Etharion's Journal vol. 4

((This seems less of a journal and more of a handmade sketchbook, with unlined pages of heavy, quality art paper, beautifully bound in a simple, thick leather binding the color of dark chocolate.  The first pages seem devoted to sketched studies of a heavily-tattooed Human man.  He's depicted in different poses and angles, at rest and in motion, in portrait and full-body, fully-armored and newborn-naked and every stage in between.  It's as if the artist wanted to save and study every aspect of this man...to keep him close if he's far away, to preserve him as he is now should he ever be lost.  There are a few hastily-scribed dates and notes for some of the drawings, but it's not until about seventeen pages into the book that we get a real journal entry.))

May 5

My weekend with Thoran had a lazy and dreamlike quality.  It seemed as though it should have stretched on like the sea—hours spent building our hideaway, swimming and playing in the surf, taking refuge in the shade during the hottest part of the day.  Dinner with the Edgewaters; breakfast in our hammock, sucking the juice from freshly-cut tropical fruits, licking the sweetness from each other’s fingers and mouths.  It reminded me a little of the weekend I stole with Meri in Tanaris, camped out on the beach, except now I’m helping Thoran build a place that we hope to make last.  Every few hours we fucked to exhaustion and lay tangled together, sweat cooling our overheated skin as the ocean breeze washed over us, and our pounding hearts grew calm and measured as the languid waves rolling onto the beach.

It wasn’t until I got back to the Keep yesterday, about an hour before Officer’s Call, that I realized the only reason I’d managed to get away for the weekend was because there was no paperwork, and no assignments.  There would’ve been no missions this past week if not for that merchant—a Dwarf named Brinhilde Honeybrew—who came to us with news about missing children in Menethil.  The Commander revealed that High Command has been decommissioning many of the irregular units.  We’ve had no news of such happening to us, and so we must go on as normal.

Davvi may have a line on some work for us.  A General Fink is looking for contractors to help him train, outfit, and prepare troops for his new posting in Pandaria.  I don’t know why the Alliance is bothering with a new Pandaren base, now that there’s the Armistice, but it’s potential work and we can’t afford to turn our noses up at it.

May 8

The good news is, we’re out here in the Krasarang Wilds. It’s not far at all to visit Thoran at Edgewater Bay.

The bad news is everything else.

"Lord" General Fink is a political appointee—the kind who played with shiny toy soldiers as a child and thinks this qualifies him to lead troops. Somebody waited until the after the war was over to give him rank and a posting; even then it’s out in the middle of nowhere. You get the feeling this spot was chosen as a place where he might do the least damage.

Even then, this Keep is a disaster waiting to happen. Security’s a joke. He’s got the troops drilling parade formations in full dress uniform, but they don’t know anything about tactical movement. The terms line, column, file, wedge, vee, box, and echelon drew blank stares. Fink has gorgeous top-of-the-line tanks but no pilots to operate them. And worst of all, Squink and Daniyel found a Code Black-level hazard in munitions.  

One errant spark could’ve redesigned the Krasarang coastline.

I’ll say this for Fink, he paid us well.  But even though he was exceedingly polite and enthusiastic, there was something shifty and resentful about him. He hired us for consultation, but we didn’t come up with things he wanted to hear, and we might recommend changes he doesn’t wish to maintain. 

May 9

I had no idea that imps love gelato.

Nelmadge did some great detective work and found the ringleader behind a lot of unrest in Westfall; it was the warlock who’d built up a cult in the Plaguelands last year.  There were no death elementals though, no shambling hunks of dead meat absorbing the bodies of those it killed.  Thank Elune.  No mindfucks where you heard the voices of the long-dead.  No, just a stampede of imps with orders to “Kill them or you’ll get no gelato!”

He was still a hard bastard to beat. We managed to take him alive, although I feel sort of like a failure.  You’d think that shooting a man in the throat should kill him, but somehow I managed to do that while missing everything vital.

One of the imps followed Davvi home with us, still squeaking hopefully, “Gelato?”

I didn’t write much about the last time we encountered that warlock.  I couldn’t.  He took me places I’d rather not go ever again.

There have been moments when things—like that evil place in Northrend—tried to use Meri’s voice against me.  It’s gotten to where I’m no longer shocked by it.  There’s only rage, pure rage that something would try to steal his voice, would try to trick me into thinking he wants me dead for one reason or another.  No, I have seen my Meri and seen his dimpled smile, I have spoken with him and heard the love in his voice.  He’s told me all is well and he’s where he’s supposed to be.  He’s told me not to worry about him—that I need to live my own life out the best it can be.  I finally rest easy and secure knowing my Meri is at peace.  There was a time when such mind tricks would’ve destroyed me, but not anymore.  The only thing they conjure now is rage.  How dare they try to use his memory to hurt me.  

