letters

Several days later, another package arrives at the door of Miss Fallowtide complete with a handwritten note. This time, the note was not in the fine stationery of Frostmana, but still bore the same stamp. The contents appear to have come from Dalaran, with exception of the note. Inside were some fresh apples, a bottle of Apple juice from Applebough the Living Tree (in Dalaran), and some balm for aching joints. The letter continues from where the last one left off...

Judiciary,

I apologize profusely, I may have accidentally "hooked" your mother "up" with the Commander this evening.

"Morning, Grosh!"

The burly orc looked up from where he had been washing the floor. A spunky goblin with an over-sized hat was waving at him. Her overly enthusiastic greeting was accompanied by an obvious overabundance of energy contained in her diminutive frame. The hat shielded her eyes, leaving only a bright smile and wisps of her turquoise tresses visible. Grosh groaned as he rose up on his feet, though whether it was from the effort or due to the visitor could be open to interpretation.

His expression was neutral, though it was flirting with mild irritation. "Aren't you here a bit early, Razzleshaft?"

"Oh, come on Groshy-baby! Don't be so formal!" she gleefully replied. "Call me Pikki! It's not like we're strangers, am I right?"

"Regretfully, no," he mumbled under his breath. The wet sponge in his fist was slowly drained of water.

Being the mailwoman in a magical city state like Dalaran, there are amazing perks to the job. I get to read the mail of very old letters that no one claims, neat huh? Sadly, the only ones I ever see are the ones from soldiers to their families. Of course, it passes the time when I'm in my little room above the Ledgermain Lounge. But still, it would be nice to have a letter from someone that cares about you in a far away land.

I uncover a wooden box, filled with hundreds of letters from people who never bothered to claim their parcels. Each letter is alphabetized in slots, preserved dilligently by my tireless efforts. I would kill to have someone in my life that meaningful, who raised up a son or daughter. Removing my favorite letter, I silently muse over this one from a soldier writing to his daughter.

Marjolaine:

     Fall. What a beautiful season. The Half-Elf had always loved walking in the forest every day, watching the leaves on the trees slowly change over time. It was a very tranquil way to start his day. However, it seemed as if he wouldn't get the chance to do so again this year.

He was under quarantine. 

He still wasn't sure how he'd contracted this new plague, whether it was from the girl who had approached Kade after Fancy Cakes or from Rya. He hoped it hadn't been from Rya. She'd been through a lot lately, she didn't need an illness like this on her plate.

In any case, Gilthånås had a few ideas how to soften the news of his current inability to travel. Ael's servants had lent him parchment and a quill, now all he had to do was word the letter right.

  I thumbed through a book that had far to many bent pages.  I had dog eared each one, seeing something of importance, but no such luck for my new task.  I welcomed the distraction, though it would prove challenging indeed. I hadn’t tried to teach a warlock since Wraithlynn was still alive but she was a poor excuse for a warlock to begin with.  Dante served a greater purpose in the accidental demise of her adopted sister, more then she knew and certainly more then she could remember. Her maze like mind had been ready to bury that atrocity with all the others she had suffered and I wasn’t one to dig it up.
 

Daevra shifted on her hooves before the mailbox. She tried very hard to keep her guilty feelings out of the Meddler's Link by focusing on the crowds gathered for lunch on the Blue Recluse's patio.

Her efforts to get more information from Ahmik had been fruitless. He knew something about the baker, but wouldn't tell Daevra no matter how she asked. If Sasha was hiding something, Daevra didn't know the right questions to ask her elders to find out what it was; they all had much more practice covering their tails than she did. Fine; let Sasha have her secrets, but she had no right to begrudge Daevra her own, then. Assuming she ever had any that didn't involve Sasha.

The stillness of the night was broken by nothing but the soft buzz of cicada.  The large hut was empty now, save for the still, linen-wrapped figure and the skinny, worn-looking troll sitting next to it.  Moshir smiled, looking around.  The night’s darkness cast shadows around the room, the soft wind blowing away the heat of the day.  The brash, loud one with his heavy armor and hard voice was gone now.  He reached into his robe, pulling out the two envelopes he’d found left in his room in Orgrimmar.

Dad,

Sorry I haven't been writing a lot lately. Things've been rather hectic in my life lately, but after certain recent events I've realized I should be a little more regular with letters. I don't want you or Reala fretting over whether I've gone and made a corpse out of myself or anything morbid like that. Which I haven't, by the way, though I've managed to come close a couple of times by now. More on that later though.

I have a personal gryphon now. Alliance forces use them quite frequently for rapid troop movement into and out of problem areas as well as major population centers. In fact, there's a whole network of stables from which people can borrow a beast trained to fly to specific destinations.

She's all snowy white; I call her Skychaser. I thought her plumage made it look like she'd be at home soaring across the sky running down clouds. It was a bit tricky to learn how to ride and take care of her, but I think it was time well-spent.

