journal

Winter is coming to Silvermoon. Though you can hardly even tell, as Brewfest is just wrapping up. Winter, darkness. The time when my mother passed on. I can still remember her too; her gentle face, those deep green eyes that seemed to know everything. She passed to the next life in the wintertime. Has it really been nearly 20 years? Then again, what is time to me, a Sin'dorai? Father loved her greatly. I wish to find that love someday as well. But it seems I am cursed to do so. My heart, as open as Spring, yet is laid bare like the Winter that comes before us.I have mostly given up, despite what others have said.

The Journal of Academician Coppert M. Franzenbolt

Day 17: Icecrown Glacier

Day:16 Month:12

Today I made myself visit that awful place...the trees covered in cobwebs - where skeletons and zombies still wander unchecked.

I had to do it, it feels like I've only slidden farther and farther downhill since first being injured there. I had to see them with my new sight, my new sense of smell....I ran there, on all fours...and I almost lost myself. The sensation was exhilirating! I hear the druids talk about how the Emerald Dream is so peaceful that one can get lost there for millenia...that's how it is to run wild, and unchecked.

((More of a first attempt at a journal style writing, though I don't really write journals myself.))

This is my first journal entry since the change, everything has been changing to fast until now for me to write anything down. I’d thought my mind would be lost forever to the rage of the curse, roaming around Gilneas with murder in my head. That is atleast until I ran into Darius Crowley. He and the other feral worgen had regained their sanity mostly in part to the night elves who’d arrived on Gilneas. I’d never seen an elf before, let alone blue and purple ones, though at the time I was mostly trying to strangle their throats against my restraints before they set about helping me to tame and gain control over the beast within me.

First Entry

September 25

There has been no change.

I had thought that reclaiming my soul would somehow magically return emotion to me, but it seems my efforts were in vain.

I have been injured since, and still there is not the barest hint of pain. I have been threatened, even unto my own death, by one who seemed competent enough to complete the task, and have felt no fear. There is no joy, no sadness.

I had been so certain.

Odd.

My eyes have begun leaking some substance. I feel it freeze upon my cheeks, but I do not have a name for this. Perhaps I have acquired some ailment? It is not altogether unheard of: the King Himself suffered an unnatural malaise after exposure to the Forsaken Blight. I have had no such encounter, but then, I do not know what, precisely, the orcish robot contained. Beyond simple explosives, anyway.

Regardless.

It pains me to bring these memories back...to re-open old scars, it is needed however, if I am to go to my death with a clean slate, having confessed everything I have seen and done.

The log book of my life seems to have been lost with a recent shipment and a few of my crew, quite the hassle to deal with when under emotional stress that the crew is not to know about. As such, I am starting a new journal, a "captain's log" of my travels and experiences. I hope to not have this one burned as the last one was by an enraged green-skin with extreme powers in demonic flames of some sort; we almost lost the ship in that mess. This has, in return, has made my trust of these "warlocks" even more to an opposing angle, but my personal feelings of the powers a person decides to follow cannot get in the way of business.

 To Whomever reads this.

I am currently writing this from the infirmary in Warsong Hold. I started this morning very early and very suddenly. We were yanked from our bedrolls at about four in the morning and marched up to the roof of the fortress where a Magister used some sort of flying...carpet or something to transport us behind enemy lines.

Our job was simple, yet it loomed greatly.

We were to drive a set of tanks through the plains of Nasam and cut down as many Undead as we could, to clear ourselves a path to a outpost near the overrun Warsong Farms and to Warsong Hold.

We had to repair the damn things first.

 To Whomever reads this.

I've been drafted again, for how long, I do not know. I've been sent, along with the remaining members of my parole squad from Outland, and some fresh blood, straight out of Silvermoon. My squad and I have been sent to Warsong Hold in the Borean Tundra, Northrend. A flat, plateau of land with craters and mining pits that isn't worth fighting over except to drive back the lines of the Nerubians. 

 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.

If you have read the other four pages, you know well now the story of my life on Murder Row and my tour of duty in Outland. But today, I have decided to talk about something different, today's page will be more on philosophy than anything else.

 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.

 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.

 To whomever reads this,

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

 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.

