I attended the Darkmoon Faire while it was running and I liked it. The isle was pretty spooky and I didn’t earn enough tickets to buy anything, but I’m sure I’ll be able to next time around. I’m looking forward to it.

I can feel a chill in the air in some places, not all, and the Winter Veil decorations are up all over the city. I can smell cookies baking and might try my hand at making some this year – apple cider, too! Actually, that’s a good idea for Ceirin and her house: Cider, cookies and some cider-basted meat.

The Brag and Brawl is on hold until next month. I like the newest location and plan to keep it there, so hopefully Rynlan isn’t too bothered by the sand. I hope that druid and elf show up more, too, they seem relatively sane.

It’s sort of funny that, after all my horrible life experiences with elf men, I’ve befriended so many. Well, maybe they aren’t so much friends as people that I’m friendly with, which is close enough.

Really strange, too.

I told her and she was quite pleased, even excited, and we will be trying to find a father. She may or may not have some in mind, I really do not know.

I’m … not necessarily nervous but I am a bit wary. I hope all goes well, I do. I hope we can manage to find a donor and get a cabinet together for my rune weapons so they don’t screw up our child, and I hope that he – or, I suppose, she – can learn to call an undead monstrosity “father” without being too…

… Freaked out.

I love that woman, I do.

Tizze asked me about the possibility of having children. They wouldn’t be mine, of course, because I’m dead and dead people can’t produce children. They’d be someone else’s, and hers, but she insists I wouldn’t have to be a father to them.

Part of me misses being a father. I wasn’t very good at it, but I liked it anyway – while the pragmatic? part of me thinks this is a bad idea. I kill people to stay unalive. My powers draw on the life forces of the living. That sort of thing.

Having a child around an active rune weapon (two, really) is a Terrible Idea, but Tizze being a mother would make her happy – she wants to be one, she wants to contribute to the Darkspear somehow.

… I wonder what she’d think about me having a hand in picking the father.

I need to think on this some more, talk to her more, ask her more questions, I guess.

The house is big enough for one or two children, I think.

I had a talk with the only other orc there, Saraquael, the bartender. I told her my concerns regarding the other night where Washue Ravenhoof shot at Gintajo, but I do not believe that she actually understood my concern. I heard her talking to the tauren woman, who still does not seem to be bothered by her own foolishness, and just

How can any adult be so damned clueless, I don’t get it.

Saraquael seemed to think I was scared and stated that Ravenhoof would not shoot at any more of my friends if they didn’t make fun of her. For one, Gintajo is not my friend. Two? I wasn’t scared. Even though she shot at him with me standing between them I wasn’t scared. I’ve faced worse odds.

“I never miss”, she says. Neither do I.

I told the other orc that I stood up for him because I would stand up for anyone in that position, because that is the right thing to do and it’s so confusing – why don’t people understand that? I didn’t know he was in my unit (and I still don’t believe it).

I wish that Kishi girl had been there.

Saraquael is so… simple. I do not really understand how someone like that can manage to live so long. The way she went on about how this Zephyr Crew was like her family and how you protect your family really made me think she was trying to say something other than what she meant – I’m still certain of that.

I don’t think I’ll be supporting that establishment anymore. I think I understand why the Warcaller takes his own alcohol.

Dodged a bullet or a fireball, I believe.

I have set up the new flat. I’ll lock away my old journals and send them off to be destroyed before the big date, of course. I am nervous about how she may handle this, and about the overall unknown around whether or not I will actually survive after the procedure – will the dragon let me live, or will he kill me?

I’m looking forward to getting a little bit of time living without that worgen in the vicinity. I’m also working on some … new journals for my new self, to make the transition easier.

Soon. Soon.

The week started off decently enough – that irritating, weapon-obsessed troll, Gintajo? I got to punch him in the face and kick him in the groin. Father always said to aim for the soft bits, he was right (come to think of it, Kalrin has said the same). He had been acting strangely at the Brag & Brawl – the Warcaller wants me to host more often, ugh - and commenting on my butt so it was deserved.

