Silverwright's Ledger

6 April

THE KING IS ALIVE. 

Just as I knew he was the first time I visited the Heart.

// BEGIN RECORDING

Voice recording for the 27th of April. Jo Silverwright.

I haven't made a voice recording in years, I suspect. I haven't been able to get my thoughts about current events down on paper, so I considered this as an alternative. I will see how it goes.

(A pause.)

My brother is alive, or was as of about a week ago. Alexander. I should specify. Neither Harthur nor Falgrin's state are in question. I thought he had died 37 years ago along with Father and Mother and Emily. The idea that he may still be around was not a concept I even considered. This is now relatively old news, of course, but it bears being mentioned in this recording. His intention seems to be to somehow go back in time to kill me before I... well.

(A sigh.)

He and his master planned to do so with the use of some ancient hearthstones. Specifically, if our research is correct, a group of the prototypical -- archetypal? --hearthstones created approximately forever ago. I don't know if their hypothesis is correct, but what I have seen so far seems to indicate that the stones do have some manner of time control ability.

His master was a high-ranking noble. Was. I understand he ran to the Defias after M and Carmina Cloudweaver set out to discredit him. The short version is that he's dead now. The long version can probably be found in a report from M.

Now we have to deal with Alexander who has one of the stones and secure the last -- hypothetically -- stone before he does. That means we'll have to go into Gnomere--

(A small voice interrupts.)

"What are you doing, Mama?"

I'm doin' an audio journal.

"Oh."

Do you wanna journal too?

"Okay."

(A pause.)

Well, talk about your day.

"Oh. After school today Gerta came over."

What did you do?

"Aunt Nora made us a snack and we played dolls and I showed her our pennywhistles."

Did you play a song for her?

"Noo..."

Why not?

"Mama!"

Well?

"It's silly..."

So? I'm silly. Were you embarrassed?

"...Yes."

Why? You're really good.

"Nuh-uh."

Yes-huh. 

(A laugh.)

"Nooo..."

You are! And we can practice more, too.

"You're really bad at it though, Ma--"

(A shriek, then a bout of laughter.)

"STOP! MAMA STOP TICKLING ME!"

Nope! Take it back.

(Cackling. More child laughter.)

"Stooooop!"

Gracious, fine. I admit I'm bad at it. But it's fun, hi?

"Yep."

Did Ms. Stonebreak give you homework?

"Yes."

"Did you do it?"

"Yes, Mama."

Good. Go get ready for bed, arright?

"Okay."

Love you, Nia.

"Love you too, Mama."

(Quietly.) I'll talk about Gnomeregan later.

(A click.)

//END RECORDING

17 May

I act like I've never been kissed before__

But_ this is nice. I'll let myself feel like teenager again for a while longer.

27 June

I do not suggest trying to develop pictures in a grummle hut, but it was sufficiently small and dark. They came out well.

This has been a very important trip for my happiness and sanity. I told M what I’d been thinking for a few weeks now. I wasn’t sure if she would reciprocate. I was prepared to jump right out of that tower if not, I think, out of sheer embarrassment. Luckily for my bones, she did. Once things with this upcoming invasion are settled, and they will be, I will think more about the logistics of living together. I think our children will be thrilled.

Nia is growing so fast. She’s already taller than me, but that is a low bar to set. She already knew Common when she came into my life last year, and then she picked up Dwarvish in a couple months. She also knows Gnomish and I believe at least some Thalassian from school in the Keep. And now she can read some Pandaren. She has so much potential. I just wish I knew how to help her choose a path.

<The handwriting here is sloppy and at a definite unusual slant.>

19 July

Left hand aches. Surprisingly not as bad as my shoulder. Have not written with my right hand since before the last time Philomene last set my shoulder on the Endeavor.

Bromm's crystal led us to an army of infernals. And a demon-gate. And I made a mistake. Seda is hurt but I don't know how badly. Lammy healed me, which is not something I would normally allow, but this invasion is happening soon if not already. I can feel it. Makgron knows and Gartip was very excited the last time I spoke with him.

The point is__ I made a mistake. I apologized several times and was told it wasn't my fault. I am not sure. Now I can only hope that the lavalliere was effective in disabling the portal before we evacuated.

We don't need this to be worse than it will be.

18 August

Currently experiencing the end of the world. I had told M several times already that we will get through this intact and that has technically not been the case but I hate to be wrong, so I will continue to say it and believe it.

Masana sacrificed herself to save Cere and it hit me harder than I'm going to let on. It_ has been harder on M than I think she'll admit to either, but I expect that. We're all battered out here but we can't take the time to recuperate. We have an obligation to kill all these demons, even if they're infinite, which I believe. I essentially know this first-hand.

Much to my dismay.