The warlock though, he did something different.  He took something real, that actually happened, and made me relive it.  Shook me so bad I couldn’t write about it, didn’t want to even think about it.

"You’re not the son I raised."

Looking back on the space of years, I know what Father meant.  He wasn’t rejecting me; he was saying, “I taught you better than this.”  But he was angry and time was short, so it came out in the worst possible way.  

Then he was dead, and there would never be a chance to talk later, longer; a chance for explanations and reasons and apologies.  I’d shoved it all aside, way to the back of my mind, and hid it behind old crates and baggage.  

That never works.  Sooner or later, something will dig up the painful things, the things you want to forget.

May 10

I saw Ollie today.

We met at the Recluse for a late lunch and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t awkward at all.  We had our awkward moments but they were mostly my fault.

Started out all right, I suppose; I gave him a box of mint brownies and we had pretty much our choice of seats, as it was remarkably empty at that hour.  We sat at one of the smaller tables upstairs, as I really didn’t feel like sharing my time with Ollie.  It’s precious enough as it is without one of the assorted box of nuts that frequents the Recluse sitting down to grace us with their presence.

Ollie had the chicken and waffles on my recommendation; I had the wild mushroom omelet with cheese-and-porter sauce and fried potatoes on the side.  He seemed impressed when I told him about the Winter’s Veil special, where they stuff a turkey with a chicken and a duck. Turducken, they call it.  

And then, just when things are going nicely and we’ve gotten past the initial awkwardness, I open my big mouth and tell Ollie that since now he’s living in Stormwind, Essilte and I can meet him at the Recluse on Winter’s Veil and we’ll all have turducken together.  

"What about Thoran?" he asked.

Awkward all over again.  He picked at his chicken—which was fried golden and I could see the juices glistening on the meat—but it could have been cardboard in his mouth for all the enjoyment it seemed to give him.

I tried to explain that I didn’t want to hurt him, but in the end all I could do was just apologize and admit it was a stupid thing to say.  After awhile we slowly worked back into some measure of ease with each other, so at least there was that.

Ollie seems like he’s doing all right in Stormwind.  He has a friend who helps care for Mattias, a friend who’s skilled and knowledgeable about caring for people with dementia.  He talked about finding things to do; I suggested travel, or perhaps take a class at the University.  But whatever he does it should be for love.  I tried to reassure him that it was all right to take a little while to figure out what he wanted to do.  He’s young and he has time to discover his purpose.

Maybe he’ll discover more along the way.  I pray that he does, for a heart as loving as his deserves to be loved in return.

((The handwriting here is the excruciatingly careful-yet-haphazard script of someone who’s very drunk and seeing double and trying to write legibly in spite of it.  The page is dotted with little splotches where something wet dripped on the paper and then dried slowly.  Some of the ink has been blurred by these splotches.))

May 13

"The greataxe has fallen."

That’s what Graymind said

no, first she called me to her office and offered brandy and a sit-down.  I new then the news would either be very very good or very very bad.  Then she said, “The greataxe has fallen.”

She’s handing the reins over to me

I cant do words right now

May 14

Maybe it wasn’t the brave thing or the mature thing or the strong thing…but I ran to Thoran and it turned out to be the wise thing, because now at least I can order my thoughts, sort of.

He gave me whiskey and let me babble and blubber on endlessly, never once showing any irritation.  Just love and understanding.  He was like a rock, one solid place I could hold on to and weather the storm.  Not once did he lose patience, though he got sharp with me when I wondered out loud how I’d afford to keep up the farm and he said he’d help.  He had money from his commissions and there was no way he was going to let his family lose their home.

I began to argue but it didn’t last very long.  Sort of midway through it sank in:  we want to be more than bedmates.  Do we want to be a couple, a team, a real family?  I’d better start acting like it and stop trying to fight him for doing what any man would want to do for his family.

This, too, is something I think I learned from Meri.

Elune knows if Thoran had a child and they were about to lose their farm, I’d want to help.  So it goes both ways.

I’m still shaken to the bone.  I’m still scared as fuck and don’t know what to do next.  I still want to cry when I think of how I came to the Servitors—without a home, a purpose, or direction—and how the unit gave me all these things and more.  The Servitors of Lothar gave me a reason to keep living when I thought about suicide on a daily basis, wondering if this would be the day.  I still feel like we’re standing over a beloved, desperately-wounded hunting hound, and Prikka just handed me a loaded gun and the duty to do what has to be done.

I still feel indescribably sad.  But at least I’m not alone.  Thoran is here, and he’ll help me be strong.

