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.

You're an idiot.

You must have some idea of what you've just done.  You may be some country peasant, but even a few days here should make you realize that the words "Lady Convocate" mean something.  I could have you stabbed in the middle of the street.  I could have you locked up for crimes you can't even fathom and no one would have the desire or the means to oppose me.  I could have set you up with the nicest house in the countryside, and funded your little tea-making adventures for the rest of your life.  Damn, you are an idiot.

This is pathetic!  I don't even have any reason to like you.  You're thick, you're simple, and your sense of humor is decidedly lacking.  There are a hundred people in the city that would kill for a night with me, from nobles to thugs.

Alright, maybe not a hundred, but a few, certainly.

A cold autumn wind moaned around the towers of Schloss Trockenheim, bringing the promise of an early snow.  But for now the passes were clear and the wedding guests could enjoy Count Trockenheim's hospitality for another few days.  In the castle's great hall a pair of roaring fireplaces did their best to hold back the cold despite the wind that rattled the windows and the drafts the made the heavy wall hangings flutter and the guests shiver despite their formal clothes of velvet, brocade, and fur.

In one corner, Theraesia von Haller nodded mechanically and sipped a cup of wine as she did her best to ignore her mother.

"You're not listening to me, dear."  The dowager Baroness von Haller frowned at her eldest daughter over her own cup.

Theraesia racked her brain for the last thing her mother had said.  "Of course I'm listening to you, mother."

((The following letter is dropped off in the early morning for delivery to Lady-Convocate Rosewater as a generalized complaint. If the guard who took the letter is questioned on the identity of the citizen, he did not get the man’s name. Description would be given as a tall, lanky Elf of mid-adult age with copper hair and freckles. The man seemed to have a brogue accent of lower class when they exchanged brief greetings. Clothing would be described as “dark”, but nothing standing out in particular to the guard’s mind))

To the Lady-Convocate Rosewater,

Elune's a bitch sometimes; that's the way nature is, after all.  Like I've said before, the Light's nice when you want philosophy and all that, but when you want to get something done you need someone or something to pray too.  Outsiders look at the Temple and only see the big stone front.  That's just stage dressing, really.  There's all sorts of schools, factions, sects, cults, and such.  Some you can't tell apart and some might as well be worshiping a different goddess.  And, frankly, some are just old feuds that have gotten themselves set in stone.  It's gotten me in trouble a time or two, assuming I knew more about things than I really do.  On the other hand, I don't have ten thousand years of bullshit weighing me down.

"You're a maggot, and you've always been one."

Faelidra released her grip on the thin, pointed man, and he came crashing to the floor. After a yelp of pain, he rubbed his temples and opened his eyes. He followed the muscular curvature of her elongated ankles to where they supported alien-looking knees and thighs. Her torso above was thicker, but attractive, save for the unhealthy-looking discolorations in the form of spots running up her chest and shoulders.

"Gawking as ever, I see. Shut your eyes," she laughed the rest of her sentence, "...pervert."

"Councilman Yer'micha. You had some closing remarks?"

The Order of Tirisfal came to a uniform silence, some clearing their throats, others taking sips from their goblets. Their eyes shifted to the tall, middle-aged elf now standing to address them. In toast fashion, he held his own glass into the air.

"Tonight we celebrate the innovative minds of Dalaran's youth. Tomorrow morning, they will take their first steps in representing our nation by leaving the protected walls of our great city and venturing into an internship of the highest regard!" Yer'micha paused at this, his eyebrows twitching. The Council was all smiles, lifting their glasses, uttering phrases like "Indeed" or "Here, here."

The young man in the Watch uniform cleared his throat politely, the sound distinct in the almost empty tavern. 

"Milady von Haller?"  He said when she looked up.  "Captain Whethers' compliments and he'd like to see you at your convenience."

Which meant now, of course.  George Whethers didn't like to be kept waiting.  Theraesia took a last long pull off her ale and stood up.  "Right"  She said.  "Where's the old bastard hanging out these days?"

The young man smiled faintly.  "The Keep, ma'am."

Unlike most of the Stormwind Watch, Whethers' young men were uniformly smart, polite, and unbribeable; it didn't hurt that he creamed off the best recruits for his own operation.