What wasn’t deserved, however, was him getting shot at by a deranged Tauren of the Zephyr Crew.

I can’t believe those idiots encourage one of their own to shoot at a member of the Horde! What the Fel does she mean, “not a member of the Horde”? She’s Tauren. If she were Grimtotem she’d be dead. “Oh, the Horde let my mommy get hurt” – and she gets angry enough to shoot someone for referring to her as a “kid” instead of speaking up or even punching them?

Punching someone doesn’t have the chance of killing them, and it would put her on equal footing with him. Shooting someone is different.

The youngest person there (I think I’ve heard her referred to as Kishi) was the most intelligent of the lot. The orc that was wearing their tabard just let the shooting take place and it was me that had to yell at the damned girl to stop before he called her over to talk to her. Little Kishi told her that, when she is called a child, she does not set people on fire because that is not mature. Instead, she tries to prove them wrong in other ways – ways that don’t risk the life and limb of the other person.

That girl will do great things, I imagine. She has earned my respect by not being completely insane. In my mind, she is an adult.

What sort of name is “Little Washue” anyway?

Naturally, the elf Silvyn sided with the insane tauren and totally believes that the best way to tackle a problem is by shooting someone. He is an elf. Intelligence is not his strong suit. The idiot is still sore after being forced by his companion to pay his dues.

Elves.

Gintajo wants to be friends. He proceeded to clumsily attempt to compliment my face, eyes, tusks, everything, so I left.

I should have just punched him in the face.

She had purpose.

Among the Ebon Blade, her duties were simple: They would point her at something, and she would move it or kill it.

She had been tasked with aiding in the fight to take Andorhal, where her only responsibility was to kill Alliance soldiers and drag the bodies back behind the lines for resurrection as new Forsaken – or as spare parts, in the cases of those that were too far gone to be useful otherwise. Her blade sang of slaughter. She had little understanding of what she was doing, except for the fact that she was needed.

“Leave none alive,” she had been told, so that was what she did.

There are individuals among the Horde, however, who see opportunity in the undead who are like Miilana. They see something that can be moulded to their own desires, so they watch, and wait, and study their target for an opportunity.

That was what Simone did – she stared. She stalked. She followed that Death Knight as she did her duty for the Ebon Blade and for the Forsaken and she occasionally helped her dispatch the occasional troublesome human, but otherwise she kept to the shadows.

One day, that Knight ran out of things to kill and drag back in her assigned area and she stopped. She just stopped, so Simone approached, quietly, and she spoke in a hissing whisper to the Troll:

“There’s nothing else here, Miilana, so it is time to take on a new task,” Simone said. “Are you ready? Are you listening?”

The Knight nodded slowly.

“Go to the abandoned farm in Tirisfal and go inside. Wait. You’ll be given your orders.”

The Knight obeyed.

- – -

Simone was perched upon a broken barrel in the darkness of the farmhouse, only her sickly green-yellow eyes could be seen; her body was wrapped in dark leathers and cloth, and the Knight before her was also clad in dark armour, so they gave the illusion of two sets of eyes staring at one another. Simone was observing – Miilana was simply waiting.

She was a machine waiting for a command. She could be programmed.

It was the Ebon Blade tabard that Simone wore that convinced Miilana not to leave. It was her hiss of praise for the Dark Lady that kept her there, too, and Miilana had not moved since.

The undead Sin’dorei woman recognized something in the Troll’s eyes, an intelligence that was mostly dormant in a clouded mind that had so much potential – it could turn against her at any moment, it radiated hatred, but there was some disconnect there, as if it did not know why it hated or what. It could not reach the memories that were locked away.

Simone understood that. She was similar, for a time. She knew exactly how to unlock everything, how to pick away at the bare stone to reveal the masterpiece beneath – but she didn’t want to.

No, this Knight was more useful to her as it was: stupid and easily manipulated. A lackey. A tool.