May 18

Commander Longsight

((This is reprinted several times, as if repetition will make it less strange.))

It’s official, but it still feels wrong.  When I joined the Servitors, all I wanted to do was prove myself useful and worthy.  I never wanted to lead.  Now it falls to me to keep our order alive in the lean times coming…or make something of whatever remains.  If I ever need to remember my duty, I just need to recall the look on Davvi’s face—the tears in her eyes—at the meeting today as I explained our financial situation.

The Servitors are her family.   Her home.  As we have always been the home for the lost, the orphaned and dispossessed, the loners and odd ones.  Swordsisters and swordbrothers come and go, but the Servitors will remain.  I do not need to ask myself “What if the center does not hold?” because I am the center now.  I will hold.  I will hold for myself, for Davvi, for Arydd, Nel, Seda, Dani, Lav, Shivs, and anyone else who might seek a home and a purpose with us.

Prikka kicked off her shoes the moment I declared us “Dismissed”.  As she  scampered up the stairs, her hands went to her collar and a moment later her cloak floated off her shoulders, to settle in graceful folds in her wake.  The Wildhammers say they found her pauldrons on the floor in the map room, her robes in the Keep hallway, and her smallclothes on the paving stones just outside the front gate.  For some reason I have an image in my head of her singing that aria that’s so popular right now—the one from the opera about the Snow Queen—as she disrobed, finally free of her headaches and troublesome duties.  Managing Squink’s business career sounds a great deal more fun.

Thoran came and found me after the meet.  We wasted no time getting down to testing the sturdiness of all the remaining furniture in the Commander’s my office.  

I gave him the bracelet I made for him.  He gave me a length of his hair, so I can weave a similar bracelet for myself.  Meri’s gift—the braided leather and russet hair that my Meri made with his own hands—is off my wrist now.  It will be kept safe in the cedar chest with his old gray shirt.  Every now and then I’ll be able to take them out, touch them, remember and smile.  Maybe cry a little, but I will smile too and kiss them.

Thoran has a new tattoo:  a great lion sits low on his hip and sweeps across his pubic bone, with an outstretched paw.  It’s rather clever how the lion’s claws are inked in such a way that they seem to unsheathe.  I was…quite entranced.  Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing that trick.

((More sketches. The tattooed warrior figures prominently in many of them, but there are others.  A white-haired Gnome woman with overalls, a cheerful smile, and what appears to be a smear of grease on her cheek...and then another image of the same woman, sitting in a jail cell, looking very small and vulnerable...and a third image, this time of the Gnome in full plate, bearing mace and shield and a determined look on her face.  There are studies of animals and birds--a black lion and a sad-faced Gilnean hound appear most often.  There's a group of people sitting on the grass near a lake; they appear to be enjoying a picnic and card game.  There's images of an idyllic beach, with Pandaren fishermen casting their nets, and Pandaren cubs playing in the surf with a hulking worgen.  A Kaldorei girl is featured in many of the sketches, too--at work chopping vegetables, or studying a book, or playing a flute.  She seems to be blooming into a delicate beauty, but there's still an uncertain childishness about her.  One of the later sketches depicts a rosebush in full, glorious bloom, with the faint, ghostly outline of a man sitting near it.  He's bearded and wears his hair in twin braids, and his face appears to be creased in a happy smile.

The last few sketches in this series feature two small Human children.  The girl appears to be about six, the boy a couple years younger.  They wear uncertain smiles in the first sketch, and their eyes are hungry and haunted.  By the final image, they're laughing and happy, running towards the tattooed warrior, who kneels and holds his arms out to them in welcome.  Some handwritten text appears after this.))

December 17

I pleaded for a month.  Thoran's still not happy with my decision; from his end, it looks like I'm abandoning our family.  I wonder if a month will be enough to figure out how to make this work, how to find balance between parenting and Commander-ing.

So many Servitors are gone.  They fell away after Davvi's arrest and trial, even though we saved her from the gallows.  Maybe they didn't want to end up in the same boat.  Maybe they just wanted to be paid regularly.  (I didn't even draw my own pay, in order to afford theirs--but I suppose times were too lean.)  It was a vicious circle:  to get jobs as a merc outfit, you need fighters.  If you don't get enough jobs, you don't get paid.  If you don't pay your fighters enough, they leave.  Rinse and repeat.  

There was the spectre of Davvi's arrest, too.  Without the protection of High Command and official sanction, we were all the more vulnerable to trumped-up charges if some vindictive bastard didn't like the work we did, or if we bowed insufficiently while doing it.  

There were times I wanted to put it down and walk away, singing that aria from The Snow Queen.  