I don't think I've ever been run so ragged in my life. I'm tired and everything hurts. Comms are sporadic and the news is rarely good. But Nia is fine. Or was the last time the comms worked. I need to see her. I haven't seen Uther either, but he can take care of himself, I imagine. These dreams don't help. They're not normal, and others are having similar ones. They're not like other dreams I have at all_

M has nearly died. Twice. I_ made a decision which may turn out badly but I do not, will not regret. The last time I formed a blood pact was when Mae was in labor, and that was far less severe. M was slipping away from me and I panicked. I gave, and maybe too much. The only reason I'm still going is because I have to. I can feel a connection between us now. It's very faint, and just a little frightening. I'm glad it's her. We're a team. M, Nia; none of this I have had before.

And I won't give it up to fucking demons.

Jo staggered to her feet sometime past midnight. Not that the time mattered; It'd been dark and storming off and on for a couple days now at least; it might as well be noon. She clambered still half dressed out of the odd circular room at the base of the huge Vrykul statue and out into the rain. Boots, pants, and little else did not do much for the storm's chill but she was not inclined to care. Sitting on the edge of the ramp leading to the structure, she dangled her legs over the side and hung her head in silent contemplation. Thunder rumbled distantly, echoing along the cliffs.

It was getting more difficult. All of it. She hoped nobody had noticed but she was sure at least someone had. She was being pulled apart from the inside from several different directions. Her curse's wanderlust ebbed against loyalty; loyalty to the Servitors, to the Alliance, to her children. To M. They flowed into each other, breakers smashing together, making her heart ache. She was stifled, trapped, imprisoned by her obligations.

But.

That wasn't her. That was the sea hag's doing. A chance encounter years ago, skewing her future away from... From everything. That wasn't her. Was it? She must go. Run away. Run away and... what? Do something stupid, go up in flames. Let everyone down and make no difference. Temperance. Wait for the tide to change again.

She took a breath. Soaked hair clung to her face and neck and she could no longer feel her shoulders in the cold. Already her chest was starting to go black and purple and green where she'd landed on that kvaldir several hours before. It ached but she didn't really feel it.

Darker forces pulled her in another direction. South, over the mountain, distant but ever present in her mind since they arrived on these islands. She could picture the pillar of verdant power burning through the clouds. A tiny voice somewhere deep in her mind reminded her now, in this moment of weakness, of what she could have if only she would give in. It whispered alluringly, insultingly, sickening and commanding attention. Why hold back? Are you weak?

They hate you; they mistrust you.

For all the good you have done, Jocastia Molly, they're afraid of you. You're man'ari to them, no matter what.

You could end this. Strike a withering blow to the Burning Legion with the power I offer. But you're still that weak little girl that's locked away in your head, aren't you? Alone and worthless, just like how I found you.

Give in. Stoke that fire in your soul.

No. The tiny fel flame in her heart shrank and wavered.

But did not go out.

16 October

I destroy everything in my wake. This is what the fel taint does.

It takes everything from me.  Hell, why blame the fel. I'm irrational and impulsive.

Dangerous, either way.

I should just leave. Safer that way.

There wasn't much left of Jocastia's childhood home. All that remained was most of the formal dining room, a doorway into a non-existent kitchen, and the scraps of a staircase hovering over a closet built underneath. All this sat in a vast gray nothing in the center of a cloud of slowly tumbling splinters and shrapnel.

This is what remained of her mind, shattered by trauma and fel taint, bombed to near nothing by exorcism.

This and the Fall.

Jocastia was even smaller, of course, as a child of nine. Her hair was a firey red mane, just barely tamed. Ponytails were lazy, Mother had said. They were below her station. Jo was not a fan of dresses, either, but the one she was told to wear for high tea that afternoon was pretty enough, she supposed, deep violet that it was, with pale ribbons down the sides. One ribbon had gone missing but she couldn't now recall where.

She felt she had just returned from somewhere, the library, perhaps. Yes. But she'd been just back from the library for three decades now. That didn't occur to her. She'd brought home a book to read after tea, when Mother and Father were entertaining their guests. She'd squirreled it away in--

From within the closet, a whisper like rustling leaves echoed unnaturally. Discernable even though the barricades, old and new, torn down and repaired, it expressed a dark amusement at her failure wordlessly.

She paid it no mind, or pretended not to. The girl paced, trying to think. How was she going to fix this? She didn't have the abilities that Rethier has, or Roiya's. She was just a stubborn little girl leaving a string of poor decisions and mistakes like black footprints in her wake.

"You failed her, too, now," the Fall hissed from its closet prison. Jocastia started and missed a step in her pacing, nearly falling against Father's writing desk. Shredded paper and a full inkwell tumbled to the floor. She remembered cleaning this up before, somewhere, sometime else. This time she fumed and stomped over to the closet, walking right through the pooled ink on the floor. She stood a foot or two beyond the baricade, unsure what to do next. Just... something.

The Fall watched with dusky gray eyes, slit pupils blacker than black. A huge black snake with spiny scales, the Fall was coiled in on itself a dozen times or more, the incarnation of patience with petulant little girls. It had waited this long to see itself freed in her mind; it could outwait her, it was sure.

