[N-RP] Evermore Entries

What would we read if we could get a tiny glimpse into the journals of our characters as they live out their daily lives on the adventurous paths of Azeroth? Small snippets on their comings and goings? As they visit the Moonglade, fight alongside the Sha’tar, negotiate with the Steamwheedle Cartel or something entirely else? If I show you mine, will you show me yours?

‘The roses that grow near the Moon Guard Stronghold carries a subtle arcane signature with the blessing of the Goddess. While there I met a nightborne arcanist named Lunath Lunastre. We prayed together and I listened as he recited the Hymns of Elun’dris.’

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Cherwina pulls a dusty tome from her bag and opens to one of the earlier pages

“Lost amongst lands I once called home. The city is now ruins, infested and twisted by the very magic that built it. The once peaceful lake now screams obscenities and imagined enemies at all who approach. Dreams became nightmares. Beauty became disgusting. The forest became forgotten, and so did we.”

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Gordon leafs through his journal, trying to take his mind off current dificulties. He comes upon an entry that makes him stop and read;

We were back in Gilneas tonight.

I knew it would be unpleasant, but I also thought it might bring me some catharsis…

It did no such thing.

I did feel good, knowing that our expedition helped Gilnean refugees - that the personal items we bring back to them, will improve their situation…

But being back there really made my skin crawl. Old, painful memories resurfaced, although - luckily - the worst ones remain obscured by the curse. It felt as if the very land and the empty city itself still hates me for what I did when the curse took me.

I am glad we are leaving. I suppose these feelings and memories will fade, in time, and I might even go back there another time…

I suspect it will feel just like now, though.

The druid’s big, clawed, furry hand closes the journal, and he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

As he stows the journal away, he growls wearily,

“Well, that did nothing to improve my mood…”

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Inkeri yawned as she pushed back from the desk, cluttered by tomes and loose parchment, and blinked as her gaze lingered on one battered leather tome.

She reached out and flipped open the cover, grimacing slightly as she took in the almost clumsily written words.

'They say they found me in a lab, that I was probably working or trying to gather my research when the radiation was released, but I don’t remember.

They reassure me that it’s normal, that it was a miracle I was still alive. They tell me others weren’t so lucky, that they were still finding gnomes trapped and sick.

I don’t know this worlds, and yet I do. I don’t recognise these people, and yet I do. They speak of things I don’t remember or different than I remember.

I want to leave, they say I can soon. I want to find a new place for me, in this familiar and strange world. Perhaps I will go to Dalaran, I apparently studied there for some time though I can barely remember.

Will it help to walk familiar, but strange streets? Will I remember or will I be disappointed again? I guess we’ll have to see.’

She remembers first walking the streets of Dalaran, of it being familiar and different, of feeling lost in a world that had changed around her, and she remembers the flier about the Botany Band, Alunaria’s kindness, Dulvarinn’s welcome, gently teasing, the wonder of botany.

She remembers a hand extended in welcome, an offer of friends and family, she remembers taking it and never regretting it.

She traces the words, her words, with her fingers and smiles a little.

She wasn’t the same lost and confused gnome, and she knew it was thanks to her new friends–her new family.

She shakes her head slightly, letting the journal close as she turns to the other tomes. She had other things to concern herself with after all, research and magic, and–!!

The explosion made her wince and her table to tremble was quickly followed by a burst of gleeful laughter.

And wayward mages to herd into some sort of order.

A deep chuckle echos in the back of her mind as she stood and took her staff, her blue eyes narrows as she began heading towards the sound of laughter and explosions.

At least someone was amused by her head-ache, she grumbles to herself.

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‘I have decided to accompany Lunath Lunastre on his assignment to infiltrate the Felsoul Hold and meet with Lyana Darksorrow. Sometimes the will of nature can be bent, but in this mighty crater it has been outright broken. Andu-falah-dor!’

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“The extravagance of this party so close to the Dead Scar sums up what has become of our people since that fateful day. All show and no heart. Pretending as though nothing ever happened. I’m not here for the party though, I’m here to get paid. The proprietor wanted to gloat about his strength but didn’t want to get his hands bloody. I don’t care, the Amani needed to be dealt with and I needed the money. He can gloat all he likes, I doubt the partygoers care. It’s all pretend. Like the Troll head on the table, all show… no heart.”

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‘This night we were attacked by a felguard. While Lunath unleashed an arcane pulse as distraction, I became moonstruck and obliterated the demon in starfire. The Night Warrior will not lament for she understands. I lament because I do not.’

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‘The Phoenix still floats the waters of the Southfury River and we expect to reach the Great Sea by noon. Rumors circulate of unusual Alliance activity in Durotar and the lookout just reported seeing a creature dart across the sky in a narrow trail of dark smoke. Anar’alah belore!’

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‘I finally received the letter from Archesonus informing that the Council of Three Hammers has approved of my request. Lunath conjured a portal to Dalaran and as we gave our valedictions he told me that the world is made of stardust and stories. Until now I have only ever heard Haidene use that proverb. Peculiar.’

