Masana's Memory Book

((This is a lavender spiral-bound hardcover with cream-colored card stock pages.  An amethyst purple ribbon binds it closed when not in use.  The entries are written in Draenic.))

I found this in a gift shop in Dalaran.  It came in a set with a "matching" pen, though truly the pen itself is glass and the enormous plume on it is purple, to match the book.  I am not sure I will continue using this pen.  The plume is pretty but very impractical.  It is distracting as well.  It wiggles and waves and I find myself paying attention to that instead of whatever I actually try to write.

The concept of a memory book intrigues me.  Humans are so short-lived you would think they can keep their memories in order, but apparently not.  This is a good way to chronicle notable days and stray thoughts, far better for me now than the recording crystal I used to have.  I have no wish to hear my own voice, warped by a deformed jaw, struggling to form the words I want to say.  It is hard enough to hear it when it's happening, I've no desire to hear it on playback.

The Knights gathered, standing a silent honor guard as I rode from the Vault, as is our tradition when a Knight leaves.  We may not be friends but we are brothers and sisters in our own way.  The Duchess tilted her head in acknowledgement as I paused to give my respects.  She is still beautiful, a delicate doll carved from bone.  Her sweet face hides untold cruelty.

Now that I am away from the Vault and have no fear of someone finding record of my true thoughts, I can say it without fear of repercussion: I despise her.

I think she was cruel even before the Scourge took her.  The Duke is ruthless, but the Duchess truly enjoys causing pain in even the smallest, subtlest ways.  No annoyance is too petty.  She is the pebble lodged in your hoof.  I have not made it known that I intend to look up Ninefingers' old outfit.  While I do not believe the Duke has hard feelings--indeed he seems to have less and less feeling every year--the Duchess most certainly remembers.  She does not forget or forgive.  It would be suicidal to point out to her that it was her own fault for lying with Ninefingers and drawing the vengeance of his wife down on her head.  And, in my opinion, she is fortunate that she only lost her fingers in the ensuing duel.

Nevertheless I think Leaper and Vaelen the Flayed suspect.  Flayed knows me best, and Leaper is prone to surprising insight.

It is done.  I sent my letter to the Servitors.  Perhaps I laid the penitence on a bit thick--Ninefingers and his wife will not be fooled by my words about walking in the Light, but they won't particularly care, either, just so long as I follow orders.  That, I can do all too well.

In the meantime I am in Stormwind.  The last time I was here, it was to present myself to the Human king and receive my official pardon--which I am still obliged to bear on my person, and already have had need to present to one officious Guard.  When he challenged me to show my papers, I fought the urge to show him a blade instead.

The urges never go away.  Rage, suffering, hatred--a Knight cannot function without them, and the pain of others is meat and drink to me now.

I have not taken rooms here in the city.  All that I own, I carry on my back.  I do not sleep and so have no need for a bed.  So I wander the streets, re-learning the twists and turns of this city.  It is a low and ugly place, especially Old Town.  The canals stink and the structures are for the most part squat and ungraceful.  The mage tower, the Cathedral, and the palace are the only buildings that aspire to heights, which I suppose is indicative of what matters to Humans.  But even they lack something.  Gracefulness.  A sense of symmetry, soaring, or beauty.  The city teems with life, though, and there is always something to see, some interaction or transaction to watch, which makes it interesting.  I would rather watch than interact myself.

I try not to speak with people.  I try not to speak at all.

The sexual fetishization of Draenei continues to perplex me, doubly so when the Draenei in question is clearly dead.  Nevertheless it did make me smile today when a man outside Auction House thought to stroke my bottom and part of my tail sloughed off in his hand.  It only got better when I turned around and let him SEE my smile.  His scream drew looks from all around but for once I did not care.  The dead are dead.  Leave us be.  We have no ability, need, or desire to couple.

No.  This is not true.  Even now, trapped in this rotting hulk, I can remember Lyu's strong arms, the sheltering wall of his body covering mine.  I remember the gentle play of our barbels twining together. I remember this and the pain of want and loss causes me to curl over, my own wasted arms clutching myself at the ribs just to feel held again, and I think I could die again from need.  The Lich King taught us how to take such feelings and twist them into rage, to turn that rage into hatred for all things still quickened by life, a desire to stomp out that life as violently as possible.