"No. No, I'll fix it," she said in a small voice. She left the closet, returning with an ornate wooden chair from the table. Climbing up on it, she scrabbled at the bulwark with bare hands and a table knife, tearing down pieces of wall and door in chunks and strips. As she freed one, she tossed it into a pile with the rest. Jocastia was frantic, ignoring scrapes and cuts on her hands as she worked. Her blood, still red now, stained her hands, her dress, and the pieces of her mind the were piling below her. She worked for hours, for what it mattered, in the timelessness of her mind.

The Fall watched with silent satisfaction as his prison was slowly chipped away. She didn't remove all of it, but where there was weakness...

Jocastia stopped, finally, and surveyed her work. She climbed down from the chair and started neatly stacking the best pieces by size. These she would take to M, take to M's mind and attempt to rebuild.

To fix this last mistake.

11 April, 634 KC

The Shore is stifling. There is enough magic here to collapse the whole place in on itself. The air is thick and prickly with it. I think most of the people can feel it, but not as acutely as the ones trained in those arts. We're on the ground fighting demons, yes, but I suspect the larger battle is invisible -- larger but not more important. Moonwells and arcane towers and the Black Harvest and Lightbringers, all pushing back against the_ whatever it is going on with the Tomb.

There is a gravity to it, the tower. I find myself turning just to watch it churn the sky, even mid-conversation with the cooks and smiths on the second tier. I'm finding moments of weakness while we're stationed here. Weakness that in itself is brazenness. I hesitate to use fire elsewhere, and I wouldn't keep an infernal around. It all calls to me and I can't always keep it in check.

Not when I'm this close to so much power.

Jo padded barefoot into the empty bedroom. The house was quiet, save for the occasional soft mewl of a kitten and the muted rumble of the gnomehouse's small generator. Sliding open the bottom drawer of her dresser, she reverently took out a dark wooden box, nearly as long as she is tall She ran her hand down the length of the odd chest before unhitching its plain silver clasp.

A warm glow crept from the box as she opened it, gently pushing back the dark of the bedroom. Light flickered across her face as she retrieved the sword from its resting place. It was a rapier of exquisite construction with a three-foot blade that tapered to a fine, deadly point. Both edges had been sharpened down through the mezzo to accomdate Jo's sweeping, flourishing style with a sword. The quillion was simple and elegant, a set of flattened tapered rings above and around the grip, leaving room for a finger or two to rest on the base of the blade for added stability and torque. The craftsman's initials, CN, were stamped there, providing by feel the proper resting place for a guiding finger.

The pale orange flames that licked along the length of the blade were what usually drew others' attention, not, she thought somewhat sadly, the expert detail her old friend Coehen Nash had put into the metal itself. The fire was built into its construction instead of an enchantment after the weapon was completed. She wondered how that worked; Jo worked metal herself, but she couldn't quite imagine doing so while it was constantly on fire. Not that the flames burned her, or were even hot to her touch -- though it did burn her enemies well enough, she had seen. The weapon was always merely pleasantly warm and provided about as much light as a torch in the right circumstances.

She armed herself, striking a readied pose in the bedroom's mirror. She grinned at her reflection, somewhat disheveled, wearing pajamas, and lit only by the flames of her sword. Jo gave the weapon a few practiced thrusts toward the mirror, then spun it in quick, tight arcs that trailed embers and amber light. She danced in the small space she had, attacking and riposting against an unseen enemy.

After a moment, she stopped, looking in the mirror again and saluting with the blazing rapier. She tucked it away in its box and returned the box to her drawer. She sat for a long minute at the edge of the bed, listening out toward the front door. She hoped M would be home soon. She knew her wife was wary of fire, so she had decided long ago to put it safely away, save for an occasional indulgence. Perhaps one could call it a small sacrifice on her part, but Jo simply hadn't considered it that way. Anyway, it would have been the most minor of things. It was mere courtesy, and Jo would happily move mountains for her.

2 August
Starling’s Gambit, Darkshore

Teldrassil is burning. Still burning. Likely it will burn for months. Years. There were precious few survivors to find on Darkshore. Few enough that could have fit on the By Fire and Blood, along with the Servitors that came. We hoped for more, I suppose. I hoped for more. The Gambit can carry thrice the people my warship could, plus supplies. So that is what we brought.

Not that a dozen more guns would have stopped the whole world from burning. Not two dozen, or a hundred. I can’t buy into that sort of fantasy. Not now, now with the Horde intent on tearing down the whole world so that they don’t have to share it.

My eyes burn from the smoke even at this distance. Ash falls like grim snow and it has only gotten worse. The shot and powder has been taken below deck and the sails are furled tight and covered. A stray ember could be the end of this ship too.

War is coming and Roiya’s gone on a fool’s errand into that blaze. Word is the Alliance will march on Lordaeron now, bringing it far too close to Aerie Peak. I don’t believe the Keep would even be safe enough for Nia and Kixa now. I haven’t discussed this with M, but I will bring it up, soon.

I don’t know what’s next – for me or the Servitors. I imagine High Command will have something for us. But I look at that inferno and I feel that familiar stirring, in my mind, in my gut; like a snake’s head rising, having sensed a weakness in its prey. This shadowy beast, this thing, will be held in check. I must pray it will be.