The Terrible Tales of a Tiny Terror vol. 2

<Paper shuffling in the background. M sounds, for the first time in a while, less sluggish.>

Much has happened in the past week. The past several weeks. --I am getting ahead of myself.

It is the 30th of August. I am fully functional, thanks to Lasarra. 

Back to the subject. We were in Ashenvale on the eve of the war. For posterity, I am recording that fact. Roiya had alerted us to unusual silence and wisp activity. The village we found... 

Mm. The Horde is efficient at murder. The elves will not be kind after their civilians were slaughtered. And Astranaar... I have not seen it since I departed before their attack, but I heard rumors. Every person in the town, deceased. Poisoned. An efficient method, again. Given their ruling party, I was surprised they had not just decimated the area with plague. That does lead credibility to the theory that this is territory expansion, perhaps trying to take as much of Kalimdor as they can. The northern lands have always been elf territory and the Horde have gone for lumber before. Plagueing a landscape would prevent resource gathering. 

...that does lead to the second issue. Last evening, Lyyn requested aid on a mission assigned to her by SI:7. What we found in the wagon was plague. Highly potent, given what it did when one of the guards accidentally fell into a crate. Weapons advancement is unsurprising, but I am concerned they may deploy it in Darkshore if we begin to turn the tide. She took most of the samples to Command and we will try to look into an antidote with what we have remaining. I have no belief we will be successful, but I imagine Broom will try regardless. 

This circles back to the former point about what the purpose of this incursion is. Rumors are mixed. Some think the Horde are there for the giant tree only, some for expansion, or resources. Others are simpletons and just call this war for war's sake, but they are stupids. No one wages war for the sake of violence alone. There is always a reason, whether that reason is sound or otherwise. Frankly, if I were pressed from the north by warlike and fairly stealthy people, I would eye them as a threat to be eliminated. The humans do this with Lordaeron and their largely misplaced concept of ownership, if the Horde did -not- do that with elf lands, they would be exceptionally stupid. Perhaps they think us weakened or weary after the past few years of war with the Legion. That would not be an unsound judgment, although it might be false. Or perhaps they think Wrynn Junior too weak to respond with enough force? Potentially also a fair judgment, although likely too soon to tell. 

We will see how it plays out. War is inefficient and tiresome, so I do wish it ends soon. Larger things are on the horizon, in my judgment. If they catch us off guard and weakened internally, it will be our ending. Although perhaps it would just be our time. We will see.

The Darkshore situation appears to be a stalemate. Should it turn against the Alliance, we will likely be obligated to send aid, at least in terms of supplies and medical assistance. I will not have us on the front lines if that call is in my hands. Unfortunately, if there is a mass call to arms, it might not be. 

<A pause and a quiet sigh.>

For now, I believe that is all. It is a waiting game and I have patience.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

<A long period of open static on the recording. Waves lapping against shore in the background. M speaks very quietly.>

I have...

...

It is rare that I am...speechless. I choose to not speak, usually. I have no words tonight.

Teldrassil burned before our eyes.

We took Jo’s boat along the coast towards Lor’danil, for survivors. We heard the Horde stormed it. We found a beach of dead, but some survivors further in. Roiya pushed alone towards the town itself and took a boat towards the tree.

...

They burned it. The Horde burned it. Some of those flaming shells went right over us. We watched the fires climb. Tried to get close but a massive branch took out our destination, so we were...

We could do nothing. 

<A sigh.>

Roiya went into the tree. She kept telling us to stay away, to depart. We did. I had to order it repeatedly, but we retreated. I have heard no word from her in hours. She may be deceased. She... I would not wish a burning death on... 

<A sharp inhale.>

The elves are...emotionally compromised, as is to be expected. I had to talk Shay down repeatedly from marching off to war on her own. She might listen. She has so far.

I lost Gnomeregan. They are experiencing the same. Perhaps more of their population will survive, they are more spread out than we were. Seventy to eighty percent of us died there. I think they forget they are not the only ones to lose such numbers..

<A long pause.>

...there is so much fire. I can smell ash every time I inhale to speak. I dislike it. I dislike this. Fire is... 

