Amatius

My Journal, the heartless sheets of parchment that now house my meager and insufficient legacy to this world, I have but one last message for you to keep. A short and simple recollection of my life, as I understand it, from the moment I became self aware, to now.

I was born to Soridormi and Nozdormu, their third clutch to be precise. I am over 10,000 years old. I was chosen to remain among the Kaldorei after they had been gifted Nordrassil, and their immortality assured. I lived and grew and learned with them as a race and as a being, and knew nothing else until very recently. I met my Mate four hundred and twenty seven years ago, he a druid of the Claw, myself a simple commoner, to all appearances. He taught me many things, not the least of which the powers a druid might call at any time to whatever end. It is not known whether or not I was the first female of my order, but they were uncommon in such a time.

*This page is dusted with a very thin, very slight layer of sand*

If this is my final entry, then there will be none to read my thoughts. Malygos dies this evening… or we do.

Elune help us if I fail to act. Light help him if I do not.

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"Well... well. Look who came crawling back. I'm glad to see the bruises have healed over so nicely." Demius looked her over with a noble brow politely quirked, his pale face the usual mask of disarming sincerity. Even his gentle tone wore down the rough edges of the words slipping from his lips. It was almost as if he was talking about the weather. Nevertheless, she couldn't possibly miss that familiar spark in his eyes. Cruelty incarnate. He smiled.

"I wonder... have you come to kill me, or to thank me?" Now they were getting somewhere. She offered a meek little smile, eyes downcast. Appropriately demure. His serenity flickered to curiosity, suspicion, back to serenity. It was like watching a candle flame wink and sputter in a soft breeze. A wicked grin tugged at the corners of her lips, and with some effort she restrained the pulse-pounding edginess that seethed just beneath her skin. She hoped he was arrogant enough not to notice.

It is late. Ordinarily I make it a point to retreat to my quarters in the late evening, to maintain the impression of normality. It is not so much that I am under suspicion, but that I wish to avoid the unnecessary attention. It's not like anyone really sleeps in this city. Tonight, however, is different. I sit atop a floating ring, some 300 yards above Dalaran proper. The night is cloudless. I can see and smell a vast distance; the air is cold, dead, like the inside of a tomb. I wonder at my own unhappiness in this moment, and it becomes so inconsequential. There are far more pertinent doings afoot.

This page contains nothing but a crumpled, battered, bloodied note, clipped to its front in a haphazard fashion. It reads as follows:

My dearest Mother,

Forgive me for not informing you before I left Dalaran last night.
I have spent restless days in Dalaran waiting for word from you. Waiting for something, anything to happen to break up the monotony while you follow your path and simply observe the world as intended. I am trying to learn your ways and I think, yesterday, I was met with a margin of success while wandering around Dalaran.

I began this diary in an attempt to pass the time in this godforsaken place… but I do not know how much longer it will be of any use to me. There is so much that should never reach the light as words, and yet it cannot remain in my mind… lest the madness grip me as well. I fear… I fear this may be my last entry, after so short a time.