              I cannot believe how utterly foolish I had been not to keep a journal until now.  As a child, I often scribbled down my daily life, but the notion now seems so much more…valuable.  It hasn’t been so very long since the good Sir sent me forth from Northshire, but the time since has been a grand adventure.  I could strike myself for neglecting to keep a record of everything. 

((Feel free to leave your comments!))

   "The odd traveler stepped through the gates of Stormwind, a wide-brimmed hat blocking the sun from his eyes as he trods along his staff tapping lightly upon the cobble stone with each step of his hooves, a large boar and a small rabbit trodding along by his side. He lifted his head up high, proud of his heritege, taking in the sight of his surroundings, greeting people as he passed them by, smiling at the young children as they chased each other down the street. His mind thinking of his life up to this point.

 -The words on the page are scrawled all over, in differing sizes and handwritings-

I'M STILL AWAKE!

Journal entry: 

It rained last night.

A young blood elven girl sits on the balcony of a townhouse in downtown Silvermoon. Her short red hair is pulled back in a tiny pigtail, barely longer than the width of the band holding it back. Her long, short-sleeved shirt flaps a little over her loose pants as she leans over the railing to wave at another woman on the street.

The woman waves back. She looks a few years older than the other girl by human reckoning, with a similar face and identical hair color. She has a fairer complexion than the girl, however, and her hair is tied up in a loose bun. After the wave, she walks away in the direction of the less popular districts.

The girl on the balcony sighs and sits down in a chair with a young tiger lounging under it. She pulls out a small book and starts to write in it with a pencil.

I found him near the outer ramparts of The Argent Vanguard. He was a private of the Crusade; fresh from Stormwind, no doubt. He was young enough to be my Great-Grandson. The closest to personal death he had probably ever come was the passing of his grandmother. And here he was, dying in Northrend; surrounded by the storms of death.

Some abominable construct of The King had gutted him nearly clean through. I did my best to save him, I really did… but…

He-

He thought I was the one who killed him.

Journal,

I do love reading poetry, but there are few collections I can really find. Don't be jealous, I like reading you too, so I am going to put some poetry in and keep you at the top of my interest list. A jealous journal makes for a stressful entry. So here, tell me what you think.

She wrote in her journal, a pass-time she took to when she was a child, though it had been quite a while since her last entry to of her soul. But last night was different. She signed off her name as her eyes were closing to find rest after a long day. When she awoke there was a blanket on her and a small paragraph on the bottom of her latest journal entry.

Do you regret meeting every one in Silvermoon, Lady Moriurya? How are your Kodo ridding lessons coming? And are we ever going to go on the Expidition into Zul'farrak?

She was stunned at these words, surprised they were there in a journal of which was part of her. And she knew who it came from, this message that appeared overnight. She wrote back, no idea what would happen.

Dear Journal,

It has been quite a while since I last wrote in you, and I appologize that you have been so left out of my life. I didn't try to loose you, it was your fault for jumping out of my bags while I was traveling to Thousand Needles. I guess we are lucky though that a Tauren found you and could not read the cursive elven language. I am glad that I am the Ambassador between elves and Tauren so that you didn't get put into the hands of some other elf.

Nothing really new has happened since my contact with Dimetri about his "demons". He checked himself into the "Asylum of Magical Mishaps", though they still can find nothing wrong with him besides his lust for certain nurses.

Lisa has yet to learn her lesson, letting her journal out of her sight for the fourth time.  This time, she's left it sitting atop a mailbox whilst chatting with a ponytailed gnome who appears to have been recently rained upon.  If you'd like to sneak a peak at it while doing your mailing, click here.  To turn the pages, click on the corners, or click and drag the mouse.

Once again, a rugged yet ragged gnomish journal sits unattended in Stormwind while its owner fails to pay attention to its whereabouts.  This time, she seems to be chatting with a red-headed gnome in military uniform a few yards away.  If you'd like to read a few pages while her back is turned, click here.  To turn the pages, click on the corners, or click and drag the mouse.

Sitting atop a park bench is a journal bound with sturdy metal hinges and sporting yellow caution stripes.  Sitting directly adjacent to it is a white-haired and somewhat chubby gnome who appears to be in the middle of a much-needed nap.  If you'd like to sneak a peek at the book before its owner wakes up, click here.  To turn the pages, click on the corners, or click and drag the mouse.