I wonder if that's what Sig did.  I miss her terribly and wish I knew what was going on, why she vanished.  Meri's roses bloom as magnificent as ever, and the cottage appears to be cared-for, but I haven't seen Aerin or Sig, don't know what they've been doing.  Are they traveling together?  Did they break apart?  Are they together, but walking their own ways for a time, rejoining when their paths converge?  I sort of like the idea of Sig traveling the world and learning to live without the structure of the company.  Maybe she was a soldier long enough.  Maybe this is what she has to do to continue becoming a Person.  Just wish I knew she was all right.

I calculated what was left in our coffers and what we're taking in from our share of Fuzzy Beverage.  By the end of Autumn I had to make a decision--either try to rebuild the Servitors, or shut us down entirely, pay off the remaining faithful, and be a full-time Father and househusband like a proper Kaldorei male should be.  Shit or get off the pot, as the saying goes.

In that sense, the Iron Horde and the Draenor offensive are a gift.

So here we are.  I've opened recruitment.  Abbi Turpin reappeared--she expects to move on again, but may stay long enough to help us get a new start.  Lydri returned (possibly temporarily) from Shattrath.  We have three new Applicants--all for the Academe, too!--Garibaldi and Argeris, paladins, and Roiya Shadowpaw, a priestess of Elune.  Last night I met a traveler to the Keep, Nika Bristol, who looked like she needed a break; she said she had skills as a smith, so I offered her a deal to fix our damaged armor.  

It was almost like old times, last night--Servitors and travelers at the Hearth, sharing food and drink and friendly talk.  Bromm came by, and Arcian was there, and we talked for awhile with a druid, Sera, who was on her way to investigate the old portal in Seradane.  Thank Elune someone's keeping an eye on that thing.  I filled her in on the trouble we've had in the past there.

Tonight I've scheduled Questions with Garibaldi.

It really is almost like old times.

This past summer was one of the happiest in memory.  I hope it refreshed my soul enough.

I hope Thoran doesn't stay mad.  Please don't let me lose him.  Don't make me lose my family, now that I have one.

December 21

Jo Silverwright is a Servitor again.  Much has changed since her departure a few years ago; I believe she has changed too, and for the better.  She looked well when she showed up in the Wildhammer Keep mess, seemed altogether more confident, happy, relaxed.  

Last night saw our first patrol in Shadowmoon Valley.  What we found shook me up profoundly--shook up a few of us, if I know how to read faces.

All was quiet and routine until we cleared a rise and found a poor old Draenei man and two talbuks lying in huge puddles of blood.  There were boxes and tools strewn all about as if someone had searched and trashed his packs in a hurry.  The talbuks were dead, the man nearly so.  He managed to rasp out a single word--"Rosebud"--before expiring.  I called back to Vindicator Xuuli at Elodor on her COMM channel and advised her to send people to collect the body.  We couldn't just leave him there in the road.

As we searched for clues, a flying machine crash-landed nearby and, Elune bless, we were at least able to rescue one person that night.  There was a single passenger, a Draenei pilot who gave her name as Nails.  She had a bad cut on her leg but nothing that couldn't be bandaged.  I didn't want to leave her alone and unprotected on the road, so we brought her along with us (aided by levitation) as we hunted the creatures responsible for the attack on the Draenei man.  

Podlings, they're called.  They look like clusters of leaves with huge, winsome eyes.  Very cute until you see their mouths, full of rows upon rows of tiny razor teeth.  Taken one at a time, these little beasts are easily handled; in a swarm, they're deadly.  They're like land-bound frenzies.  Shivs scouted ahead while we tended to Nails and found the little bastards.  They'd stolen gems and crystals from the Draenei traveler--he was a jewelcrafter--and appeared to be in the process of worshipping a particularly large citrine.  They remained oblivious to our approach; on my word, Jocastia dropped an infernal right in their midst.  Those that weren't incinerated, scattered.  They were easily picked off by Roiya and myself at range, while Shivs and Nelmadge destroyed their leader as it tried to escape with the citrine.  As the fight ended, I turned to find the Draenei woman Nails with a pair of grenades in her hands.  She looked pale and stricken but determined, ready to use them if the podlings had somehow managed to overrun us.

We gathered up as much of the stolen goods as we could reclaim from the swamp, and in the process discovered a small, ruby-red crystal exquisitely carved into a perfect rosebud.  It had been just tossed and trampled into the mud by the podlings.

The worst part was when we reached the Temple at Karabor.  One of the people who met us was an elderly priestess, the wife of the unfortunate Draenei traveler, and it was my sad duty to tell her

((Here the writing breaks off in a trail of ink.  It resumes after a space, the words scratched in hurriedly.))

I do not know if she will continue for long, so bereft.  

