am afraid of a stranger? I must already appear cowardly enough without that addition.

Oh, I've so much still haunting my mind. There's no resolution so be seen thus far, though. Perhaps I should ask Clovis?

But then... he seems quite friendly with him. Can I ask that of him? I don't know. I've no answer to many questions right now. All I can think about since the other day has been that weapon. A pistol, I think. I've seen one before, when I was young. I recall that my father was a huntsman of some skill, and kept many of his weapons about the home. They were all very finely crafted, but I never had any draw to the things. The crack of the gunfire was frightening to me, to begin with. But I remember that he had one pistol which he kept in a finely decorated box upon his wardrobe. It was some kind of family heirloom gifted to him by his own father, prior to leaving the kingdom. For a gun it was rather elegant; covered in twisting silver engravings, winding up from the handle and onto the barrel of the firearm. He never used it, as far as I knew-- he always preferred his rifles when he left the house for the forest. But even still I remember him, reclined upon his chair with that revolver in hand, polishing it or inspecting the engravings upon it in silence as he collected his thoughts.

I was surprised when he left it behind.


I was afar when that man pulled his firearm. Some kind of scuffle with that elf who has been loitering about in warlock's robes. I didn't get a good look at the weapon as he stood with it drawn and pointed in her direction, but if I had... I could be sure. He never had another, for the rest were larger firearms or blades. I suppose it would be folly to think that he could not have attained another, or that this man simply had a similar one, but... coincidence. Coincidence is something I trust less and less these days.

He is Gilnean. I can tell it in his voice. His surname matches, as do his eyes. His hair is black, just as mine... This fixation will be the end of me.

And yet, I still don't know. Or don't wish to be certain. I should stop here, as I've been cooped up in this corner for far too long today as it is. Perhaps I'll prepare Clovis' dinner. At least I'll be busy.


~Landon

-Endling-

A Worn Journal Wrote:Entry 11


I can vividly recall the first time I found myself 'incapacitated' by the Light.

It was shortly after I found my way to that chapel. I was weak, weary-- I thought to seek the Light for comfort, but could only conjure a burning glow. I tried so long in vain, wishing to awaken myself from the nightmare that had beset me... until I could call upon the Light no longer.

I had fallen to the stone floor of the chapel, and could not move. I could not speak, or cast-- Only stare blankly ahead, and hear the world around me. At first I found myself gripped with terror. What further injury had I brought upon myself? Would I be doomed to stay like this for eternity? Would I ever be found?

I eventually regained my senses, but the wait was terrible. Accompanied only by the howling wind and that painful shuddering which has always plagued me. I hated it. I was terrified of it. And yet, since then it has happened many times. I suppose I am not the most conservative when it comes to the use of the Light in healing.

It had been... months, since last I felt that cold grip though. But this time was different. This time as I lay there I was not alone. I was accompanied by a voice, and held still by a gentle grip. Though I was wholly helpless for hours, I could not help but feel... touched by Clovis' care. At first I was fearful-- fearful that he might scold me, or chide the others for invoking my fatigue. But if he was angered, I never saw it. Concerned, yes, but as he held me by the hearth I felt no malice in his voice nor how he held himself.

I... enjoyed it. Is that wrong? He was troubled at the time, but his care of me all but fully expelled my fears. I felt safe for once, though I myself could provide no protection. I was almost disappointed when I felt him setting me on the bed-- but even still his voice remained at my side, until we were both in peaceful respite.

He still is so hesitant to show affection in the public eye, but if our time in private were like that I'm not certain I could complain. Not that I complain now, to be fair-- I imagine if I were in his position I would feel the same. I may be a kind soul, but I am a wretched creature. He is right to avert such (correct) suspicions from others, I imagine-- it is better that his reputation remain untarnished than his losing it for my own sake.

But... breakfast will be done shortly, and I've something of a day ahead. I'll conclude this for now. I feel rather peculiar, looking back onto this page. When I first was raised I never could have expected this. A year ago, I never would have dreamed of the possibility. Even with the trials brought I feel blessed, day by day.

...I do love to prattle. I'll be done for the moment. Much to do; much to write as well, but I believe it can be held aside for the moment.


~S. Landon

-Bilial-

O father, O father, your mercy I seek now
I've told such lies among my peers,
The Light's forgiveness I seek-- How?

O young babe so full of life,
A fib shan't cause you woe.
The Light is kind and free of strife
And you, so innocent in the spring of life,
Are purified by prayer alone
Now go my son, your sins atone.

O father, O father, your guidance now I pray
The path of holy righteousness
Is not for me, they say.
They bid me to the mage's way
To Dalaran's school, for me to stay
O father what then shall you say?
Shall I rebuke them or go now on my way?

