Dear Diary

The Raven's Song

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A tattered spell tome that has definitely seen better days, left faded and lovingly worn through the lifespan of many adventures. Between the pages of written spells and studies on their various natures, one can find Lasarra's own musings on events of note and travel logs etched in the margins and footnotes of the cluttered book. Locked in a trunk she keeps in the spare bedroom she stays in or carried on her if she is in need of more detailed magics, it is not an easy book to get to. The earliest entries are studies on the arcane, magics of fire and ice but as time goes on, less and less of this is found as it fades into a study of the shadows and the void that creates them. The dates towards the start go as far back as predating the fall of Quel'thalas, the more relevant pieces begin in August, shortly after the Siege of Undercity.

 

 

((Lasarra Ravensong's IC writings and stories will be posted here.))

 

 

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During the Siege for Lordaeron: Verse One

 

A hooded and robe shrouded figure waded through the triage section of the Alliance forces in Brill with nary a word spoken to those gathered there. A pyrrhic victory had been won, but at what cost? Luminescent eyes scanned for those she could save amongst those collected, many were too far gone for her mending to save; the blight too damning a weapon to leave death in half measures. Rows upon rows of bodies, cloth draped across their form as the Alliance collected their fallen that hadn't been lost to the green shroud.

 

As she searched for someone, anyone she could save, a woman that looked like she was barely old enough to wear the plate that adorned her body reached and gripped the hem of her dark robes with a shaking hand. Brunette hair clung to her sweat soaked face as she gasped for breath, the healers nearby seeming to have passed her on in favor of those that still had a chance. She struggled to form words, but her eyes spoke of what she was trying to say. A pleading look, one that Lasarra had been on the other end of too many times, and yet for how many times she had seen this look before, she couldn't bring herself to look away from the terrified, begging hazel eyes.

 

She knelt in the charred dirt beside the soldier, her own trembling hands reaching out to hold the young woman's own. She took a deep breath and reached for the void calling that familiar writing energy to her as she guided it into the form that lay broken before her, a hand resting on the soldier's chest as the other held the shaking plated gauntlet tightly. "Shh... slow breaths..." She instructed, though in her mind she chastised herself for wasting energy on someone this far gone. She couldn't figure out why she was doing this, taking pity on this random person, it wasn't in her nature to do so but something was driving her to it despite her knowing the truth. The blight did not leave death in half measures.

 

The soldier's breathing slowed, it evened and eventually became shallow and less pained than before as that look of fear faded to something more peaceful. Her hand on the shoulders chest kept channeling the shadows, the whispers were deafening in her ears as nothing but the slow rise and fall of the wounded's chest and the cries of the dying broke the painful silence around her. After what felt like an eternity but could only have been seconds, she felt the plated gauntlet leave her own shaking hand to reach, placing a gentle touch on the side of the ren'dorei's face. "T-Thank you.." She breathed.

 

"What is your name, child?" She asked, her voice flat and completely empty of emotion as she looked coldly down towards her.

"N-Names... Rachel... F..Fairfield." She managed, "I t-thought I was dead... the other healers muttered but I could h-hear em'." She spoke, closing her eyes as a cough wracked her form causing Lasarra to redouble her efforts. It wouldn't be long now. "Shows em' right. Westfall gals, we're t-tough." She said with a hopeful smile.

 

That's the trouble about shadow mending. It takes a toll on the body, and if the body isn't strong enough to cope with it after the fact, then it's not very effective in the long run. There was no saving her anyway, not with her lungs destroyed at that level by that damnable blight. Lasarra let her features curl into a smile, though it was hollow and pained her greatly to do so. She continued channeling, pouring her energy into Rachel's chest as her hand reached up to hold the one resting on the side of her face. "Toughest girls I know." She said affirmingly. Rachel smiled widely at that, her eyes still closed, as her grip relaxed slowly and her hand fell to her side with a thud.

 

It was several long moments before the void mage moved a muscle. She couldn't figure it out, why this person? Why all of a sudden, did she feel so compelled? She attempted to rationalize it in her head, it must be the shock of everything that's happened. That had to be it, right? There's no other reason for it. Her face returned to her flat stonelike expression as she calmly brushed Rachel's hair away from her face, her gaze never leaving that peaceful, smiling expression. Tears welled in her eyes and soon fell freely down her cheeks, much to her own confusion. She just didn't get it, why this random soldier?

 

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against the cold metal plate of the dead girl's armor as she sobbed quietly. Deep down she knew why it bothered her, to see someone reaching out with nowhere left to turn, pleading for something, someone, anyone to save them. She knew it so well and it tore her heart to pieces. Her hands were shaking violently now, emotion and the use of her magic made the tremors so much worse and this only acted to amplify her emotional state. She clenched her hands into fists, balling them against the burnt earth as she caught another sob in her throat and swallowed it down.