Her grief affected all of us.  I sent the Servitors home, returned to Elodor to wrap things up with the Vindicator, and then went to Thoran's garrison as fast as Rain could carry me.

He was surprised but not displeased.  In the safety of his arms, I told him what had happened.

"I'll go home tonight to the children, I promise.  I just needed to see you again.  Didn't want to go to bed tonight without having seen you, without saying I love you."

He understood.

((There's a series of little portraits here of people sleeping: a small Human girl clutching a doll and reclining against a lanky adolescent Kaldorei girl, who holds the child like a doll of her own; a little Human boy using a Gilnean hound for his pillow; a Kaldorei woman wrapped in a warm robe, her feet in buskins and propped up on a footrest as she dozes near a fireplace; a tattooed, muscular Human man sleeping comfortably in an overstuffed chair, with a steaming mug sitting forgotten on the little table beside him.))

December 25

This is the Winter's Veil I always dreamed of.  This is what I always wanted it to be with Meri, what I've hungered for these past years.

Last night Thoran came home from Draenor.  Hunter and Izzy wanted a Winter's Veil tree of their own, so we had one set up in the house, but we waited until last night to decorate it.  It was only right that Thoran should get to help.  We wrapped it in long strings of cranberries, tucked little wooden figurines and brocade bows among the branches, hung delicate glass orbs that Varia enchanted to shine with their own inner light.

When Thoran came to bed, he laughed when he saw I'd tied a sprig of mistletoe to our headboard.  We reclined in each others' arms and I think for at least a whole hour rediscovered all the different ways to kiss.

This morning there were gifts of course.  More toys than Hunter and Izzy will ever know what to do with.  Ice skates.  Dozens of bright picture books.  Modeling clay, art paper and colored wax pigment sticks.  I gave Thoran a bear skin cloak, made from the finest pelt I had in my workshop.  This may be one of my best cloaks ever.  The fur is wonderfully thick and soft, dark honey with tones of deep brown, bright gold, and russet.  It's huge, covering him from shoulder to ankle.  I put in a warm soft lining and added a beautiful heavy clasp of gold Dwarven knotwork, studded with aquamarine stones.  Thoran gave me a new bow made from Draenor wood, decorated with his own carvings, and arrows with heads he made himself.  They're enchanted to make them easier to retrieve.  Essilte gave Thoran a huge box of edible homemade treats to bring back with him to the garrison--nut brittle, peppermint bark, chocolate covered cherries, fudge, cookies, candies.  He laughed and said she was contributing to the layer of fat on his belly, but she just hugged him around the middle and said bears are supposed to fatten up for winter.

Thoran grinned and winked at me.  He knows I adore every inch of his winter belly.

Varia gave Thoran an engraved magic stone that projects little images.  It's small enough to keep on his desk or bedtable, or even bring with him into the field, so he can always see a vision of the children, or me, or an image of all of us together.  He brought Varia some seeds and plant samples from Draenor, along with an informational book about Draenic gardening, and I think she's eager to add them to her collection in the greenhouse.  For Essilte, he gave her some engineering tools and a few new schematics he'd drawn up himself, along with a box of Draenic cooking spices.

After gifts and breakfast, Varia opened a portal to Ironforge and we went to visit Greatfather Winter.  This was what Isabella and Hunter were really waiting for; they were so excited they almost jumped out of their skins.  It was a mad scene there in the Commons, as it is every year--a hazard of remote-controlled toys buzzing through the air or racing underfoot--but the children didn't care, coming away with mechanical greenches and gingerbread cookies and eyes shining with the wonder of having met a figure of story and legend.

We headed out to our usual pond and spent the next few hours skating.  This has become a tradition for Essilte and me, one that I always found painfully bittersweet.  This year the pain was soothed into near-silence by Thoran, who played the good sport and skated awkwardly at my side.  We were a clumsy pair, hands linked and arms flailing, as we circled the outer edge of the frozen pond--never too far away from the snow and the hopes of a soft landing if we crashed.  Hunter and Izzy were nearly as clumsy at first, having never skated before, but they took their inspiration from Essilte:  our little Greentree glided and danced across the ice like a green-haired sprite, as graceful as Meri always was on the ice.  The children skated with much more confidence when Essilte was done with them.  Varia, playing the sensible matron, tended our campfire and laughed at the silly menfolk trying to keep up with the children.  There was hot chocolate and coffee and squeak cheese.  Hunter and Izzy couldn't get enough of the squeak, they thought it the funniest thing when the cheese squeaked against their teeth.  I felt a tinge of pride at introducing a new generation of Gilneans to coffee and squeak.  Greentree and I shared a secret smile over our coffee and cheese; it was our little way of remembering Meri and having him there with us, and for the first time in a couple of years, it was a joyful thing.

