It is morning. The sun is just breaking the horizon and Lakeshire is beginning to wake. Water laps rhythmically against the sandy shores of Everstill Lake and misty tendrils rise from the water’s surface heralding the awakening sun. Across Everstill from Lakeshire, a lone figure sits cross-legged on the stump of a felled tree. His journal is open across his legs; he wears a linen bandage to stem the flow of blood from his left palm; he bears a febrile mark upon his right cheek; there is an odd ring made of green stone with peridot veins on the third finger of his left hand. This solitary figure is intent on his writing; he uses a sharpened bone and the ink of his blood; he wears a concentrating face.
Day Forty-Seven: Everstill Lake, Redridge Mountains.
I am Sorba the Cursed; I bid thee, good day.
Much has changed in the last two fortnights and I am uncertain where to begin. There is my recovery from the travel sickness, the undead troll, a new education for me, and a new pet from the Dragonslayer. So then; it would seem I will write in that order.
It plagues me, my Curse, and it sends me hither and fro as is its whim. I can usually mark the time of my travel by the way a community reacts to my presence. Firstly, there is the welcoming; a new fellow quick to take up arms in defense of his new home seems universally welcome. Following this is a budding intimacy, forced by my Curse and designed to send my own heart to its peril. Upon the confession of her love, my Curse shuffles the board again to turn the firstly welcome to a thirdly bloodlust for my demise. Not content to leave me lying in a pool of crimson revenge, I am then resurrected by my Curse to be more fiercely hated and more deeply feared. As I am – and my hope is – repeatedly slain, my Curse then raises up a sympathetic heart, tender to my plight and wise to withhold her confession. As she turns the tide of the community and it appears that they, as a family, will work to undo my Curse, my hope is revived, just in time to be permanent removed from that community. I am then whisked to some far off land and to a place that has never heard of Sorba, him called ‘the Cursed’. Having been stolen away in such an unnatural manner, my body rebels against the environment of the new world and I am taken ill for an indeterminate time; here on Azeroth I have briefly been afflicted.
During my sickness and recovery, I was oft visited by an undead troll and his goblin translator. This troll calls himself ‘Ogden’ and the goblin is ‘Myx’. As I was a captive audience, he spoke freely of the world on which my Curse has deposited me, barring nothing from his lessons, even the grotesque nature of his past. I was enlightened about things and political machinations here that confound the lesser and more bloodthirsty. The very beings threatening our – that is, their – ways of life are the same that are creating incentives for these mortal races to vie against each other, to challenge and make war. Ogden speaks in tones and details belying his experience with these burning legions, and he is not fooled by their deceit. He is muchly traveled and is a hunted creature – those that would war with each other are not interested in peace and are so moved by its offense they seek to quell his voice in the only way they are capable; by point of a sword. I have much respect for him and his views; still, I will seek the counsel of the Lady Frelle (should she ever respond to my letter) and the Dragonslayer. Of the two, the Dragonslayer’s words will carry more weight; that is, should she deign to give me a moment from her day.
I am, you see, changed.
In my conversations with Ogden, it became clear that in this realm, those with a sword are only part of the solution and can do no more than hack and slay the physical manifestation of the demonic hosts. I was intrigued by this line of thinking and asked for his instruction in ways that would defy those burning legions and prevent their return. As he taught, I found myself less willing to take up my black and shiny armour instead taking up robes of unrighteousness; once here called ‘Warrior’, now am called ‘Warlock’. Though now navigating the ebbings and flows of fel, I find I cannot give up my sword. Fortunately, I am told that a sword does not interfere with the tapping and loosing of my newfound capability and I am happily content to keep and sharpen my blade.
Apparently, I am gifted in these fel arts – a consequence, no doubt, of my Curse and its malevolent flow through my veins. Finding the fel and shaping it to my will is almost second nature; I am progressing in my skills enough to impress even Ogden. Though I am pleased by this, I cannot help but wonder when and how my Curse will interfere and malign the good that I am doing. As Ogden taught, ‘fel’ is nothing more than the name given to a flavor of power, like ’light’ is given to the Dragonslayer’s; the idea of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are left to the wielder. Unfortunately, there are few that see things in this fashion and assume ‘fel’ means evil and ‘light’ means good. I have vowed and shall keep my vow that the fel I shape and discharge will be done for the greater good. But there is a further consideration; the Dragonslayer.
The Dragonslayer is such an honourable woman and one true in righteousness; I cannot help feel as if I will be a somehow lesser man now that I am no longer Warrior. It is said in these parts that Warlocks are not born; but fallen. It is a ridiculous assertion made by fearful folk abused by the mighty and dreadful; still, the stigma exists. Even if she is not affronted by my warlockery, she will undoubtedly be chastised and mocked by those that are. I would save her that abuse and scorn, but it is not for me to choose such things in her stead. She is her own woman – her own spectacular woman – and I will not suppose to tell her how to decide. To be certain, I will understand if I am shunned and put away as a simpleton fool, though it is my hope I am not. We have fielded and danced, she and I, shoulder to shoulder and meted out death as is required by our crafts; I cannot help but wonder if she will still wish to dance with me.
Speaking of the Dragonslayer, she recently surprised me by sending a letter and gift. Addressed from Booty Bay, she was just writing to express well wishes and to bestow a gift – something she saw that reminded her of … me. The Dragonslayer’s thoughtfulness and generosity are deeply appreciated and I wonder if I can ever repay her kindness. The gift was a small pet parrot, somewhere between young and adult, she (gratefully) immediately took to my hand and attentions. I do not yet have a name for her and am still working to ensure she and my dragonkin will get along.
I don’t know where she is these days (save the last correspondence from Booty Bay), and I can only hope that if I do catch up with her again that she will be as pleased to see me as I am her. Though, as is common to me, my hope has been slain. When – if – again we should meet — [there is a heavy, stray mark as if the writer’s hand had been struck.]
