This place was home, once.

For a hundred years this gleaming jewel, this miracle of a city, was the only thing I knew. I loved her spires, the stained glass that glittered in the ever-present lights, the pristine streets, the endless springtime. I loved her gardens and her fountains. I loved her citizens' beauty and the deadly games we played.

( Read more... )

Forty years ago....

Oh he's poetry in motion. He moves like water flows - tall even for his race, sapling-slender, just as lithe. The robes that drape his form in the colours of spring (more shades of green than one could count) are surely rough compared to his skin, so pale the fine blue veins beneath show through. Vellum-blond hair hangs free ( Read more... )

I want to destroy the translocation orb.

Break it. Shatter it. Disintegrate the pieces and cover the ground with land mines where it stood.

Silvermoon must be getting worse than ever. Its filth is overflowing to the south. Bad enough that the delusional freaks and the criminals of that place conduct their disgusting, TREASONOUS "trade" in the ( Read more... )

(( Otherwise-unmarked parchment tacked to the bulletin boards of the Undercity in fresh ink (after the page break for naughty language from a very tired and intolerant warlock whose patience got used up all at once). ))

( Cut for language. )

Silvermoon is tearing itself apart. I should care, I guess. Ostensibly those are my people right?

No, not really. Not anymore. It's more of a ghost town that the city I now call home.

Let not this madness spread tot he Queen's lands. Just so: New Lordaeron is home to the dead and the damned. No false paladin has jurisdiction here. To try to come ( Read more... )

(( This entry is written in a looser hand than usual, suggesting fatigue. ))

Thank the Light for Quinn. Talking to Quinn always helps. Before it would have been Father Lesiarch. Now I have to brave the nightmarish cesspool of escapist debauchery and deceit that wears Silvermoon's face to make my confessions. Can't tell if it's irony or poetic ( Read more... )

"You're troubled."

"I am."

It was an understatement. He seethed. Silence hung between warlock and drake for a long moment.

"What's troubling you, then?"

"What isn't, Lyr?"
( The drake pressed.... )