We're all home now, and in the warmth of our hearth fire everyone's dozed off.  Little wonder.  My legs feel like overcooked noodles.  Funny, considering how much I exercise, but I suppose skating works your muscles in a different way than running or squats.  I'm tired, but not enough to sleep.  I just want to sit here and watch over my family.

December 30

I was very glad for Davvi and Seda's presence last night; knowing they were behind me, and I had to be the Commander they'd want to follow, kept me from jumping up in angry outburst a few times. Elune save us from grasping, vainglorious morons.

To be fair, this was not the entirety of the military leaders who gathered last night, but it was the majority of those who shot off their mouths the most.  Especially the one who barged in conspicuously late, tossed some severed orc heads onto the table, and stomped out early like a toddler in a tantrum when he felt we were insufficiently awed by his awesomeness.  I'd hoped to see Thoran there but now I'm glad he didn't come, or he would have surely lost his temper at some point.  

I disagree with some of them about Ashran's importance, and I think it's unwise to commit too much force in Nagrand until our supply lines through Talador, Gorgrond, and the Spires are secure, and those regions are anything but.  When I spoke my part and offered the Servitors as a strike team, I was asked of our ability to help in Nagrand; I hedged my bets and said we would go anywhere we could get into, which is true enough.

Regarding the Horde--the regular Horde, not the Iron kind--I suggested that the Servitors could operate against the Forsaken and keep Sylvanas occupied at home, since we are based so close to Forsaken territory.  This was met with general approval.  

Sylvanas, as far as we can tell, controls her people in part by telling them that the living would hunt them down, destroy them; that the living despise them and want them obliterated.  It's not helpful to prove her correct on this point.  If we could push back against the idea through Forsaken dissenters, we'd remove an arrow from her quiver.  And surely there are Gilneans forcibly recruited into her ranks who bear no love for her, who were not part of the Lordaeron Scourge-slaves she led in uprising against Arthas, who were in fact victims of her invasion of their sovereign homeland.  They could be allies in a whisper campaign to undermine her authority, keep her off-balance and looking for enemies in her own ranks.  I'll have to consult with Jo, though, before we plan any kind of psyops.

The thing I found most troubling about this meeting, though, was the undercurrent that I perceived from some (not all) commanders:  a sense that we were out to "win" Draenor for the Alliance.  No.  Draenor belongs to the native folk.  I said as much out loud, when I had the floor.  Our host and moderator, Lord Valron, strongly supported the sentiment, but I caught a murmur from another voice at the table that "land belongs to those who claim it."  

Human arrogance.  You may as well claim the sun or the moon.

((The previous page is covered with hasty, awkward sketches of what appear to be magical sigils and a narrow, closet-sized room, if the rough-estimate dimensions are correct.))

January 4

Elune's tits, what now.

We responded to a call for help from Steadfast, a small mining community in the Eastern Plaguelands.  The folk are rough and stubborn and no-nonsense--they have to be, to try and reclaim that tainted land--but recent events left them completely unnerved.  For a fortnight, the miners had exhibited odd behavior:  just staring off into space, unmoving, unresponsive.  When removed from the mine, they'd lie in a sleepless coma-like state for between one to two days, then seem to recover completely, with no memory of what happened.  It started off with a few "isolated" cases and spread.  The last straw, the one that caused the locals to seek help, was when an entire work crew went into the mine in the morning and didn't come up after their shift was done.  When a team went in to search for them, they found the men all standing in their accustomed work areas, but all facing the same direction, all transfixed and non-responsive.  Any movement they made, they made as one--shifting a shoulder, swaying back and forth--as if under the power of some silent and unseen choreographer.

I took a team to the mine.  We prepared ourselves to face mind-magic, but what we found was far stranger.  There was a weight to the darkness, an oppressive and claustrophobic feeling that grew exponentially as we descended the shaft.  The torches seemed to burn dimmer, and within the darkness we felt things moving just on the edge of the peripheral vision--I don't know if it was real or imagined.  

Then came the rat stampede.

It sounds like a funny thing, but it was not funny when it happened.  There was nothing remotely funny about it.  The ground under our feet boiled with a swarm of living, squirming rats.  I toppled right over and I can still feel their tiny, clawed paws--hundreds of them--on my body, my face.  I can still smell the musty-filth stink of their fur.  I've bathed several times since then and each time I scrub myself extra hard for fear of some lingering taint.  Luckily the little beasts weren't of a mind to attack.  Rather, they seemed bent on escape.

I didn't notice it, but some of the other Servitors did, and reported it:  the rats all appeared to have red eyes.  Not the retina-reflection of normal eyes, but something unnatural and unholy.