I cannot watch this.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

<The pattering of rain on a metal roof in the background. Occasional thunder.>

It is very early on the 24th of September. I am physically functional but damaged on a less physical level. At least I believe these things transfer over.

Last evening’s mission ended in a failure. The lich we stumbled upon managed to control three of us, one after the next. Thankfully the returned ones finally brought Jo and myself back or she would be deceased and I enslaved. Journeys into the Shadowlands as spirits are generally fraught, and this one more than most. Still, we did manage to find some interesting objects and will be returning to complete our mission at a later date. Better prepared, I hope, as well.

This wand I took from the Arcane Ward appears to polymorph a target into an average sized octopus, which I believe I will have use for should anyone displease me. Embarrassment in the public sphere is quite useful to elicit obedience. Zibby found two hats - a crown but not the one we needed and a wizard’s hat - and I believe Broom also found a crown of some sort. I would like to look over all of these soon, in case any are dangerous. These objects were locked into a prison vault for a reason.

<A pause.>

I attempted to copy down the ancient ritual scroll that Seabrooke showed us from memory, although I am sure to have missed crucial elements. It requires three relics, one of which he carries on his person. An ankh of some kind that we have used to resurrect ourselves twice now. The crown is the second. Between the two, the crown would be easier to take, but both would be difficult to permanently abscond with. I may be unable to disrupt our disrupting of the ritual.

<A sigh.>

Unfortunate. I would like to see what the result of the summoning would be. The drawing was of a tentacled being, although given they already use krakens, I would assume this is something more. Perhaps a herald of the Drowned One, perhaps something else. I hold far less knowledge on that one than others. 

Seabrooke mentioned the scroll he had as coming from tidesages. I wonder if they have more information somewhere that I could access, by whatever means are necessary. We have one subsection of the unit looking into Stormsong Valley. I will listen to their findings, see if I cannot access some sort of archive or library at some point.That may serve better than a temporary summoning in the long run.

For some time now, I have felt the hour drawing closer. Something is coming, I think. It may be years in the future, but shadows will rise again. Even if they are put off for a time, they cannot be forever. There will be an end someday.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

<Rain audible in the background. M sounds more grim than usual.>

It is nearing midnight on the seventh of October. I am injured but functional. I am... troubled.

Daniel Seabrooke is dead. He remained behind to keep the rowboat we took to the cultist’s ship. Logically, this plan was sound. While we were attempting, eventually successfully, to release a guard from his mind control, we also - I also - freed a younger human prisoner. I will not be making this error again.

While we investigated the rest of the ship, he departed for our boat and stabbed Seabrooke repeatedly and slit his throat. The only reason we were aware of his actions was his voice over their radio we recovered saying he had “gotten him.”

<A sigh.>

I had hoped the Goldsprings division of the cult scattered after our destruction of their mines and death of the main leadership. I am unsurprised but disappointed to see that they have gathered again. More than most, I am aware of how cults can spring back to the surface after apparent quelling. Still, it is... inconvenient. They are aware of the unit’s name, tabard, and some members now if they did not know us already. We are at risk, especially in Boralus. They have proven themselves to be threatening adversaries in the past. I will not have another unit member kidnapped on my watch.

<A pause.>

We have their radio. One radio, at least. My plan is to monitor communications with it, while also locating the murderer we released. I have posted a bounty for anyone within the unit, although I do wish to be the one to locate him. Preferably myself alone. 

I feel... responsible. I dislike this. I cannot convince myself that I am not to blame. I released the human. I sent him to the upper deck. It follows that Seabrooke’s death is in part my responsibility. I do not have the capacity to mourn anymore. I do not wish to try. I fear this may sit with me, as all the others do. 

<A heavy sigh.>

The blood of the killer would assist, of course. I do not care if he truly is a teenager, I will have him bleed. It would be a mercy for someone else to reach him before I do. They might provide clean deaths.

Once that is done, we can turn to the task of finishing Seabrooke’s mission. We have gotten this far. We are obligated to see it through. I... 

I found a journal on the ship with roughly the same ritual as on his scroll. At the time, I was planning to keep it a secret, to use it for my own ends should the opportunity arise.