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Sharon’s private journal is thick enough to be successfully used as a blunt weapon. Countless pages of yellowed paper gone slightly wavy from moisture are locked between heavy covers bound in leather so old it became almost stone-like in its texture. One corner of the book is charred, as if it had at one point caught fire which was extinguished before it could do more than turn the edge black.

The journal is a chaotic clump of notes, drawing, quotes and lists. There seems to be no key or method to this madness other than the owner’s apparent urge to fill every page with as much information as possible. Many words are written at an awkward angle in order to fit in the sparse empty spaces left behind by earlier notes. Sometimes additional scraps of paper are glued to the pages, adding to the overall thickness of the book and creating secret compartments were additional information can be stored.

Found under a drawing of a stick figure with horns and wings

I’ve finally decided where the next expedition will take us. The inspiration lies in Tiarawyn’s lecture, dangerous as it was. While my new Botanist’s methods were misguided at best, the fact remains that dark and ominous magic exists and it has a real effect on our world—and on us. We can hide our heads in the sand and focus on herbs that are harmless, pure and undemanding, but doesn’t that go against the spirit of who we are as scholars?

The place known as the Blasted Lands is supposedly a wide stretch of seared sand, brimming with latent fel energies and trampled under the feet of conquerors. It doesn’t sound very promising, which is exactly why I intend to make it the focus of the next expedition. What could we possibly discover in a place like this?

IMPORTANT: ASK THE DEMON HUNTER ABOUT SAFETY

Next to a shopping list

Dulvarinn is back with another mountain trip. Is this going to be his first lecture since the time he was the victim of that temporal turmoil? It might be. Truth be told, I still don’t understand that whole deal with Dulvarinn’s supposed suspension—it all feels like dire consequences to a crime I just can’t see. Is it an elf thing? The more I think about it, the less I understand. The less I understand, the more nervous I get.

It makes me long for the simpler times when we would just gather at the Greenhouse to talk about plants. I’m happy to be an Elder, but I’d be happier if I could be an Elder without the constant fear of accidentally repeating Dulvarinn’s error.

Stuck awkwardly between the notes about Sea Stalks

Nlaea Lightstrider came to see me after the lecture, which is weird. She was looking half-dead, which is not weird. She asked me for help, which is incredibly weird. She was very ominous about something that happened in Nazjatar, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. I need to figure out what happened.

The last entry in the journal is unique in how unnaturally wasteful the author was with the page, which is all spent on a single sentence

The Old God is free.

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Cherwina flicks to a page with a light green marking in the corner.

“We have received word that the Cenarion Circle has now opened it’s training to females. My dream of helping restore this world is finally possible. Tonight I will inform the sisterhood of my intentions. I will make the most of this last peaceful night on this island under Elune’s gaze. The journey to Hyjal will be a long one.”

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'What do you do when your dreams come undone
Do you stay, do you crawl, do you fly, do you run?

What do you do when borrowed wings no longer take flight
But leaves you frantically on the ground, escaping in fright?

How do you break free, how do you ensure to outlast
When armor of the future returns to shackles of the past?

What took place in the dark; will they ever truly understand
Through no fault of yours, how many answers will they demand?

No, hide it away, let no one see the pain
As you safeguarded the land, was his sacrifice in vain?

As the waves come crashing down, do you ride it or drown
Do you take notice of what keeps you under, of what keeps you down?

How do you tell the difference between expose and reveal
Of the changes within, what you dream, what is real?

Do you return to what you knew; do you fool yourself once more
As a ship driven off course, only to pretend to come ashore?’

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“Loyalty. We’re all being asked where ours sit these days. This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. First it was Kael’thas or Lor’themar. Now it’s Garrosh or Vol’jin? You tell them the answer they want to hear of course. The truth is that the only loyalty worth a damn in this kingdom is to oneself. Loyalty leads to people following their leader on a destructive course. Loyalty is one sided. A faction focused on Loyalty will always fail. Leaders need to earn respect, not loyalty and until that happens again, we’re doomed.”

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‘This night, I led the botanists to the tallest peak and deepest cavern of Ironforge. Their hands now know the former and current habitats of the Mountain Silversage. I also enjoyed the unexpected and ambivalent company of my thero’shan. Something is amiss.’

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Isilae takes two small books out of a pouch on her belt. The first is bound in hide, decorated with bark and amethyst. The other, a much simpler affair, stuffed with additional scraps of paper, leaves and other materials. On the cover are the words “Common Language”. She places this later book on the table for now and opens the more elaborate book to the first page. It is scruffy with many corrections added neatly in a purple ink over the original black.

“Long ear say practice Common. So practice Common. I travel from far away. Home now island of blue. I name Isilae and I train hunt help my people. Long ear save life, I grateful. I travel to home of Long Ear at rise of sun. Bring Crab and warm being there.”

Below this, written in Draenei

“Why is this language so complex? It feels like 3 languages squished together. All these extra words that are not needed. They seem to have hundreds of ways of calling themselves too. I don’t know what is a name and what is a description. ‘Kal door eye’, ‘Night Alf’, ‘Cher wee nar’. Why not long ear? It is what they are after all.”