“You can go where I cannot,” Simone whispered. “you can venture into Kalimdor, where the weather is far too warm, to get supplies for me. You can help me. I need… things. Parts. I need packages picked up. There are goblins in Ratchet that will supply me and I need you to be the one to get what they’re going to be selling me.” The elf paused and watched her quarry. The Troll raised her head and locked her gaze upon Simone, who shifted uncomfortably beneath it and continued.

“My work is important to the cause of the Ebon Blade and the Dark Lady. You will benefit. Perhaps I can help prevent you from rotting away, too.”

Miilana slowly stood. “Ratchet,” she said. Her voice was hollow and lacking emotion – but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She narrowed her eyes before turning and stalking out of the farmhouse, leaving Simone alone in the darkness.

Satisfied, the elf retreated to the upstairs laboratory. She had work to continue.

- – -

“What, who are you? What do you want?”

Razzlefilx stared up at the dead Troll. Her eyes glowed fiercely, as all Death Knights’ did, and her face was harsh – not just from death, but from age. Her skin was ghastly pale. The old undead woman was clad head to toe in solid Saronite armour, too, which made the goblin really uncomfortable.

“Plaguearrow supplies,” Miilana said. “give them.”

“Right, right,” Razzle sighed and disappeared into the back of the store, only to come out several moments later with his hands spread. “They’re not here yet,” he said. “Look, they’ll be here tonight, why don’t you stay in town ’til then? You can get a drink at the bar or something.”

Miilana said nothing – she stalked out of the store and stood outside, where she would wait all day … and all night, if she had to.

Kikiera Stoutheart leaned forward and prodded the frozen mass with the butt of her polearm, only to jump back when the snowbank let out a low groan. Her bear shifted uncomfortably and took several steps backward, too. The dwarven girl knew that was not like her, so she turned to quickly walk back toward the road – she’d have to get the attention of a passing guard, or something, to investigate the thing further.

She didn’t make it that far.

Snow crunched and creaked behind her and the young woman whipped around, and her eyes widened with terror at what she saw: a tall, thin, pale-skinned, tusked corpse clad in rags, its body stitched together. Kikiera screamed as the creature lurched toward her and she fled, abandoning her pike, her bear in hot pursuit.

The corpse was not on its feet for very long – it collapsed once Kiki was out of sight and lay still.

- – -

Detoon of the Frostmane Tribe was a very tall, very scrawny young Witchdoctor.

He had watched his father die – even welcomed it – and he had watched his Tribe become fodder for dwarven and gnomish target practice. He had helped his fellows bury far more of the Tribe’s children than what he had liked.

So he did the unthinkable: he started building a weapon, a weapon of dead flesh and bone and raw Trollish power.

He started by visiting very familiar landmarks, where he recovered body parts that he had helped a young Skullsplitter girl bury many years before. The frost had kept them usable, the frost would make sure that what he was planning would succeed.

When Detoon found the head of Lana Darkspear, he shuddered, knowing quite well the old woman’s opinion of the undead – knowing the fate that he faced by her hand if she ever became aware of what he was going to do. He would make sure she wouldn’t.

When his experiment escaped from his cave, he nearly died right there. It took him months to find it again, collapsed under a layer of fresh snow. Voices in the distance told him that if he didn’t get his project away right then and there, he’d lose it entirely – and he’d most likely die.

So he threw the battered corpse over his shoulder and fled into the woods.

- – -

Detoon was well aware of how imperfect his little project was. It sat, slumped against the cliff, as he crouched in the snow to ponder. He was clad in his thick cloak and hood, and he thoughtfully regarded the corpse-thing. It seemed to realize that it was being watched and slowly raised its head to regard him with blank eyes.

“We’re going to do some more work on you,” the witchdoctor said. “and I’m going to need some examples. Maybe I can study the necromancers’ work, or the walking dead of the Mossflayers.”

He could almost swear he saw his creation’s upper lip twitch, as if trying to curl into a snarl.

“I’ll get you a cloak. We’ll travel at night, take the less-guarded routes. It’ll take several months, but… we’ll get there. You’ll be whole.”