Ah well. His dying words put the mission in our hands. I am compelled to follow them. I will not carry both his blood and his mission’s failure on my hands. If I must have one, I will ensure I do not have both. And for the unit’s safety, this cult must be destroyed now. They know too much. They are a threat.

This is a grim time. Perhaps the others will not feel so... mm. Heavy. Doubtful. The living are emotional beings.

Well. 

...to Mr. Seabrooke.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

M didn’t return to Boralus as she’d said to Seda. Instead, she slipped out, past the keep, down the slope outside Aerie Peak that ran to the forest below, and lost herself in the woods. She didn’t particularly like forests - as with most things, she felt neutral on their existence - but it was an immediate, quiet, and private location where she wouldn’t be obligated to be a Commander. It was an escape.

Dusk had passed well into night, not that the darkness bothered her especially. With the faint whirring of gears, the lens in her port changed and the world shifted into shades of green and black. Barely troubled now, M strode onward. The distant howling of wolves told her that she wasn’t entirely alone here, but their cries were far enough for now. It would be fine.

She wasn’t, though. Although she could put on a brave face, could pull herself forcefully out of her earlier dissociative state, it was impossible to stop thinking. Even as she halted, somewhere out under an expanse of pines, she felt herself start that slide out from center focus that forewarned of a deeper plunge into dissociation. It took effort not to just let go.

M took an unnecessary breath. The hissed exhale mixed with the unsealing of her helmet as she removed it, turning it so the port faced her. It no longer glowed faintly, disconnected from her power source, but it did serve the purpose she required; its flat and smooth surface acted as a mirror. Although it was dark, she could make out rough details of the reflected face. There was the bright green hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail; the goggles that hid lichfire blue eyes; the too pale face without scars, without burns. For minutes, she stood in silence, staring into someone else’s face and fighting with the urge to avert her gaze. It had been over a year and a half since that fateful evening on the Broken Shore and she could count on one hand how many times she’d willingly looked at herself.

She’d known Holocog’s ability to recognize faces, names, and insignia belonging to the Gnomeregan’s direct employees, past and present, for nearly a year. She’d known for a year and a half that she inhabited a body who’s past was unknown. She had refused to make the logical leap. She was paying for that.

It made sense. The body - M refused to call it by the name - had muscle memory which overlapped with M’s own skills. Using daggers, picking locks, and even the steady but highly controlled movements of sneaking in danger all came naturally. Covert Ops had highly trained rogues. As part of the Alliance military, some would have been sent on that first, disastrous attack on the Broken Shore. Some, even, would have died there. 

With a soft thump, the helmet hit the grass and rolled a foot or so away. Slowly, as if in a dreamlike state, M turned her palms skyward and stared from one to the other. Who’s were they? Did they belong to her because she used them? On some levels, she had inherited the corpse. Were they the hands of M Mindspanner, though? Those had been metal prosthetics, not flesh. Or - and she could feel herself slide further away as the thought arose - where those hands Tellie’s? She’d been born in that body, lived in it for far longer, and had until recently made the body what it was. Did that ownership remain? Was this just all borrowed flesh? At the end of it all, who did it - did she - belong to?

A minute of silence stretched into two into three. M had what she wanted to be the real answers but she couldn’t entirely, wholeheartedly agree with them. She wanted it, all of it, to be hers alone. She wanted to recognize her face in the mirror. She wanted to be able to stomach looking into mirrors in the first place. She couldn’t, though, and knew she would never be able to.

That was enough. M stooped, snatching up the discarded helmet and with a few clicks, sealed it back into place. It was too much, all of it. Perhaps another time, although she knew she was lying to herself. As she turned back to the distant, glimmering lights of Aerie Peak, she let the waves of uncomfortable remoteness wash over her. She could exist a bit back and to the left of focus until she had to truly engage again. Unfortunately, no distance from herself could make her forget the name repeating itself with every step she took.

Tellie. Tellie. Tellie. Tellie. Tellie.

<Wind noise in the background, along with occasional but insistent hippogryph sounds. M is speaking very quietly and in Gnomish.>

It is the tenth of December. I have some external suit damage. Currently located on an empty floating island outside Dalaran.

