Letters to My (hopefully) Dead Wife

My Dearest Sara,

I found you!
 

My dear Sara,

It has been a long time since last I wrote. A whole series of holidays passed much as they have done since I started my encore performance here in the land of the living. If you wish to know how they passed, simply re-read the previous letters about them…Winter Veil, New Year’s, Noblegarden, Kissyface Day…

Oh yes, I did manage to find this really nice picnic basket thingy…magic or engineered, I’m not sure, but it’s a sun umbrella with hearts on it and a picnic basket and small blanket that spring forth from a very small container. This was during Kissyface Day and I was seriously tempted not to venture out at all during this time. I had no need for clothing, and all of the romance was mildly disheartening…as I’m sure you can understand.

So I have this picnic basket. And no one to share it with but demons. It’s still really nifty, but it mocks me at times.

My dear Sara,

Again the season of Hallow’s End rolls through, and we celebrate Sylvanas’ defection from the Scourge.  Fitting then, that I was freed in the same season.  I have served My Lady now for ((however much time two Earth years is according to your interpretation)), and seen many wonderful and terrible things.  It is my anniversary…or birthday…or whatever the heck it is you’d call it, and having gotten utterly smashed for weeks previously, now it’s off to a candy binge of epic proportions!

And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again
With just a few friends…just a few friends*

Dear, Sweet Sara,

Some things never change.  The simple farmer, after all the strenuous work of bringing in the harvest, having laid in his supplies, and eyeing the bleak, cold winter slowly advancing across the land, takes a day or two to rest and enjoy the mead that he’s been fermenting in the root cellar.

Brewfest is like that...but the simple farmer becomes the entire population of the world and the mead from the root cellar is thousands of gallons of beer brewed up by the mega-giants of their trades!  It may be the best holiday ever.  But then, isn’t every holiday?

or I Shall Taunt You from the Graveyard While Laughing Maniacally!