There was no response from his creation – just that same dull stare. He didn’t mind one bit.

- – -

As the Mossflayers buried their dead, the dead rose, and the cycle repeated. More died, were buried, then came back – the Mossflayers didn’t seem to understand, didn’t seem to realize that the sickness that took them was also bringing them back.

Detoon had been watching for a week with his creation by his side. It had been starting to fall apart, so he had stolen what wrappings he could to keep the creature together, and he had salvaged as many parts as he could from the dead. They were starting to suspect something, though, and on that afternoon he and his creation were chased from the outskirts of the Mossflayer settlement and forced to make their way to the Undercroft, instead. This provided Detoon with more fodder for his experimentation and rituals.

That is, until he started to ear cries and clashing steel upon the wind – so he followed the sound.

That was when he lost control of his creation.

Something flashed in its dull, lifeless eyes when it spotted the ghouls charging against soldiers of the Argent Dawn. As one leapt for the throat of a fat, orange-haired Darkspear Troll, the corpse let out a hoarse roar and surged forward with speed that Detoon had not seen before and certainly did not expect. It intercepted the ghoul and screeched at it, grasping it by the neck and hauling it into the air. The living troll, the priest, immediately sheathed himself in Shadow – for he was a quick thinker – and threw everything he had into his unlikely saviour. Further strengthened by the Shadow, the creature continued its attack, pushing deeper into the line of attacking Scourge.

When the retreat was called, the creature was left behind – even by its creator.

- – -

Acherus.

Somehow, the ragged Troll corpse managed to rise to its feet; it stood before the Necromancers of Acherus and uttered four simple words:

“Me Lana. Kill living.”

That was all that was needed.

“The Lines” — Phaedra’s lot. 1 Gilnean marrying sindori sindory blood elf. dumbass.

military would love to hear about that i bet

Chalf ryld & jenvive – screwing. she bites. he gets bit. both kind of nuts. avoid. or get drunk & get information

“ridgeway” “draste” — also screwing

Kammon Blake — not good at politics apparently. marrying blood elf. kids and their “love will find a way” bs.

Phaedra’s not dead even more surprising’s that she stopped dying her hair and she’s not knocked up or something. rumours true – she did kill old longfellow no loss there. living in stormwind. got to decide what to do with her.

remember: her involvement with traitors means if they go down she might too. maybe this can be lucrative.

I do not know the story, nor do I wish to, but I suppose I overestimated his intelligence – after all, he told the Lines about his impending marriage to a Blood Elf instead of keeping such a thing to himself.

The other mistake, of course, was not ushering out the two strangers that were hanging about before he explained the situation.

If one is to blur the political lines, one must be far more careful than to speak up to anyone they see – I understand and have been taught that much, at least. Unfortunately, not all appear to realize this sort of thing, as was demonstrated by Mr. Blake last evening.

Nils did not take it well.

She does not treat the Lines like the mercenary unit that she touted it as. It is natural for one to become attached to those that one works with, but when secrets among individuals that are not exactly the most trustworthy or intelligent sods cause such a rift – or such a temper tantrum – then perhaps one truly is not ready to lead.

Once she has taken sufficient time to calm down, I will have to remember to meet with her and instruct her on how a leader needs to act. For a member of such a long-lived race, she comes off as so painfully young.

I believe I am… better than I had been, about everything, and though my relationship with Sam is purely sexual (to my knowledge) it has given me that outlet that I did not have and left me satisfied (even if he does prefer me as Worgen when I do not, I suppose there may be a little “give and take” there). I have not been spending near as much time on the other side of the river, as it were.

Even I know we are at war, and though I have seen that the people we fight are indeed people, I would never completely trust them not to gut me if they found out what I was – what I am. I know better.

I certainly hope Mr. Blake knows what he is getting into.

I told my father to keep his mouth shut about what he heard last evening. I cannot entirely trust him to do so – his intelligence about these matters makes him dangerous and

Am I really concerned that my own father will out the Lines? That is ridiculous.

I did not punch him after all.