The chill of ice was what first sent a shiver through the huddled, ragged form lying face down in the gray snow and ash. Wisps of condensing breath wound their way up from the man’s opened mouth. His breathing was ragged and a cough broke through every so often when ash was sucked into his lungs. Darkness swarmed all around him and cave walls seemed to ever so slowly collapse his world.

A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

 A very old, battered and what was once a little black book, but now mostly faded back to a pale, tamer sort of gray book were found on a desk in a hidden location somewhere in Undercity, its contents exposed, pages filled with neat, formal handwriting torn out in places or blotted out, with one freshly inked entry. 

Dear Diary. There was a slient pause, as the next words filled a few lines after the title

It's been a while. There has been so many things happening, since the last entry, that I have had not managed to fill the pages with, and it would be far too much to fill the pages, and not only that, there are things I'd rather forget.

The hunter comes awake with a violent startle, sitting bolt upright and meeting the timber wall with his shoulder. He rebounds to his feet and stands bristling and panting. His eyes make slow sense of the shapes in the dark. At the far end of the room a small hearth glows softly with burned down coals. His breath fogs the air in front of his face and he shudders, clammy and sweated from sleeping under furs.

 To Whomever reads this.

I never thought this would happen, I'm still reeling from the shock, and I am beginning to fear for my life. I cannot fathom what has taken place here and I can only assume that somehow, foul play was involved. That or Silvermoon politics are more corrupt or confusing than I could assume.

Hamlen Prideux was elected Convocate of regulation.

I did not expect to wake up on the day that marked my first full week back in Silvermoon, constantly checking my peripheral vision for guards I keep thinking are closing in. I still cannot understand the convocation's logic and right now i'm as on my guard as I could possibly be.

 To whomever reads this.

Well, I was barred from the running, not surprising, but I did feel a touch of regret that I didn't get to run.

Still, things are looking up, My position with the Pathstalkers that a friend of mine from Outland secured for me has been going well, I made my first arrest last night and I am thoroughly enjoying this way of giving back to the city.

Another piece of news, Today I joined House Volanthius, the House that Lady Ava is running currently. I feel that in this position, I can make my fallen son proud and myself, I can live the life I never thought i'd be able to.

 Arresting Guard: Pathstalker Gilthånås Soth

Prisoner name: Solarik

Prisoner occuptation: Death Knight

Charges: Attempted murder, resisting arrest, destruction of property, fraud of documents from Horde Leadership giving diplomatic immunity, threatening an Pathstalker

(( Been doodling steadily over the past few weeks, since I haven't had time for another fully colored CG image like Aji's bust. However, I'd like to share the material I start with before it becomes this. Oh. and huge possibly alignment stretching image, coming at you. ))

(( Subtle theme is subtle. Not. ))

Something cold and wet nudged her cheek, followed by warm breath and soft woof against her ear. Vanaja turned her head, lightly shoving at the furry head intruding on her space only to be met with a warm, wet tongue sliding the up length of her face.
 
“Oz! Stop it!” she grumbled as she turned over. She stiffened as the red wolf snagged one of her golden earrings with a fang. “Okay, okay. I’m awake. You can let go now.” She growled. The wolf woofed in her ear again and complied, stepping back to sit on his haunches, watching the orc, ready to pounce if she tried to fall back to sleep.

This...was not a good week.

Avaraelia paced slowly within her room, eyes narrowed in deep thought. By chance, she glanced up and saw her reflection in a mirror - a face typical of a young Sin'dorei woman. What was not typical was the slitted pupils or the violet hues of her eyes. She stopped pacing, drawing closer to the mirror.

Mistress Avriella...if only you could see me now. What would you think of me, I wonder? You, who were my idol...would you be proud of me for following in your footsteps to the letter? You probably wouldn't be too happy with me, considering the attempted coup within the Felsworn...Darah was definitely not pleased, nor was his father....

I smile, tucking my note into the frame of her mirror before snatching my stave. A glimpse of bright green eyes and the flash of my grin dart across the glass as I limp towards the door. I know I'm smiling like an idiot. Hopefully, she'll be doing the same soon enough, when she returns.

The town is desolate.

It's so small as to be as such even on it's busiest day.  The houses creak and groan from age. The wind passes through them like a dark thought, creeping inside your skull.

You've lived a lonely life. No paintings on the walls, nothing personal laying around. You do your rounds, barely sleeping.

Your house is silent, no children, no husband. You force yourself to go through the motions. The last time you were killed, they brought you back. I'm guessing you wished they hadn't.

Your life isn't your own. You go through the motions, and as you do, every day, you wish he'd come back and finish the job. But you know damn well they'll just keep bringing you back. Over and over. Because you're their savior. Their symbol of hope. You see the world as a penance, what have you done to deserve such a fate. You see everything in the village, even the invisible bars of your self imposed prison.

You're just what I need to impress him.

 To whomever reads this.

Today's entry will be a bit short, I will be out of the city for part of the day and won't be able to pen the long war stories I wrote down on pages Two and Three.

Life seems to be a constantly changing thing these days, one doesn't always hold onto the prejudices or opinions of yesterday and you must constantly figure out where your allegiance lies in regards to your friends and foes.

