Daagra Stonehelm frowned as she watched the Senate proceedings, the showy chattering over the most idiotic and mundane proposals. The Senators wore their masks of honor and pride poorly, their noble demeanors eroding as the disagreements gave way to the desperations of greed and status of their clans. It was all terribly dull and pathetic, but not a far cry of how the game was played back before the Emperor was assassinated and Muradin's wench of a daughter took control. Yet, here she sat, with the minor delegates and ambassadors, waiting for the day when her hidden alliances and cleverly hidden "donations" had born fruit. To be sure, she had made many friends in the newly emerging Unification movement, though they were still a largely powerless minority in the senate, and not yet confident to rouse support in the open of ironforge, in fear of the oppositions resistance.

"The Most Honourable Ythgar, the Marquis of Vinguld!"

There was a murmur among the seated figures, rustle of heavy velvet robes trimmed with white fur. The House of Nobles, arranged in heavy-breathing rows in a summer heat in which the formal velvet was an unendurable weight and stifling suffocation in this echoing marble chamber.

Twentieth day of the seventh month one year after the great Shattering

Quel’Thalas.

My home and pride, often debauched as Silvermoon by the callous foreigners who do not believe in its original and rightful language, whose ever-increasing slip into madness and weakness, continues.

Why, why have I given my word to try and save the life of one I so loathe?

 Petitioned first by the Marquis, who wouldn't give me any solid details as to what the issue was...

 “Lilliana, I am an enemy of the Horde, due to the Forsaken. It would be remiss of me to explain. If your employer thinks you ought to know, then he shall tell you if you ask. Your skills would be useful in this instance.”

"Nechi ich towateke ki hale chi, Teledriath. Pawene ichnee pawene."  Seer Stonehoof greeted me today as he did most days, and I returned my customary smile and nod to him.  It was good to see the old bull still tending the fire outside the loft, and especially good as a reminder that while many things changed, all things did not.  I had a little time to spare this morning, and so I decided to spend it with him.

"Peace and patience be upon you too, Seer."  I sat carefully on the split-log bench, setting my carefully packed armor to one side.  "How does this bright day find you?"

Currently seeking co-conspirators!

Need others to help overthrow the tyranny of the magisters in Silvermon!

The caste system WILL FALL!

<insert maniacal laughter here>

Must be:

Horde

Active Player (Over 3 hours a week)

Willing to play with the idea of politics and a coup!

“If we wish to change we must act. But how?”

“That is something I have been pondering.”

“Cease hungering for power as we have since the days of Queen Azshara? Cease the efforts towards instant gratification without counting the costs? I think there are a few things that are within our nature now. I do not see our people changing unless they are forced to.”

The dating game...

Why had she even come here in the first place?

Because there was nothing better to do tonight. With only the occasional gull's cry to pierce her thoughts, the constant lapping of water against the hull was almost maddening.

She thought too much when it was quiet.

Larosa smirked as Travis sulked out the door to change into his best uniform for tonight's "meeting", glad that she didn't have to suffer alone tonight.  This evening, Larosa was allowing Liuetenant Sterling a small bit of payback for Alfonse's infiltration of their ranks.  The Liuetenant of the Royal Guards had been boiling mad at their impromptu meeting on Monday.  The fact that she outranked him was likely the only reason he didn't ask to take the meeting to a practice mat, instead he used his mind and came up with this devious idea.  She glanced at the time and sighed before turning back to the paperwork waiting for her attention on the desk.

*faint static tunes in to a clear, calm voice*

Welcome to the University of Kalimdor’s AudioNether Repository.  All events were recorded on-site at the time of presentation and archived for posterity.

Please enjoy the following lecture, given by Professor Avner of Kezan, on the topic of relations between the Orcs and Kaldorei. The lecture was presented at the Mo’grosh Base Camp in the Northern Barrens seven weeks after the Cataclysm.  Dean Artisania Stillwater-Ell’Karan created the recording amid a group of eight attendees.

*voice fades to silence, replaced by gentle breezes, the chirping of insects, and distant cries of predatory birds.  The rustling of a group of people is heard in the background throughout*

"I love you, Ythgar Vinguld."

How often have I heard that phrase and all the variations which may alter it?

With returning memory had come a cold anger that seemed to permeate Jannike's entire body.  But it focused her mind instead of clouding it.  Senna had decided that she was unlikely to hand out meat in her current mood, and was watching from a cautious distance.

Fact: Elsa was hiding, twenty feet from a fairly recent dead body.
Speculation: Could the body have been her father's?  Not unreasonable, but not proven either.  Not enough left of the corpse to identify.

She sat, straight backed and chin held high, a serene expression settled on her face though beneath the folds of her robes her foot tapped with impatience. The man raised his eyes from the document to look at her as he handed the parchment to the blonde woman who stood to his right, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Clare breathed a slight sigh of relief when the woman’s sky blue eyes turned from their study of her the letter in her hand.

Clariona knew well enough who these people were; their names had been discussed in hushed tones at the cathedral for several years and even now there were whispers. Very few had use for warlocks or their priestly wives who embraced the shadow. 

Crazy just pure fucking crazy.

They're acting like two school children with a crush on each other but think other has cooties when out in public.

Fancy cake's  the immaturity of them in public was just...gods the tossing food and Shryn cutting off his ponytail.

Then the ball, they were so sweet on each other I had to scrap sugar off my tongue.

And she still thinks she's being discrete, that no one notices them panting over each other.

Nalathas Dawnfire’s stomach seemed to flip as he dropped off Golden Opportunity’s deck and hurtled toward the parched desert floor below.

Smoke’s wings unfurled and caught the air seconds later, yanking the soot-feathered dragonhawk and the elf atop its shoulders out of the dive and level with the horizon. Nalathas glanced back. The zeppelin behind them stayed on course, cruising steadily southwest over the dusty badlands.

He shook free the pale strands of hair clinging desperately to his face against the wind, then took a deep breath through gritted teeth.

Sebastien recieved the last memo with a sigh. 

"No word from the others, eh?" he asked, looking to the apprentices around the room.  No one dared respond until one of the younger, bolder fire students spoke.

"They're calling it extended leave to attend to duties in the field, sir.  Convocate-General Firatril's tendered a formal resignation, same with Featherfax and Prideux.  No word whatsoever from LaMont."

Kerwin closed his eyes solemnly, taking a long, patient breath.  "Then the situation has become as we feared.  Gentlemen and ladies, inform your superiors.  Operation Al'ar is now in effect."

 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.

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.