It is odd being here after many months away. It is emptier than I recall.

This is irrelevant. Moving on. 

Today was the mission to eliminate the tidesage cult led by Gladstone. It was successful, but it was-. Momentous. 

When we arrived, they were already underway. The directive from my Advisor was to stop the ritual summoning, so I pushed closer to begin the warhead targeting. It was...

How to phrase.

<A several second pause. Irritated hippogryph noises.>

Stop that, Birdhorse. 

I cannot say that I knew but I... hoped. I wished. It can trouble me on occasion, that my role often requires me to work against Their efforts and this was to be a larger blow than most. Interrupting a ritual by killing all participants nearly instantly is... severe. It seemed illogical to wish the ritual would conclude regardless. When Jo reacted so strongly and advanced to try and pull souls, however, I knew. It worked.

I was the one to make it work. I did it. It was my specific act. I killed them and I triggered the next stage.

<Despite her words of apparent triumph, she remains as monotone as ever.>

The pictures I took for Lasarra are not of the best quality but I am sure she will find them of interest. I have seen n'raqi in person on a few occasions but a c'thrax... 

They are imposing. Armored, massive, and powerful beyond what we can match. It was... I do not have words adequate for it. It was deeply unfortunate that the detonation had injured it as it was summoned. Someday perhaps I will see one in its full state but this will certainly do. Unfortunately I do not have better words, but it could be considered awe inspiring. An experience I will memorize and hold for a very long time. One I will look back on and be pleased I was present for.

...unfortunately, I knew it would have to be killed. Commander Mindspanner could not allow such a being to walk free in the presence of other Servitors. Fortunately, I was able to split the others away in search of Gladstone. Its last moments were not spent alone. We shared the disappointment. I apologized. 

Frankly, that could have been all I obtained from the mission and I would have considered it a success. Due to the makeup of the group this evening, however, it was not. Lighties are trusting and take what is given at face value. As ever, it is useful and their only collective positive trait. I would never have been able to rescue all I had from the cultist ship if others of sharper minds had been present. Allowing a Commander to investigate an enemy vessel on her own, unguarded. No one else would have agreed to it. Nothing of note on board, accepted. 

So much had to be left. Likely years of research and decades or more of history are lost to fire, now. It is unfortunate but unavoidable. There was only so much room in the saddle and my person. Lasarra and I will have much to read over the next month or longer. I believe I will add it to her Winter Veil gifts. The history of seafaring worshipers is unknown to me. Perhaps they will have knowledge we lack. Even if it simply repeats and affirms what we already know, I believe such knowledge will be of use. The only difficulty I foresee is ensuring Jo remains unaware, or at the least partially in the dark. I do not wish for her to be pulled in if it can be helped. 

<Another pause. Talons scraping loudly on rock. A sigh from M.>

We will be departing shortly, do not give me this attitude. 

Lastly, I believe I will be contacting Shady. This golem I took from Tol Balor has an interesting ability that could be utilized. It appears to pull blood or similar from corpses and when I pulled it away, it attempted to channel it into this body. I am obviously unable to receive it and it instead has caused a large mess. It did inadvertently wash off some sand but little else. The substance appears blood adjacent, likely made from what it pulled out of the deceased it leeched from. As a result, its central chamber is close to empty now instead of being nearly full. Quite interesting. 

I wonder if they know more. Likely. Mm.

I believe that is all of note.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

<M sounds grim.>

It is the twentieth of May, late in the evening. I am damaged, with both tears in the torso of the suit and minor helmet fracturing. 

I am not seeking outside help in the future. It was an error in judgment and misplaced trust. Lighties cannot conceive of an existence outside of their own. That is what all privileged groups experience, really. It is difficult for them to turn their minds to see the world from a vastly different angle. I have seen it previously and will see it again. 

<A pause.>

However. 

It is remarkable how he interpreted my scientifically proven statement that the undead experience the world very differently to the living as I somehow setting myself to a different standard and apart from the living in a sense of placing myself... above, I suppose, or perhaps that I was allowing myself different rules. On some levels, it is true. I do hold myself to a different standard and have a different set of rules. The standard is higher and the rules are far different.