The stampede probably lasted only a few seconds, though it felt much longer.  When it was over, we proceeded further down the shaft but didn't have far to go--this was as deep as the excavation went.  Nelmadge was the first to spot it--a hole in the rock wall.  When we took a closer look and shined a light into it, we discovered a small chamber not much bigger than a coffin.  An oubliette, really.  The walls were hewn from solid rock, but smooth except for what appeared to be many, many claw marks.  On each wall, and the roof and floor, there were sigils carved into the rock and inlaid with mithril.  

On each wall except for the one that the miners had breached, of course.  Jo didn't recognize the specific sigils but she confirmed they had the feel of a containment spell.

So now there's something completely nasty running loose in the Plaguelands.  I could say "so what else is new" but this thing is unknown, likely very old, and something we've never seen before.

And now we have reports of the staring/nonresponsive/waking coma behavior in Hearthglen.  

I'm going there myself tonight.  I'll suggest to Anne that she and her girls go on "temporary leave", perhaps to Caerdun.  Surely Philomene won't turn Anne away.

January 7

So wrought over our findings in the mine and the reports from Hearthglen that I forgot to note the most important thing that happened at this past unit meeting:  Davvi Rattleclank is an officer again.

She was an Adjutant when I first came to the Servitors.  She was there at my interview and she mentored me on my officer's mission in Stonetalon.  It pleases me to have her as Adjutant again--no, it's more than pleasing.  It just feels RIGHT.

((Below this entry are sketches of a bright-eyed, perky Gnome woman.  She wears overalls in one sketch, mechanized armor in another, casual clothes in yet another, and an irrepressible smile in all of them.  One could look at these drawings and come away with the impression that this Gnome is the sort of person who never gives up, never gives in, and never loses heart.))

January 9

Sandy took copies of those sigils from the mine and showed them to some Exarchs in Shattrath.  They were able to confirm at least that the sigils do not appear to be related to the Burning Legion, so there's that.  They suggested we contact the Kirin Tor.

For the first time in forever, I held drill.  I was pleased with the basic commands but we need a great deal more work before we move and act as a unit.  Some of the new folk need a better knowledge of the home territory as well; Sandy, who was our point, veered off course towards the Forsaken research camp.  She didn't get far before we called her back, and I'd rather such mistakes happen in practice than when she's out on patrol, or worse, out alone on her own time.

Been thinking a lot about Thoran and his displeasure over the Servitors.  I really should've talked with him first, instead of just presenting it to him as a decision I'd already made.

The last time I had any sort of divination, it was Easy throwing the bones.  Back then, I wanted to know how to be a better officer--I didn't want to go down the path of a Garravore, ruled by selfish desires, or even Coehen Nash, eventually ruled by his rage--and I wished to learn to communicate with Prikka better.  I wanted to know if Aerin and I would ever get along.  I wanted to know how to handle things with Terithas, if I should continue to pursue and push for greater intimacy.  The answers were, in order:

1.  Difficulties lie ahead. Expect the loss of a relationship if you don't reverse course.  A distant, important person could make the difference.  Talking is the way to go.

2.  Next few months are crucial, don't be too impatient.  Signs are favorable but a lack of discretion will lead to a bad end.

3.  Now's the wrong time to ask.  Nothing good will come of pushing for an answer now.

Looking back, the reading was so accurate it's a bit scary.  Each situation resolved itself, in a way--and though none in a completely satisfying manner, it could have been worse.  Prikka left, and left me in charge.  Aerin is, I assume, off doing druid things, but we were on reasonably friendly terms (for us) when last we spoke.  And Terithas articulated his wishes at the Lunar Festival.  While it wasn't what I wanted, I had just enough sense to back off and respect his boundaries.  Had I pushed, I might have ruined our friendship.

So at this new year's full Moon, I went to Graveryl Blackroot in Darnassus for a reading.  In my heart I really wanted to know what to do about Thoran--how to soothe his anger over what I've done with the Servitors--but I knew there was a chance that Elune might have something more pressing to tell me.  So I asked that the runesticks simply tell me what was most important for me to hear at this point.

Graveryl was gracious and kind, as always, and couched his reading in reassuring terms, but I have to admit I got a lump caught in my throat when he read the first rune, Kenisel obscured, which symbolized my past.  He said my past was full of broken dreams, unfulfilled emotions, and an upset home.  He said I'd been reeling from some falling-out and had done my best to quickly and quietly pick up the pieces.  

I nearly wept right there.

He went on to describe the rune that applied to my present:  it was Malor'ero, the Lonely Man, obscured.  "You feel left out in the cold by family and friends--you feel like an outcast.  You have been reflecting on your life too much and feel paralyzed by doubt and fear."