O my son, so young and bold
The faith may use you in its fold
But if it is the arcane that you so crave
To Dalaran you go, with book and stave.
Just go with caution, for as we all know
Power is not all which the arcane bestows--
Addiction, corruption, the turning of heart
Is what you shall risk as you delve in this art
But if you are certain, your faith is so bright
Answer the call, and flee from my sight.

O father, O father, it's been oh so long
Since I've stood for the Light and praised it in song
But that's not all I have neglected, and now your mercy I pray
For when Lordaeron fell, my faith went astray.
The Scourge so pursued me and I found myself weak
And without power I feared that my life they would reap--
I indulged in the dark arts, and learned well in their powers
And it was with their strength alone that I reached Stormwind's towers.
So corrupt was this magic, yet for me it was life
I pray for your mercy, please pardon this strife.

O sinner, O sinner-- your fate is now grim.
You've turned from the Light and to the dark given in
Your soul has been tainted and your body as well
For no power instead will replace that of fel.

O sinner, O sinner, perhaps there's hope yet to be found
To the cellar I bid you go, flee now underground.
Away from the evils and sins of the land,
Away from vile words and unscrupulous bands.
Instead of their corruption, their evils of greed
In the power of atonement you will find what you need.
For your body has reveled in the pleasures of sin,
So pain may yet cleanse you of the evils within.
O sinner, O sinner, bear yet this strife
And let the Light then have mercy,
For there will be none in my knife.

-Bilial-

The dull echo of footsteps filled the halls. He had been rather pleased when he first found this place-- It was, as they so aptly had named it, a sanctuary. It was a small pocket of relief from turmoil, a place of isolation and reprieve.

But... that was not how it was to remain.

“Get up.”

Bilial looked up from his crumpled position against the wall, curled inwards and draped in his heavy cloak. His frame shook, hands clasping at his chest.

“I said rise, boy.”

Without any protest the man stumbled upright. He used his stave at first for support, before it was knocked aside by the swipe of the taller man's foot. He faltered, but kept upright, body bowed partly from fear and partly from pain. Without another word he was motioned aside, into another cloister-- beyond where the others lingered. Unsteadily he followed, eyes skittishly darting about. Eventually they came out into one of the openings, the moonlit sky greeting them.

And they were there. Twisting figures in the dark shadows of the roofed cloister, making their way out of the darkness as he found himself pressed along.

He felt a push-- a shove, rather, throw him forward, landing hard against the cobbled path. The foot of the man behind him rested on his back, and he felt the blows of his stave raining down upon him. One after the other, in steady lashes in order to allow him a brief moment of recovery.

“You did it, didn't you? Wicked youth!” snarled the other man. A crowd of robed figures had gathered around, watching in silent approval. He didn't look into their eyes-- he knew there would be no compassion, for there never had been. He hid his face against the sleeves of his robe, gasping for breath as the strikes stopped. There was silence, as if they were waiting for something. Rather, waiting for him. When he did not reply the elder carried on.

“Sinful, wretched boy.” continued the elder's voice from behind him. “We harbor you despite your disgusting transgressions against the faith, and yet you still would act against us? Have you no shame?”

Bilial managed no response, attempting to catch his breath as the man spoke. His head was spinning-- even if he had the will to reply, he was unsure if he could form the words in his current state. With some effort he attempted to pull himself up, only to be shoved back to the ground by the force of the man above him. He let out an exasperated sigh, closing his eyes as the man began to speak once more.

“There are no others amongst us who could be at fault. And certainly none of such ill nature as you. Surely it was the bidding of those demons you've consorted with that led you to such a traitorous path!”

“N-no!”

“Then confess!”

Silence, once more. His head was tugged upright by the man's grip on his hair with a pleading cry, nudged on as he felt holy flame against his back. Fire seemed to crawl over his body, coursing over the torn body beneath his robe.

“Father, mercy!” he cried. Every voice within him cried for him not to continue. He knew it would not end this in any better terms-- but part of him knew it meant it would end sooner. “It was me! I-It was! I wrote it!”

He was thrown back down onto the ground, grasping at the soil as holy fire lashed his body. Others from within the crowd acted at this, raising their hands; curses, words of the shadow-- many different spells were uttered, all directed at him. There was one amongst them healing him-- to keep him conscious only, he knew. Though even with her aid, his haggard body would not sustain him much longer. He looked back, struggling to rise as the blows and spells faded, his body alight, cringing as he saw the movements of the others around him...


And then all went dark as the jagged stave swung into his back a final time.

Bilial awoke in a corner of a cloister with a sickly cough. In his lap was only a prayerbook. He looked about, hoping that one of the potions the kindly woman from the town had given him were still about-- but, it seemed they had been taken. Rubbing his head sorely he looked down to the tome which lay in his lap, and pulled open the cover to read.