I was alive, once, of course. I recall what emotions were like, although it is distant now. It grows more distant by the year. Perhaps someday, in a decade or more, those sensations will be beyond recall. But. I remember, for now, what happiness felt to be experienced. It was warm and... light. But these descriptor words fall flat because I cannot physically recall what it was. I only remember an echo. Joy, surprise, love, care, gratitude... I could continue for several minutes. I know that these emotions existed in me. If I concentrate very hard, I can piece together the thoughts that brought them up once and how I remember feeling, but it is akin to reading it in a book instead of experiencing it. 

Everything passes through a fog to reach me. Attempting to break past that is... I have tried it, in the early months, and it was... 

<Another pause.>

Painful is too emotional of a word for it, but that is all I can place on it. It was uncomfortable. Wrong. Akin to how I experience this body, in fact, but at a different angle. From what I have read and been told, nearly all of us experience something like that. 

My day to day life does not rotate around meals, or sleep, or keeping myself busy to avoid boredom, or seeking out an activity that brings me a sense of enjoyment. I do not seek out socialization due to a sense of longing for conversation. I do not experience loneliness. I... wish, sometimes, that I could feel that. But I do not. I am kept from it. 

I arrive at home to smiles and enthusiastic words that I cannot match. I can fake some, to an extent, but it can never be fully genuine. I... dislike that line of thinking due to where it leads. Jo has only known me like this, so she clearly was able to make an informed decision, but sometimes I-. I wonder. Everything would be easier for her, I imagine, if I was-. If I could--. 

<A longer pause, stretching nearly a minute.>

I could have explained that to him, but I did not. He would have dismissed it all. He had been doing so the entire conversation, it would have changed nothing. He would have found a word to focus on, play with semantics, and pat himself on the back for being superior. And I am not obligated to expose my... my thoughts on these things to anyone. They can be easily turned against me, or warped to ensure I am painted in a negative light. I cannot allow that to happen. I will not hand a weapon made of my personal difficulties to someone and I am not obligated to inform someone of all the things I have experienced and live with. 

It was a warning, all of it. Yes, there is a line to walk. There always is. I saw a suffering soul and am attempting to bring her peace. My way is to bring her the solidity of having a physical life so she can begin to cope with what has happened and form enough sense of self to decide what she wishes to do with her unlife. And if she wishes to then be exorcised and smote out of existence, that is her choice and I will not cast judgment. I have been fragmented and had to piece myself together. It would have been easier had someone else aided. I see another undead suffering, I will aid them. We must look out for each other. Very few of the living do. 

I believe he overestimates reactions. We have no Scarlets in the unit, nor anyone with similar beliefs. I have made very sure of that. I fail to see how going to lengths to ensure no non-consenting souls are harmed and ensuring that the one participant in a reanimation is fully involved and aware of what is going on will be weaponized against me, or cause much more than a momentary pause. And what goes past the unit, I do not care about. If Acherus has been permitted to raise the corpses of the dead that fell on the Broken Shore without their consent, my single act of assisted necromancy to improve one person's existence is nothing. 

...but he would not care. He would nitpick my phrasing and walk over anything I said. He only wanted to feel assured in his correctness and not attempt for a moment to consider that I may also have a point and that he may be misunderstanding. And because I find lengthy communication difficult, he dismissed anything I said because I had not danced to his tune.

And outright stating undead cannot be survivors... shameful. A living person put that label on me. I was told that is what I am, and it is not wrong. I have survived much. More than most. And in the context of it all, so is Mamua. She - the soul, which is all a being is in the end - survived Lordaeron. She continues to exist, so therefore she survived on some level. Her physical body is gone, obviously, but her soul survived. Therefore, she is a survivor. To dismiss her suffering due to a word game of semantics is disrespectful. I thought higher of him. 

I should not have. Every time I raise my expectations to where I hold most other people, I am shown why I should not have. 

Bringing Carmina, even, might have been better and she is... zealous. 