Perhaps it was not simply a desire to tweak Ninefingers' wife that made the Duchess pull him into her iron bed.  He is, after all, a handsome blackguard.

I would have, if he'd ever noticed me.

Will he remember me?  Will his wife remember me?

Probably not.  I was not memorable, and my face is not one that anyone would want to remember anyway.

It wasn't always so.  There was a time when even the Duchess would've paled 

NO STOP THIS IS USELESS

It is done; I am a Servitor now.  Things have changed with the unit since I last encountered them; Garravore no longer leads, Asteris leads her own company in Caerdun, and Ninefingers...

Ninefingers is dead.  Has been dead for several years.

I am not sure what to make of Longsight, the current Commander.  He is a callow youth, little more than a boy playing grown-up games; he is in over his head and just smart enough to know it.  In the Ebon Blade, had he somehow blundered into such a position of leadership, he would have been shanked by now and a stronger warrior in his place.  

Then again, were he Ebon Blade, he would not be a callow youth.  He would be changed, just as I am changed.

He reminds me uncomfortably of Ninefingers.  That is to say, he is like a reverse-image.  They share a similar enough appearance that I wondered if they were related.  Longsight is beautiful, as Ninefingers was--the sort of beauty that transcends racial preferences--but where the latter's cunning and cruelty were written on his face, Longsight's face tells of a kinder spirit.  I wonder how long that will last.  Will it be the life he has chosen that breaks his spirit, or the wearing of the years?  

For now he seems to have the loyalty of his people, and he seems to take his duties seriously, so I will follow him.

Longsight's senior officers are more interesting.  Shadowpaw is old and strong.  I see it in her eyes--she is a warrior with a long line of corpses left in her wake.  And Mindspanner is a conundrum.  At first I thought she was a Knight, but it is clear from speaking with her that she was never one of us.  She is something else entire.  I am dying--ha ha--to know how she came to be, but of course one cannot ask these things of a stranger, and a superior at that.  It is a story to be given in trust, or not at all.

The Servitors have offered to make a new jaw for me.  I was so surprised I accepted.

Such a gift cannot be for free.  There is always an exchange--if not gold, then a favor.  I will try to get out ahead of it, as it were.  Something decorative for the stone walls of this Dwarven fortress.  It will be a good project to fill the hours when most people sleep.

I have met other Servitors, and they please me well enough.  Seda Artec is another Knight, one of the Gnome folk, though taller and stronger than average.  She wears a fascinating full-body armor that seems to be inspired by Gnome design but with her own customization.  I would like to learn more about it but am hesitant to ask.  My knowledge of engineering was passable but it has been many years since I needed to use it, and it was all Draenic engineering, focused on crystals.  In my experience, Gnomes hardly consider it engineering.

And anyway.  A Knight's secrets are her own.

Frovelos is a young elf, like the Commander, but even more human.  He has a human's sense of humor and spontaneity.  It's...alternately confounding and refreshing, to be around someone who speaks frankly.  (I see the Commander trying to weigh and measure his words before he speaks.  The few times I've noticed him blurt something without thought--usually of a personal nature--his ears blush purple.)  Jocastia Silverwright is a human woman approaching middle age, but she is small like a Dwarf and speaks like a Dwarf too.  Her sense of humor is the sort where a witticism can fly past your nose and you might not notice it at first.  Sometimes.  There are other times when she is openly silly, though with a straight face--apparently it is a tradition for her to ask "Where do babies come from?" when we're at the close of a meeting and the Commander asks if there are any final questions.

It reminds me of the Dwarves I fought alongside for a time in Northrend.  When the order came to fire at will, someone often quipped, "Which one's Will?"

There weren't many jokes at the Shadow Vault.  Those that were made were, often literally, gallows humor.

Lyu used to make me laugh so hard I'd lose my breath.

I miss it.  I miss him.