Se’ala,

Sorry it took me so long to write back, but I’ve been busy preparing.  My friends have been pressing me to go, and I am now ready to visit you in Outland.  I would like you to show me the city of Shattrath, and the place that was on the picture, as well.

I hope you can survive on just the fungus until I arrive, for I will make sure you get some decent food.  I hope we will be able to spend much time together, but I will understand if your duties prevent us from being able to do much together.

Hoping to see you soon!

Moshir

The soft scratching of the tip of the quill against the paper stopped as he signed.  One last time he looked at the letter and postcard, and then he folded his own letter, sealing it in an envelope.

((A week after Greetings from Shattrath.))

(( Parts One and Two can be found in Journal Entry of Scandalous Thoughts ... which is a horribly named blog. ))

Journal,

Remind me to never expect anything of men; romantics are long gone, in the past, and ancient history. If men are all the same, which they are beginning to look like it, then I might just give up on emotions and become the cat librarian.

The boy, Red, decided to send me roses with a letter attached. The colour in the flower, an orange/coral, conveys desire and is so very much like that of his hair I almost want to burn them and see if they change to the black of death.

((IC response to A Letter for Violet))

I felt the cool air and smelled the dust and smoke that hung lightly in the air.  My eyes opened slowly; the dim lights in the Cleft of Shadows helped me gently swing from sleep to consciousness.  My mind took a while to understand what it was seeing.  Green skin, large ears, bug eyes, sharp teeth.  Slowly the thoughts emerged, why was there—

I cried out, scrambling back.  The tiny goblin that crouched near my bed flinched, shrieking in return.  The thick furs I’d laid out for a bed crumpled and scattered as the goblin began to shout in a loud voice.

Artisania Stillwater-Ell’Karan hurried across the bluffs, a piece of paper in her hand.
 
For some time, she had been getting her mail delivered to the University of Kalimdor library on Spirit Rise.  It just seemed, well, safer that way.  Bluffwatchers were always posted outside and if a bomb went off there it wouldn’t ruin her own rugs or expensive pottery collection, or her favorite throw-pillow.  Granted, it could ruin a great many priceless books, instead.  But most dangerous items were directly addressed to the University anyway, so those books probably knew their fate when they signed up.
 
It had seemed to be the way of the University all these years, after all. The letter in her hand only proved that further.

The weight of the ham - wrapped in cloth and secured about Echo's wrist with a loop of butcher's twine - balanced the weight of the basket hung over her opposite arm, which was full of potatoes, apples, onions and yams.  Between them, she cradled a sack full of lighter things: bundles of sage, thyme and marjoram, a bouquet of greenhouse flowers.  Despite the planning which had gone into burdening herself, still she more or less waddled down the Stormwind docks.  Her mind, likewise, carried an abundance of cooking times, recipes, double-checked ingredients and most of all hopes for a successful family dinner.  It was to be the first, formally, on board the houseboat.

miss you. Have you written to

class that couldn’t possibly be more mund

were here, I wouldn’t have to feel so

me. Next semester? We should

ssed trials. After, maybe you could visit

    It had happened fast. Like accidents or disasters do, each moment tumbled into the next. Like an artist’s flip-book of pictures, only the images didn’t match up.

rewriting a chapter for thurs

vintage you like? I’ll pick up a bot

thinking of you. It was funny, the

Lir,

Two steps back.

In the world of Azeroth, millions of parcels and letters travel via mail day in and day out.  Most of the time, these items make it to their intended destinations.

However, occassionally there is a package or a letter that does not or cannot make it to the person that it's addressed to.  Sometimes it's purely unintentional.  Other times it's done on purpose.  Regardless of how it's initially sent, though, by the wings of fate or some other mysterious means, these messages and packages will all end up in the same location...

...The dead letter mailbox.

Dad,

I've landed safely in Stormwind. The boat trip over wasn't as bad as getting to Teldrassil in the first place. Boats weren't nearly as crowded this time, I actually had room to stretch out without jabbing someone in the ribs.

I'm going to have to find some way of sending you an image of what the city looks like over here, it's just so huge and bright that nothing I write here is really going to do it any justice. Might just have to settle with 'huge and bright' for now. And open. There's a lot more room in the inner city streets than there was back home. And the canals, I'd be willing to bet after seeing them that you could get anywhere you wanted to go here just by dropping a rowboat in.

Dear Dad,

I wish I could write with better news.  I have confirmed that Lise is dead.  A Forsaken plaguebringer at what remains of the farms was wearing her wedding ring.  Before he died of his wounds, he admitted that he had taken it from a body of a woman.  He didn't live long enough to describe any others he had seen.  Clearly I need to refine my technique.

It has been five days now, and I am still hoping, but not expecting to find any survivors.  The Forsaken were very thorough, and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to slip past their guard and get into Hillsbrad.  They are tightening their grip on the borders every day.  My companions in the search for survivors, Echo Martin and Credence Black, have offered me shelter at House DeWynter in Alterac, but it may not remain safe to stay here.  Our daily forays into enemy territory are becoming more dangerous, and every day the chances of finding refugees dwindle.