Do You Know Why I’m Here?

The writing at first seems larger than normal, more neat–almost showy. It looks that special care has been given to the lettering, as well as the gramatical structure of the sentences (a contrast to the general laxness of old entries). However, it seems that the author has struck out the writing, though the words are still legible.

I’ve progressed a shocking amount in the last few days. I’ve learned how to mix poisons to coat my blades, and I’ve also taken up engineering as a profession. I’ve been spending a lot of time in Hillsbrad, and it’s a quaint place if it weren’t for all of the humans and dwarves.

The script becomes smaller, almost jagged: more difficult to read, as if written in a frantic haste.

I need to be away from Hillbrad, don’t think I can spend even one more night there. It ain’t an ugly place, but something ’bout it just makes my insides hurt. I keep feelin’ like I’ve been here ‘fore, but there’s no way I could’ve. I’m not even a century old, and only maybe ventured s’far as Lordaeron to see my father before the plague hit there. Even those trips I barely remember, I was so young.

So why… why do I walk these roads like I’ve been here before? Why does everything seem so damned familiar?

In the early hours of the morning when I sleep, I have dreams that leave me to wake in a cold sweat. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming–only that it’s an angry dream, and my mouth tastes bitter and metallic, like’ve been chewing on dirty bullets. Something always feels like its pullin’ me by my gut, pushing me somewhere abouts north–it’s a feeling that only comes on me in the moments where I’m still half-sleeping, and only in Hillsbrad.

I know what’s to the north–never been there (no, no I have never been there, I can’t have, that wouldn’t make sense) but I know that somewhere north is where the Dalaran mages stood against the Scourge. I know my father spent his time there before the Third War, though what he did I haven’t the slightest.

I won’t go there though. I won’t indulge this… whatever this is. I have not been here before. I have not been to Dalaran, and I know it only s’far as what I may’ve seen of its troops in passing in Silverpine.

Last night I had one of those dreams again. This time… I remembered a bit more. Right before I woke up I heard, “Do you know why I’m here?” and for this life of me, I can’t get those words out of my head. Just thinking ’bout it makes my stomach turn. Was my own voice, too, asking. Do you know why I’m here. And in that second… in that second it hadn’t been like dreamin’ but like rememberin’.

I can’t stay my nights here any more. I’ll look for work in the next continent; anything to get away from this feeling. And then the dreams will stop.

Just let ‘em stop.

The Sound of Opportunity Knocking.

This has to be somewhat quick, as I need to get on my way towards Shadowfang Keep in a few moments. It’ll be my first time fighting alongside the Silverlord and Lady Kar’lei, so I suppose I can hope that I don’t make any stupid mistakes. But, eh, if I do? Things happen, and we’re all still learnin’.

The other night I had to go to the Undercity for the first time. A nice Sin’dorei lady saw me looking around all confused and helped me find my way in. Well, sure I’d've found it eventually, but I’m not the kinda person that’s gonna scoff at a friendly gesture, right? I dropped off an amulet to Lady Sylvannas, and she weren’t too happy about it. Can’t rightly blame her.

It felt kind’ve sick to see her. Not ’cause she’s dead, cause really I ain’t squeamish about them Forsaken folken like everyone else seems t’be, but… them Undead, they’re just so sad, innit? Just a sad situation.

Don’t like to think about what it would be like, never feeling warm again. I’m not a minion of bloodlust like some’ve us Sin’dorei, but I think I’d face the Nether rather’n never feel my heart all caught in my throat right before I fall onto my target. Or losing the feelin’ of plunging my blades so far into the gut of some creature that my arms’re encased up to the elbow, their body hot and twisting for the last time. Hell, just missin’ the heat of a lover’s breath, that dizzying fire… for all of what? Immortality, maybe. But what good’s the immortality of a stone-like thing?

Best get going.

First Impressions.

Mazikeen propped herself up in the Silvermoon Inn, feet crossed at the ankle set along a separate chair. It was approaching daybreak, but hadn’t quite reached that mark yet–the slowest hour of the day, by far. Most had gone to sleep, and even the early risers were generally not yet awake; if a few were, then they certainly weren’t out drinking yet, and she was enjoying a rare moment of near-solitude in the Inn. On the upper floor she was alone, save for another, older Sin’dorei who was so bent over his drink that she assumed he was sleeping. In any case, he wasn’t bothering her.

In her lap was an opened book–it was bound in leather and each page was blank, though slightly colored with age. Taking up the short quill that she had set down for herself, she dipped the tip in the nearby ink pot. With a short sigh, she began to write in a script that was small and angular.

Never was much of one for writing down my thoughts. After all, one only knows how many secrets someone like myself carries, right? Even secrets on the inside ain’t always safe, and they sure ain’t better off on parchment. Got this pretty thing off’ve a geezer-old sorcerer of sorts–fair and square, given to me back only a short time after the Sunwell… yeah. Helped him a turn, he paid me in what he could. Said ain’t nobody will be read it, save its owner. Then he gave it to me, and I thanked him. Had no idea what I’d do with it though. Actually thought I’d pawned it some time back.

But anyway, lately…

Feeling kind of mixed up inside, and that’s new. Even during the hard days after the Sunwell went, it wasn’t like this. I knew what I had to do, and that was help my kin where I could, and survive (not always in that order, you know, but something like it). I thought joining up with the Silverguard would sort all that out, and I guess that’s a cowards way out, ain’t it? You step back and try to let other people order you ’bout, cause you don’t want to figure it out for yourself.

That ain’t all fair though. I want to help us Blood Elves, and I know the Silverguard’s got that in mind. If I can be helping our people more’n hurting them, that’s damn fine.

I’ve only been with them roughly a week or so, but its been a busy week. The Ghostlands are still all torn up, and I feel like even if I fight till my arms are caked with that thick black ghoul-blood, there’s always just too many. Seems like we keeping throwing young Blood Elf bodies at the problem, and that ain’t solving anything worth batshit.

Last night I stood around while a new member of the Silverguard, warlock named Zaliron or some such, got branded. He was an interesting character, far as that goes. Figures himself as some kinda charmer, my guess. Seemed harmless enough, though I can’t say that everyone took him as lightly as I did. Eh, I’ll save my anger for someone a little more deserving.

And of course, there was the moment when I tried to make a joke, which failed somewhat, well, miserably. Leave it at that.

Also got a payment letter from House Erestir ’round that time. The sent it on one of those Blood Knights, and she didn’t seem to have a high opinion of me. No matter though, she wouldn’t be the first. Probably’ll have a few more run-ins with that House, account of they pay well enough and for honest enough work. Slightly less honest maybe than the work they give their Knights, but s’fine by me.

The old, sleeping Sin’dorei let out a loud snore, that cause Mazikeen’s eyes to look up sharply, though she didn’t change her reclining posture. When she listened hard enough, though the Inn was still quiet, she could here the beginnings of movement outside. The sun would be rising shortly.

Without bothering to offer a conclusion to her entry, Mazikeen twisted a top onto the small ink pot, and wiped the tip of the quill off on one of the cloth napkins available on the table next to her. She slid both items into her bags, and then carefully shut her journal. The Rogue stood, stretched high, arching her back, and then tucked the book under her arm. With that she quietly left the Inn, tossing a few copper down for the couple of drinks she had had, and made her way back to the Silverguard Halls.