She sighs and closes the book

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‘My path has led me back to the wildlife in Suramar to search for the rare Lunar Lily. To my surprise I was greeted by a woman of my own people, Lilryia Dawnwind, who warned me about the arcane traps laid by the trappers in the area. I must remain vigilant.’

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Ayasha sat in one of the taverns of Orgrimmar with a mug of tea sat happily steaming in front of her and a simple brown kodo-leather bound book.

She reached for the mug and held it close, deeply inhaling the smell of tea and trying to ignore the memories of broken bodies, of blood and cries of pain and rage.

Saurfang’s actions may have gotten them Orgrimmar, may have made Windrunner flee, but it didn’t mean there hadn’t been death amongst the once-rebel army.

With a disgruntled sigh, she placed down the mug and scowled at the book–a journal.

With a sigh, she flipped open the cover and reached for the quill-pen that had come with it.

Walking into the Rebel army hadn’t been my plan. With the portals and Zepppelins to Thunder Bluff closed, I had to make my own way there which is how I ended up walking into the camp of the Rebel army.

I should have just ignored them, skirting around them, but they needed healers–some had heeded Saurfang’s call while injured, the stupid fools-- and before I knew it, I was helping out.

Saw members of the Hand of the Titan–which wasn’t surprising considering the letter their Champion sent out–and some members of the Beastmaw–which was surprising and you could almost feel the added tension to the air as they wandered about.

The Hand, despite the fact they are obviously an order of reckless idiots, seem know what they are doing and wish to safe-guard Azeroth. Admirable, relateable, reckless.

Ayasha pauses in her writing as the memory of Saurfang’s last bellow ‘For Azeroth’ echoed in her mind, she thinks of what she knows of Lex Steelgrin, she thought of Champion Anroka’s letter to the Horde.

I’m going to join them. She decided as she wrote. Someone has to help keep those idiots alive while they fight to protect Azeroth, protect us all. May as well be someone that isn’t impressed by posturing and complaints.

She nodded to herself as she dropped the pen and reached for her mug–warm, not luke-warm thankfully–and quickly downs the mug before standing and gathering her belongings.

She had members of the Hand to track down.

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Continuing to flick through the tome, Cherwina comes across a section with many blood stains on the pages. She pauses at a page where the writing trails into a puddle of ink

“I feel it, constantly. A tugging on my ears. Like the very shadows are grabbing a hold and trying to guide me. The same shadows that flicker and twitch in the corners of my eyes. Instinct has taken over. I don’t feel safe in this form anymore, too slow, sense too dull. I need to " words hidden by ink blots " blood, my blood, my ears bleed? Claws, blood, fear, de”

the large ink blot makes it hard to read much of what’s left. The last line, half written half a squiggle, as though the writer was no longer able to hold their quill

“I must runnnn, frooom the darrrr rrrun ~~~___…”

Cherwina shakes at reading the page, closing the tome and shoving it back in her bag. Trying to steady herself she holds her head in her hands and gently runs a finger along the scars of her ears

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I walk through the cobbled streets of Stormwind and I feel unfazed as my feet press upon the cold, hard surface of the stone. The people around seem at peace, joyful even. The time of war is now done, the enemy host shall take the sons and daughters of the Alliance no more. Old endings, new beginnings. That which has perished, shall now regrow.

I walk through the cobbled streets of Stormwind, though in days long past, I would’ve been unnerved at the lack of soft grass under my feet. The people around seem solemn, quiet even. The time of war may be done, but there are wounds that don’t heal. Some things won’t regrow.

I look at the faces of my kin and I see their anguish. Time passes, yet their suffering persists. I know of it, yet I do not know it. I see the faces of my kin dripped in sorrow, yet I feel nothing. The cold grip of emptiness seizes me and I try to partake in this communal sadness, but I fail.

I look at the face of a woman whose visage, unlike my own, is adorned by the markings of our people. She tries to placate her young daughter, explain to her why they won’t return home and why her older sister isn’t coming back.

To my horror, she looks at me and I see the contempt in her face. My body burns and I wish to flee, embrace the misery of my disgrace in solitude, but I cannot move. My feet are frozen and my eyes locked with hers, forced to accept the verdict. I take the punishment in shame.

To my horror, it dawns on me. On the fateful day, a dark thought entered my mind. A thought that was not mine own, but his. It filled me with agony and fear, a numbing pain of endless torment. It bore no meaning then, but now I know. The grim truth of it.

He was there when it happened. He was there to see it. He was there, and it broke something in him, if he could really be broken even further. I shared the pain, oblivious, but he - he lost yet another piece to the Void.

And I… I still feel nothing. Perhaps, I am more damned than he is.

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‘Last night, I stayed at the Temple of Elune to pray at the Moonrise. During the following lunar lunch I read the poem ‘Eternal Moonshine of the Spotless Mind’ by High Priestess Kalo’thera. Sometimes I wonder if I pray to remember or to forget.’

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