The following document was seized from an office rented to the Order of Magicks in Stormwind, pursuant to reports that an individual exiled under pain of detainment and questioning (Amara Niall of the Ghost Scions) was seen at the location. These pages from a journal identified as belonging to him were taken as "seditious materials proving anti-government intentions," and several office aides were arrested for questioning.

Journal of the 11th day of the 10th month, 4th year after my father's death.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

Alen Thornsom turned to face the speaker of such a diffident tone, his lips pursing in annoyance at being interrupted by one of the Dragoons -again-. Not even real military, and this one doubtlessly still a recruit from the looks of her. How old was she? Sixteen, seventeen? And green as spring grass by the looks of her. He harrumphed. "Yes, Dragoon?" He felt rather like rolling his eyes at her shy, uncertain salute but returned one of his own out of sheer habit. Damn spoiled noble's brat, more than likely; they always got the cushy, showy jobs.

Yestere'en the Queen had four Marys, tonight she'll hae but three.
There was Mary Beaton and Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael, and me.
It's often hae I dressed my Queen and put gold in her hair
But noo I've gotten for my reward the gallows tae be my share.
-  Mary Hamilton, trad.

November.

Jenet Bell frowned again as they went over the accounts, trying to follow the numbers her steward was rattling off.

"So what you're saying," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "Is that we have just enough to pay for everything if nothing goes wrong."

Old Will Steward nodded.  "Pretty much."  He'd been her father's sworn man since before she was born and steward of Girsonfield for nigh on twenty years now. "With the rents that have come in and the other dues you're owed we can cover what you and the estate owe with a little left over."

Dear Journal,

I know you never get that feeling that you are being followed, mainly because you are a book, but I wonder if anyone else feels like they are being tracked by hidden enemies and/or allies. I know that I have had spies on me for at least a year now, but I did not think they would stick around so long. Persistent little buggers, I must admit.

Thunderbluff was as beautiful as ever. A soft rain left the plains in glow, making me wish I wasn't told to come back. I know that "come back to Silvermoon now" were not his exact words, but his words on the paper definitely suggested that Convocate Goldleaf did not want me out and did not trust me as a bureaucrat and an ambassador. So I left Thunderbluff about a week earlier than I wished. Oh well ... no time to relax I guess when there is chaos to be had.

I've been marching for a long time now. I haven't stopped getting up and heading out every day, not since Durnholde, even when Kast re-formed the Scions. I started marching double-time when he showed up again. I have the feeling I'm still in retreat. The forces of the scourge seem a lesser obstacle than settling down and finding someplace to fit in again at times, but that's not really it. I could go back to Shattrath if I wanted to quit. The Scryers would laud me as a hero for the rest of my life, and even the aldor admit a grudging respect for my actions in the Shattered Sun campaign, even if I hung up my armor and lay in the World's End with six hired women until I died of booze. No, I'm not ready to quit and it's not because I don't fit anywhere.

Lorith didn't remember where she heard the tune, or really all of the words. She just found it stuttering out her lips as she walked back from the Stormwind park, the moon and stars glittering on the canals and her untroubled voice echoing off the surrounding masonry.

O-hey, O-hai where dwarves do dwell
Under mount or stone
We march, we come t' beck an' call
an' fight 'longside our own!

Belmilia Carrington-Howell sighed and leaned back in her chair.  "Is that the last of it, Waxford?"

"Yes, my lady."  The estate steward gathered up the stack of papers; manorial accounts, court rolls, custumals, all the information necessary to run the estates and manors that made up the Howell lordship.  "I should have the final accounts ready by this evening."

I recieved a note written on brown paper, wrapped around eight stacks of gold coins, each wrapped in paper themselves.

400g. Spend it wisely. -Darict

Kast came through. So I took the note, and the gold, on a quick trip to the Exodar. For any honest dealings, I don't know a better place or a better people. Problem is, of course, they won't lie for you - not for money, or anything, most of the time. Funny thing about honesty. I guess you can't please everyone, even if you're blessed by the Light. They'll always help me find the best rates on elemental crafting goods though, and that's what I need with the slightly stingy disbursement. I asked for 500.

