Journal Entries of Lavielen Ragecrest

After this long with the Servitors, you'd think I would make more of an effort to know some of them more...personally.  Some of them have made that effort towards me.  I've leaned much about Etharion, much of which points to him being...culturally atypical.  As I am.  I know his daughter makes wonderful little statues, and has the arcane gift.  I wonder who he has teaching her.  Sergeant Rattleclank, ever cheery, is the gnome I likely trust the most.  Her demeanor makes it easy.  Adjutant Shadowquill doesn't like druids.  That much is clear.  The Commander and and the new Sergeant, Nelmadge, are both great military swordbretheren.  I don't know them well out of that context, though.

McKebe remains...an enigma.  Lydri, though shy, seems to understand what it is like to be a foreigner in this part of the world.  I've hardly spoken with Sergeant Blacktyde. I should learn more about my fellows.

[The scrawl on the page is irregular and jarred, written by an unsteady hand]

We went on a mission in search of the source of the needles tonight. The plan was to land amphibiously on the shores of the Scarlet Enclave, and to search. The landing was the only thing that went right. Coming off the shore, we were beset on all sides by reanimated skeletons. Hundreds, maybe thousands...more than I cared to count. Enough to kill us. All of us. Commander Graymind, Advisor Longsight, Sergeants Rattleclank, Blacktyde, Nelmadge, Soldier Artec, and myself. No sooner were we but a little inland before we were completely surrounded.

The skeletons themselves died easily enough...or crumbled. Whatever it is they do. We fought them tooth and nail, arrow, blade, hammer, shield and magic for our very lives. But...they just kept coming. And coming. We suffered some injuries, I was lucky to be somewhat unscathed. We made our way to what we thought would be a sanctuary, a church, wading through crushed bone and needle-pierced skulls that may as well have been laughing at our plight. Things only got worse from there. Blacktyde, under some nefarious influence, tried to kill Etharion. She had to be subdued. Only problem was...there wasn't a needle on her. We weren't safe, even avoiding them. Then, the shades appeared. Loved ones, children, mentors haunted the members of our party, compelling us to do harm to our swordbrethren. Most managed to break free. But she...got a hold on me. She spoke to me in hushed tones in a voice four years gone. The same one that called out two centuries ago running through the forests of Ashenvale.

"Kill them...prove your strength. I can return to you. I'm not lost. Just be strong. One more time."

And I wanted to. In a fog of desperation, the prodding of the shade, I was ready to pay any price to see her again. To do a final act of protection by giving my life and my honor in hopes that her kind soul still existed in the world.

It was then that Etharion's voice broke the spell for a second. I felt the knife in my hand, raised for a throw. Aimed at Davvi. Not just a fellow Servitor, but a friend. A good person. Like her. With the influence gone, my loyalty returned, and my sanity. Clarity allowed me to use the blade on the ghost of the only family remaining to me after the war. But she didn't just disappear. Her face changed. Her eyes begged even as the shade turned to dust in my arms.

I never thought I would have to see my sister die twice.

Jan, 2016

And now it begins over again. After my yearlong...hiatus, I have rejoined the Servitors as an Initiate. The faces of the unit are new, with a few familiar in the crowd. As always, it draws sundry characters spread across multiple walks of life and backgrounds. But the Servitors, the group itself...remains unchanged. Grounded in an attempt to do right by the world, and bound by fierce loyalty. I'm glad to see that it has not just gone on, but flourished since I was here last. My armor and blade always have a place here, but I need to find my place here again.

That aside...it's good to be back.

When we discussed my absence a few weeks ago, the Commander encouraged me to pursue the whispers that lead me to believe, beyond all hope, that my sister may have escaped the destruction of Auberdine.

Using every connection I built through the Servitors or through my aimless wanderings, I looked for any clues that might lead to the closure a supposedly incinerated body denied me. Elune bless him, Laclan even tried and came up with some loose ideas through his back alley contacts. I doubt he's expended that much effort doing anything other than drinking in recent memory. He may be...unscrupulous, but he sure is loyal.

Elves with the same combination of hair and eyes, of similar height, I tracked down so many fruitlessly. All told, that made it worse at the start. I didn't have an answer before, but I'd shut it out successfully (maybe at the cost of some sociability). Tracking down leads became an exercise in disappointment. Apprehension, hope, belief, excitement...then the crash to earth.

Just two months ago, Laclan passed along some whispers. They told of a female Kaldorei fighter, roaming northern Kalimdor leaving a trail of broken bodies of the wicked in her wake. Same hair, height, facial structure. Faint remnants of burn marks. The whispers didn't have an exact name, but mentioned it sounded similar. Some things don't match. Tattoos. The violence. But this is the most promising lead I've had in a long time.

If this is her, then she's not who I remember. She was never a killer before. And if she is alive, why no contact? I spent months and months chasing after every lead, every whisper, and every thread that whispered her name to the hungry monster that was my obsession. I turned over every stone looking for an answer to my questions.

What if it turns out I never should have asked?

This page bears a slight sickly green tint, and the edges are lightly singed. The scrawl is dark, like the pen was pressed hard on the page, and shaky.

The clouds are thick and blot the sun out most of the time these days. It looks like a thunderstorm, and it's just as loud, but fire rains now. Fire and demons. Some other the others are stranded away from the Keep, and we can't contact them. The portals and attacks have thrown our communications into disarray. People are dying everywhere, and I hardly notice anymore. All I ever think about is the first time I fought the demons, and what they cost me. What they cost my people. I've more hatred for the Legion than any enemy, and it feels unlikely to change. What scares me is that I might hate them more than I care for my allies.

The Legion wreaks horror all around, but my dreams aren't nightmares. Every night, my sleep isn't filled with fear or desolation; they're filled with revelry in the killing. In putting more of the monsters down. Rage permeates them.

I do my job. I defend, and I am the vanguard. Deep down though, I wonder what means more to me: the protecting or the destroying. I wonder if I even have the strength to retreat if it's the wisest choice.

The siege at the Keep continues.