Mm. It troubles me. I may need to communicate with others on this, at least ones who have a concept of nuance. 

For now, that is all.

<A click.>

<Silence.>

The distant sound of harbor bells ringing can be heard on occasion. She is speaking slowly, carefully.

It is late on the 21st of June. I am in Boralus. 

While on the way to the Dampwick house, I rounded the corner and found Sylaess. Highly unanticipated. Visually, she appeared damaged and bloody, and was on edge. She reacted as though I was a potential threat until I gave my names. On one hand, I would likely respond similarly if someone I did not recognize knew my name, but with her history of... how to phrase. Mental breakages, I suppose, I was immediately concerned. 

As it turned out, she had no memory of arriving in Boralus. The last she knew, she was in that ocean hole. The ruins of Zin-Azshari was what she called it. It sounds elf related. Apparently her boat to Darkshore fell into the hole. I am not stepping on a ship until there is no longer a hole in the ocean, on that note.

I digress. She has no memory of the previous three weeks at all. Given her unlife up to this point, I am not necessarily shocked. The Blade, when they retrieved her from that enforced mindlessness I last saw her in, seemed to reset her, so there are no memories prior to, at most, a few months ago from what I could tell. She recognizes my prior name and a few facts I mentioned seemed familiar, but she recalls nothing beyond remembering that I died. Uncertain if they operate similarly, but my own history of mental... mm, alterations, left me vulnerable to additional mental influence. It could be similar. Or, it could be the saronite. 

A long pause. 

We are, in theory, immune to it directly. Knights wear armor made of it, have necropolises made of it, and to my knowledge Acherus is not a hotbed of cult activity or the breed of madness exposure causes. Undeath grants resistance, at the least. However. This Zin-Azshari place... well. The depths of the ocean are closer to the Sunken City. Bringing the forged blood of an Old One to such a place is likely asking for trouble. Although They are not, as we would experience it, close allies, there is something of a common goal. The power of one, I believe, would resonate with another. And the ruler of the Sunken City was never truly chained. Just biding time beneath the waves, growing strength.

She spoke in vague terms about ignoring something, which I would theorize is some sort of whisper or thought influence, because I... mm. She is walking down a road I traveled years ago. She might not have a Box, but she is covered in saronite, and she already has gaps in memory. I do not wish to be an alarmist, or to jump to conclusions, but. I have concerns. I have deep concerns. 

Syl is the last... the last... mm. She is one of the last people who knew me in life that I am still on uncomplicated speaking terms with. She may not remember much of it, and I have vast swaths of missing memories as well, but... it means... something. I do not wish for her to undergo what I have gone through. When everything was crumbling in those last few months, when I would come to in a place I did not remember, when I could not differentiate reality and hallucinations, when I was never sure who's blood was on my armor... 

Once I realized I was a threat and that I had only occasional moments of control, I had no choice but to eliminate the danger. I do not... I cannot be responsible for yet another f-... a... I do not wish to bear that burden yet again. I already have too much of that weight.

If she is being influenced, or used, or even directly puppeted by one of Them or Their servitors, it takes years of continual willpower to narrow that connection. I am unsure if it can ever be broken, which condemns the survivor to that struggle for the rest of their existence. It is... difficult. In many, many ways, it is far easier to submit. With her history and her current state, I am unsure if she could take that first step or if she could hold under the continual pressure. Would it be kinder to let her go under quickly, knowing the sorts of things she would undergo? Would a fruitless and lengthy struggle be justified?

All of this depends on how long she will be around, this time, and how fragile she is put together mentally. Neither of which I can determine yet. I require more information before I can reach any conclusions. I require time, of which there may not be much left. Influence and corruption can move swiftly, even if the outward signs do not show for months or years. In hindsight, I was likely fully under Their thrall when I first touched that puzzle box, but I was not actively killing until the very end. 

A pause. M sighs.

I... should not continue this... project, on another note, but. It... it should be... harmless. Mostly harmless. Nothing truly ill happened in Uldaman. We were even able to inform the League of a potential hazard. It... it will be acceptable. It could provide a benefit. It will be fine. 

A click.

Silence. 