Naiethal gave a mock salute but the elf had already turned his back, off to terrorize puppies or some other damned thing. Even as Magisters went, this one was well known for his ruthless devotion to his career. In fact, his zeal was such that the paladin found herself reaching for the rabbit's foot on her belt at the mere thought of her task. She had been assigned, along with a dozen or so others, to clean out a stretch of western Silvermoon.

The candle at last flickers out, dead.

The broken horizon is strangely lit, time immesurable on this dead world.

He still feels the letter, fine paper beneath his coarse fingertips.

The words sink in, bring anger. Niall's fist clenches, but leaves paper uncrumpled.

Why ask father to turn traitor?

Why is the letter signed Kast!?

{{ Repost 3/12/07 }}

The 27th of the first month, 28

My dearest love,

I fell into a trap and I can see no way out.

Last week Lady Prestor asked me to sit in judgment on a very important case. She praised my abilities and talked about the promising future I have which of course proved to my mind that there was something to all this I was not seeing. Hindsight is always clearest and I wish I'd run from the whole thing then and there.

((Delivered to one Szeharia Everbloom by private courier. The note contains the Sunsorrow crest and is written in fine Thalassian on expensive parchment))

Smoke from the burning caravan smudged the clear Alterac sky. I smiled, shivering in the cold mountain breeze despite my armor and cloak. Someone in Tarren Mill was going to be very unhappy about losing those supplies. They'd be even unhappier if they'd known where we'd gotten the information about the shipment. I didn't pretend to understand Forsaken politics, but anything that screwed with the Apothecaries' plans was fine in my book; especially if it weakened their hold on Tarren Mill.

The Voidwalker yelled, his inky mass careening down the hallway, bumping small tales proudly displaying portraits, statues, and knick knacks from all over Azeroth and beyond.

VOTE FOR DA KOLJA

'cause he be da candy-date wit' da right moves for Swiftystride.

Da Kolja be da candidate who will respec' our rich tradition of trollish leadahship.

Dear Journal,

I cannot sleep again.  The deaths of three more Elves lie heavy on my conscience, stealing rest from me.  Ilvaern sleeps in our bed, her conscience not plagued, as mine was.  I get ahead of myself, so I shall explain from the beginning.

Artisania Marveloso's hands burned with an unseen fire.

"WHY do you take this to ME?!" she cried out as she stood to face the human across the tavern, in his haughty torn robes and his self-righteous mask of virtue. Oh, how she wanted to allow that fire gather; oh, how she wanted to wipe the very skin off his face. But her legs bumped against the table before her, shifting the food upon it, causing those who had gathered to look to her outburst. She clenched her fists instead, the fire consumed in her desperate words. "Do you think *I* can fix ANYTHING??"

Aelitha sat up and stretched, pulling her arms above her head with a yawn, her back popping before lowering her arms. Looking around at the series of blue, silk covered beds she realized that she must have slept late again because they were all empty, and made.

Artisania Marveloso was surprised by the troll.

As she staggered back at the failure of her fire ward, the heat of her opponent's spell a hot blast across her face, she saw the purple-haired youth come running forward with blades drawn, slicing with ease and precision across the red robes of the Sin'dorei. The Blood Elf mage crumpled to the grass, the troll girl sneering over him before turning fierce red eyes on Artisania.

"Da fuck joo doin'?"

((Keep in mind that Kaeladrid only responds to italicized actions and speech.  Sometimes the italicized actions go into his thoughts about those actions as well.  Non-italicized actions are left in for clarity when the conversation absolutely would not make sense without them, but emotes that are visual in nature have been extensively removed.)) 

The private bath chambers of the headmistress of Floriae's School for Girls were not the ornate contrivances fashioned for the entertainment of its guests. No nymphs flanked the doorway, brazen or coquettish, frozen in alabaster. Neither did frescoes depict any bacchanal of tangled bodies, crazed in lust. Simple white marble gleamed on the floor of a circular chamber, the center of which comprised a large bath basin. Polished brass fittings shone at the side of it. Deep in the bowels of the manor, a gnomish boiler supplied steaming hot water to fill the bath. It steamed the entire room, leaving everything hanging in fog and blurring the mirrors that encircled the room. The flood had been turned down to a small trickle to keep the bath warm. Thick bubbles drifted atop the water. A scent of jasmine and sandalwood permeated the air, sweetening the scent of the soaps.