All has gone well with the coup, Karaka Ironfist reports that he will be replacing Ogramak by Friday and given the attitude he's shown towards the Felsworn, I doubt we'll see any more talk of civil war.

The small room she had rented in Dalaran was bathed in brilliant darkness. Heavy blankets covered the small window blocking out all sun light. Dark thick bolts of cloth were stuffed around the door frame, preventing any light from seeping in, and muffled any noise coming from the hallway. In the center of the small room, Zaazas sat motionless on the plain wooden chair. In front of her, a small work table. In the middle of the table lay a Dark Jade and Forest Emerald. To either side of the small gems were arranged tools from her Jeweler's kit. Completing the set were two tiny bowls. One gave off a faint glow of soft white, the other, a soft glow of gold, as if the tiniest sliver of sunset resided within. Zaazas sat completely motionless. Her eyes were closed. She slowly let her breath escape her lips. Calm. Relaxed. Ease. Sitting there in complete darkness, relaxed, her mind saw what her eyes could not.

Emerald Eyes.

 To whomever reads this.

Sathard, Aullin and I are planning a coup.

We're going to remove Alagosen and Ogramak, both powerful fighters in their own right, from the action in Silvermoon, to avoid civil war on the streets. Sathard has promised to have Alagosen rendered indisposed from the fighting, while Aullin and I will find Ogramak. The official plan is for a Orc named Karaka Ironfist to remove Ogramak from the fighting peacefully, but if that doesn't happen, then Aullin and I will silence Ogramak permanently.

Staroda stepped through the portal, instantly teleported to the Purple Parlor. Glancing around, having never been up here, he spotted who he had come here to meet, just as she activated her guildstone.

“Alright Staroda, sorry for the delay.” Lirriel said, not noticing the warrior approaching.

“Priestess.” Staroda said. He smile faintly as he moved to where she could see him, out on the balcony.

“Oh, there you are.” She smiled, “How are you this evening?”

Staroda shrugged a bit. “As well as can be, I suppose. And yourself? How does the married life treat you?” he asked her with a smile.

Lirriel smiled, her hands beginning to fiddle with her rings. “It goes rather well. I'm happy and relaxed, so far as that goes. Always something new, though.”

((I'm apologizing in advance for the dry, uninspired wall of text! Caveat lector.))

Three days ago I learned that, in spite of the old saying, you can go home again.

 To whomever reads this,

Its my Fourth day in Silvermoon, Four days of grief and hunting for Aullin and last night, I found him.

Standing in the private viewing room of the bank, Zaazas carefully lifted the delicate dress out of box she had retrieved from the bank vault and set it on the small table. She then began the task of disrobing from her battle gear. Once undressed, she folded her armor carefully and placed the items, as well as her sword and shriveled heart, carefully back into the vault container and slipped carefully into her most prized possession: Her Dress. Peering into a small mirror, she straightened the garment, smoothed out a minor wrinkle, adjusted the fit, and rang the bell to let the vault keeper know that she was finished and she slipped past the delicate silk privace curtain and exited the bank.

 To whomever reads this.

Its been two days since I came back to Silvermoon, two agonizing days. I never should have left to fight in Outland for the Scryers, if I hadn't, Gilthås would still be alive. Perhaps, to clear up any doubt, in case I'm not the only one to ever read this, I should start from the beggining.

*Keldares is looking for a new home he has woundered for many many years and now is looking for a place were we can call home a nice quite place, away from wars and all the fihgting he is ready to  settle down.

I knock at the back door of Madame Portrelle's Academy of Deportment just a few minutes before the clock strikes ten and a woman in a plain dress with the look of a maid about her answers the door with a suspicious look.

"I was asked to come."  I say, handing her the card Mister Worth had given me.  Her eyebrows go up and I am thinking that she recognizes the handwriting because she just nods and opens the door for me.

I once believed I had chosen my profession for the gratitude I was given.

To see that look of pure relief on my patients’ faces, when the pain was at long last replaced with soothing warmth, that is my joy. Fresh blood filling newly repaired vessels, clean and working as intended once more; my desire. Gashes sealed, infection burned away, scars settled and diminished with the time it takes me to draw breath; my skill. The exultation in the sudden release from torment, and the return of function; my gift. I thought I was a healer because they viewed me as a worker of magic, some keeper of great secrets, divinity, in a way.

I know better now.

A smile spread across Loryth's face. "Doraana is w-waiting to be with us, a-and I know.. that Elk would be just as h-happy as I if you w-would join us in our h-happiness.." 

Confusion. When did.. no. No, please gods no.. and yet, the memory played over in that dream, and she was unable to stop it.

"Is it n-not customary for children to h-have Godparents.. ?" she continued, letting fingers trail through her hair slowly.

'Please.. please wake up. Someone wake me up before this goes on again..'

Dense, chorded muscles slackened against the thin titansteel chains which bound them.  The Kal'Dorei dangling in the air was no longer lucid; lost in the grim treatise of agony his body had proven capable of surviving.  The air was rancid with the stench of his scorched flesh.  A putrid collection of boiled flesh seared against burnt blood marked every single milimeter of his body.  Infection had begun to set in, adding to the pungent smells.  Even his eyelids had been scorched to tatters; shrinking back over his now exposed eyeballs.  His parched throat had grown too rough to scream, and just taking a breath forced him to gag.