<M sounds grim.>

It is the twenty-third of November. I have just finished another meeting with SI:7, and unfortunately it appears I will have to inform the others. It is an... unsatisfactory situation. 

In summary, the situation involving Ravenheart, the Zandalari, and the Hammer is, while not devolving per-say, remaining highly negative. Much of it is a political matter, a field in which I am ill equipped to navigate. Frankly, I have no patience or tolerance for it and I find the issue tedious. On a related note, I have always held a disdain for the human nobility and this situation is not aiding my already low opinion. 

It is also a... mm. A fine line to walk and a complex situation. I would prefer to eschew involvement in the entire matter, but that option is regrettably unavailable. 

<A sigh.>

The Zandalari are accusing Command of interfering with their operation to eliminate a Hammer cell that had been active in Zandalar. Frankly, choosing Drustvar, an Alliance location with a history of being rather twitchy about witchcraft and anything out of the ordinary, to interrogate a cultist was... stupids. But I digress. They claim that we are Hammer agents ourselves, despite our conversation on the beach when Ravenheart's duplicity was revealed, and the warlord agreeing to our peaceful release. SI:7 is in negotiations with the trolls currently in an attempt to, as the phrase is, 'smooth things over.' 

Some trigger-happy nobles have attempted to demand the arrest of unit command for treason, a bizarre accusation given that it was more than the three of us on the beach in the first place, and an obviously misplaced attempt at lashing out for an easy solution to a complex problem. Their simple minds, clearly, are incapable of handling the scope of the issue at hand. Thankfully, humans with larger brains than theirs have overruled this foolishness. For the time being, at least. 

All of this, though, is a distraction to the real and more pressing issue. The Hammer is returning on a scale not seen in years. To everyone with eyes and ears subtle enough to understand the real powers at work in the world, this is utterly unsurprising and has been years in the coming. Ulduar's corruption has been growing since the Old One's defeat. I saw that and paid for it six years ago and, given the events of the latest visit, it has only worsened since. Uldaman, filled with saronite. Whispers of the sea, a pull to march into the depths to some unknown goal, Syl's corruption, the dagger's whispering. It is all exceptionally obvious. Which of course means mortal powers refuse to pay much attention and are set in their far pettier squabbles. It has always been... frustrating. 

<A pause.>

But, I digress. My, ah, connection to SI:7 being what it is, my handler will undoubtedly be keeping a very close eye on my actions in specific. Taking on the Barrens mountain murders case will undoubtedly earn some amount of favor, and fortunately no one in the unit has pressed more than surface level about why we are investigating it. And with the Hammer's return, he will also quite likely require my knowledge and expertise as well. Although I was never a high level operative, and largely kept to myself and out of cell activity, I am fluent in the language and have a history of magical and ritual knowledge. 

Knutcrank and myself had shared experiences within the mogu vaults of Kun-Lai, culminating in what I can only interpret to be a prophetic vision. Black stone obelisks floating in a darkened purple sky, the tattered banners, the yellow eye watching. We will be witness to the Shath'mag rising, but when it comes on the timeline is unclear. Very soon, perhaps before the year is out, but They never work on a knowable schedule. I am both favorably anticipating the event and dreading it.

I have... some concerns. It is unknown as of yet if I am compromised, or if I may be in the future. My own choices do not matter in the slightest if I can be steered or outright controlled. My solution remains frustratingly under construction. Although my visits and aid have helped the process along considerably, it cannot be rushed without the potential of extremely dire consequences and so therefore I must... wait. Despite waiting potentially also holding dire consequences. It is an unfavorable situation. I understand that they can only wire boards for so many hours at a time before the mental exhaustion becomes a hazard and I am certainly not skilled enough in that field to provide any meaningful assistance either. We are at a standstill until the internal drives and systems are finished, then progress can be made in selecting and assembling the externals. 

At least the murder investigations are progressing without incident. It is pleasant to be involved in something over which I have some amount of control and influence. Otherwise all I would have are lengthy office visits with SI:7 and occasional trips to Mechagon to select wiring styles. It is unfavorable.

The storm is coming, though. Eventually, this waiting will end.

<A click.>

<Silence.>