It was in the final rune, Desura'tan, the Dreamwalker, that he saw hope.  He said that my struggles would be eased if I approached them with care and empathy; that the Dreamwalker can bring peace and harmony.  But that I should also take care to avoid deluding myself, and letting hopes and dreams overwhelm reality.  "Let Desura'tan's gentility and wisdom guide you, but do not fall prey to his beautiful dreams.  Keep one foot grounded, as Malor'ero tells you, but reach out to what troubles you with an open heart."

I've spent the past few days thinking a lot about this reading.

Last night I told the children that I was planning to go see Thoran.  Hunter and Izzy broke out their wax sticks and wrote him a letter as only children can, complete with pictures of home and family portraits.  (Stick figures, like I used to draw.)  Essilte, who has never trusted any military chef not named Meriwether Verric, packed a home-cooked meal for him:  fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits, crisp green beans in butter.

I found Thoran among the Druids of the Talon.  They have their own little enclave at his garrison--a massive tree with an enormous hollow underneath it.  Thoran was at the far, far end of the hollow, curled up and in his furs.  He didn't shift to his skin when I approached, either.  This was not a good sign.  He wouldn't even speak to me at first.  Just rumblegrowlwhinerumblemumble, like a dog chattering to itself.

Thoran's Beast was strong last night.  It's been getting stronger, ever since I told him I would reactivate the Servitors.  I knew he was angry but I've been wondering if it's more than that, and last night I finally understood.  The Beast felt that his mate had abandoned the pups.

Finally the Beast allowed the man to speak, and we talked things out.  I was very careful about my words, careful to listen and take what he said to heart.  I apologized, too, for not discussing things with him before.  My poor Thoran.  I thought he'd come to see his garrison army as "pack" but he explained it's not like that.  Me and the children, we're his pack.  No wonder the Beast is wroth.  He's apart from us, fighting a war on another world, a war he can't just abandon--while at the same time, every instinct in his body and soul pulls him towards us.  We talked, and slowly the tension began to uncoil as we worked our way through the tangle of hurt and misunderstanding.

There was a time when I might have argued and planted an ideological flag, under the mistaken idea that standing up for myself meant refusing to bend.  Instead, what I did was this:

I asked him to close his jaws on my neck.  And when he had me caught, my pulse jumping under the sharp wolf's teeth, I whispered to him.  "I submit to you...submit myself entire...I lead the Servitors, but you lead me.  If ever I betray or dishonor you...if ever our children suffer due to my failure...it would be better for you to snap my neck.  I submit, not out of fear, but love and respect."  The Beast growled and tightened, once, ever so slightly, acknowledging and accepting the promise.  Then the Man held me close and covered my throat with kisses.

Thoran's Beast is different from Meri's...stronger, wilder, more pack-oriented.  Where Meri's Beast drove him to seek solitude and freedom, Thoran's Beast is more wolflike, finding comfort in family and hierarchy. 

January 13

I thought that after a day, I would've digested events and been able to report things more clearly.  I'm still procrastinating.

Easy things first, maybe.

Two new recruits.  Vinthror, a Knight, and Shrel, a dwarven Lightbearer.  Bit by bit, our roster grows again, but we'll see how many choose to stay in the coming months.  That will be the measure of success.  We should have plenty of work for them at least.  None of our new recruits should be bored.  Speaking of new, I need to follow up with Argeris on the matter of the missing courier.

Anne and her people were already packing to leave for Caerdun when I arrived in Hearthglen.  This was a surprise, as I'd expected Anne would rather stay and defend the place she'd made Home, and the businesses she'd built there.  But two of her girls had succumbed to the odd waking coma and only recently came out of it, with no apparent damage but also no memory of the past few days.  They were justifiably frightened.  The authorities in Hearthglen are closing the town to all but emergency supplies and services, and official representatives from the Argents or the Alliance.  Neither the Inn nor Mahogany Hall will stand to make much gold in the next fortnight at least.

I hugged Anne, kissed her cheek, told her to be safe, and tried to be reassuring.  We'd get to the bottom of this.  We'd sort it all out.  

((There are hesitation marks on the page, and then, in lieu of writing more, a sketch--the portrait of a handsome Human woman with knowing eyes and a wise, closed-mouth smile.  Her face is shaded as if to indicate a darker skin tone; her fair hair is drawn up in a neat bun, with a few escaped strands artfully framing her oval face.  Though clearly no longer in the "first flower of youth", she is beautiful--perhaps even more so, for the look in her eyes, the look of someone who has lived life to the fullest, who has known bottomless love and unspeakable heartbreak, and survived both.))