It is night. The sounds of Lakeshire Inn are muted and light, interrupted by the gentle lapping of Lake Everstill just outside the front door. Hunched near the dying embers of a large fire, a lone figure leans close in the fading light writing quickly but neatly in his Journal. He has a linen bandage around his left hand to stem the flow of blood from his palm, a febrile mark upon his right cheek, and an odd ring of green stone with peridot veins on a finger of his left hand. He wears a long face.
Day Eighteen: Lakeshire, Redridge Mountains.
I am Sorba the Cursed; I bid thee, good day.
As you can see, I’ve found my way out of Elwynn Forest and taken up a temporary lodge here in Lakeshire. The atmosphere is one of uneasy peace; there have recently been attacks by the Horde upon this tiny berg and they are struggling to rebuild. The tasks they bade me do are according to these rebuilding needs; cull the knolls in the hills; retrieve tools and spikes from the bottom of the lake; carry letters seeking reinforcements. Most of the citizens here continue as though there is no war; a curious posture since one cannot help but notice the evidences of its occurrence. It is a small matter.
Thus far, I have managed only to stay out of trouble; for the most part. From Elwynn Forest I made a way of ease for the folk clinging tenuously to Sentinel Hill in Westfall, visited the haunted Darkshire, and taken my rest here in Lakeshire. I feel the winds moving already, however; Lakeshire does not strike me with permanence – nothing does anymore save the authority of my Curse; accordingly, I have unpacked only the direst of essentials; whetstones, polishes, oils, and soaps.
The lake – Everstill, I believe it is called – reminds me of the Ironsea of Ispar, the Caribbean of Earth, the Thassa of Gor. Though the lake is small by these comparisons, being thusly close to the water again has unfurled these memories like a sail; I can only hope to shortly see what passes for sea-faring vessels in this world. Perhaps I may don the captain’s coat and once more helm a crew, taking what spoils there are to be found upon the briny foams.
There are some doodles as though the writer is stalling in writing the next part. The images he draws are bits of terrifying scenes; scenes of destruction and devastation; recollections of the innumerable times he’s been killed and the horrors he’s been forced to witness; the horrors he’s been forced to be. Tears stream down his face and dot the pages of his journal in which he is writing.
Who can tell the way of things or how a future will unfold? Who has sight with any accuracy and can speak to the mist of tomorrow as though it was the recollection of yesterday? Those suffering a Curse of fatigued repetition and dying refrain; “My strength has perished and so has my hope been slain.”
There are aspects of my Curse already unfolding after but nary a fortnight and I am powerless before it. It has come swiftly this time, as though it were punishing me; though its punishment is for things I have yet to do. With the sword on my back and dancing the dance of the Warrior, I will ensure myself the full measure of its punishment. It is inevitable; it is unstoppable; I can only hope to shield the kind and benevolent few seeing past it – from it. But who am I to stand before such a foul entity and thumb my nose at such a force as this; who am I to stay the unrighteous and foul? I am Sorba, him called ‘the Cursed’, and though it ultimately means I must alone walk the tunnels between worlds and lives, still I so stand against it.
There have been those that cross my path alighting with interest in me and unabashed focus; and I can only attribute such attentions to my Curse. I wish them no harm – none of them – and yet my Curse moves with malevolence, intent on destroying any who would proffer a kind word or succor my fatigue. Those three will never know the cause – for just as I am compelled to speak I am Cursed, I am compelled to keep silent about its sway. Those three will never know and be added to the rolls as souls I am responsible for corrupting; the timid and innocent priestess who is training and striving hard to be in my employ, standing at my back as I face the denizens of this world, keeping me tall; the razor sharp and brilliant Night Elf who shares my curiosity about the world around her and interest in the metal crafts; and the mighty Dragonslayer with whom I have fielded, we two dancing the terrible dance of death.
There have been others of course, most notably the guildmisstress who took it upon herself and guild to offer safe haven for me from the wilds of this Azeroth; I pray she does not notice I have not attended to her invitation. Providing for me that sort of comfort is begging attention from my Curse; attention she, her House, and her betrothed are not guilty to attain.
The Dragonslayer and I seem to share a kindred bond; we are kith in a way that is familiar though she and I have never before met. She is special – unique – and I find that those around her do not fully appreciate her talents, her skills; or her. She has a way with the sword and its dance which reminds me very much of others who have –
Finished writing, the lone figure lowers his head and fully weeps, his tears obscuring the rest of the entry beyond this point.