 

She rose slowly, shaky on her feet with tears staining her face. She looked down one more time at the quiet, still and smiling form beneath her. She would remember that face, whether she wanted to or not.  For now, there were more soldiers, men, and women reaching for someone, anyone. Today, she would do her best to be that someone to, at the very least, ease their passage. As she began filtering through the rows again a single thought crossed her mind.

 

"I've grown weak."

 



Last edited by Cerellean on Oct. 27th, 2018 2:54 am; edited 2 times in total
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Boralus, Tradewinds Market: Verse Two

 

Much like a child wearing their parent’s clothing, the too-slender figure in the corner of the tavern sat huddled in robes far too large for her form. Little more than a skeleton within, the void mage drew the thick woolen robes around herself for what warmth she could manage. Damned cold. Damned moisture. This place is a hell filled with idiots and drunkards. She thought to herself, her head tilted downwards as she scowls so very intensely at her poor cup of tea.

Steam rolled from the fresh cup, though it remained untouched. Today had been a trying day, emotions and the use of her magic had left her feeling drained and as always this caused her tremors to worsen. Her hands shook within her robes as she stared longingly down at the chamomile tea she had ordered, a sigh escaping her nose while thoughts of the wasted silver she had spent on it filled her mind.

 

Lasarra sat quietly, watching the comings and goings of the patrons around her with quiet interest, finding a simple joy in the various faces that blurred into one another as the evening progressed to night. It was one of the few things she found amusing, all the different people that make up this place, always interesting characters to watch. She hadn’t moved in about two hours, her tea was now cold and a second cup had been set by the first by the waitress that was attending her table. She felt offended by it initially, angered by the pity on the kultiran’s face as she sat the cup gingerly before her. The feeling didn’t last long, emotions were fleeting for her and she found herself returning to her neutral, practiced state with a slow nod of thanks.

Pity is appropriate. She thought to herself, wincing at the blow she dealt on habit to her own pride. Best to keep it down, she needed to accept that she wasn’t ever going to be healthy again, her appearance was something that would retain that sickly pale look that drove some away and invoked the patronizing attention from others. She only had one person who didn’t treat her like some charity, but even they were kinder than they had reason to be.

 

Another moment of deathly silence. No one had bothered to sit at her corner table near the fire, perhaps they didn’t want to disturb her, perhaps they didn’t need to stay as warm as the near-corpse of a ren’dorei did. Either way, the solitude was something she both loved and hated. Another sigh, another kick at herself for wallowing in this self-pity. She straightened up, steeled her expression while her hand withdrew from the sleeves of her robes, reaching for the hot tea before her.

 

Her shaking palm managed to grab the cup, the rattling of the plate against it distressingly audible as she attempts to bring it to her lips. Tea spills on to the table, about half the cup makes it as she takes a single, long drink before the small cup slips on the way back down, shattering on the wooden surface as a thalassian swear sounds in a hiss from the mage.

The same waitress ducks back, apologizing profusely as if it were her fault she had chosen not to swallow her pride. Her hand slips back into her robe quickly as she spouts assurances that all was well and it was just a slip of the hand before rising, quickly and awkwardly excusing herself from the small tavern.

It was dark out, at this point. Very few souls floated down the streets of Tradewinds, the harbor bleeding into residential areas as she made her way to Dampwick where her friends were living in squalor. She pulls her hood up and keeps her head down, avoiding any and all attention when possible as she continues her walk home. All was silent, her footfalls made little sound beyond the shuffling of her robes but the grinding of her teeth was shattering, or at least it was to her.

Calm. She schooled herself, attempting to breathe deep and slow to relax the anger welling up from within. Calm yourself. She thought as her footfalls turned from dirt to stone, marking the arrival at the water’s edge just around the bend from her temporary home. You need to keep -- No. I can’t. I won’t. I’m so tired of this. She thought to herself as she lowered down, legs dangling off the side of the pier.

She drew up one knee and buried her face against it, hugging it with one arm as the other balls into a fist and punches half-heartedly at the ground beneath her in frustration. Keep calm to keep the sickness at bay, don’t use your magic frivolously to keep the illness down, she felt as if her life had once more began to simply be a never-ending act of coping and preventative measures and for a moment, she needed to let that out. Am I really even alive when all I do is try to cheat death? She thought to herself before wiping her eyes on her robes. Doesn’t matter. People still need me for now, I’ll stick around for them. I have to keep accepting this as it is. She continues, reasoning internally while the waves brush against the stone a few inches beneath her feet.

 

I can do this. Keep calm, breath, and next time ask for a damn straw.

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