Lucius, once a celebrated priest of the Light in Gilneas, is a man of quiet strength and dedication. His dark hair frames a face marked by time and experience, while his piercing blue eyes reveal a life spent in service to others—though his right eye, now clouded and sightless, hides something unspoken.
To the world, Lucius is a steadfast figure of faith, offering clear and candid advice to those who seek it. He is known for his unwavering commitment to his duties, guiding others with straightforward counsel. Yet the blind eye, though it sees nothing, may conceal a truth Lucius himself has yet to fully comprehend.
In his quieter moments, Lucius is a scribe, diligently keeping a journal to track the people he meets, the events that shape his path, and the twists of fate that guide him through Azeroth. His writings are concise, yet they hold much—scraps of information, thoughts, and fleeting observations—an ongoing record of a life lived on the edge of light and darkness.
Journal Entry 633: Whispers in the Ruins
I’ve spent the past few days combing through the ruins in the Gilneas. It wasn’t an easy trek, but the sense of anticipation kept me moving, driven by something I can’t quite explain. There was an artifact, ancient and weathered, buried beneath the ruins of a forgotten tower. The moment my fingers touched it, something… stirred. It was as though a shadow, subtle and fleeting, whispered in my mind, urging me to examine it more closely.
The artifact is a single, blank page, its edges worn and frayed, yet somehow pulsing with a faint, unsettling energy. Resting beside it lies a quill, its surface smooth and almost unnaturally cold to the touch. The quill’s ink seems to shimmer in the light, and its tip, though perfectly sharp, feels like it’s almost alive. Together, they exude a sense of dark power, as if they are waiting for something—or someone—to give them purpose.
I’ve been cautious with it, as I always am with unknown relics, but there’s something about it that’s different. The feeling is difficult to describe—like a connection to something distant, something older than the Light itself. For the first time, I can almost hear it calling to me, beckoning. It’s as if it knows my secrets, my doubts, and it wants to reveal them. I’m not foolish enough to let it consume me, but I must admit, part of me wonders what might happen if I let it… guide me.
I’ll continue to study it, but I can’t help but feel that this is more than just another artifact.
Journal Entry 806: The Cost of Knowing
Sebastien and I sat in his study, the quill and page laid before us. The mystery of the artifact had eluded us for weeks. We had tried everything we could think of—looking for patterns in the quill’s movements, observing the way the page reacted to our touch—but nothing had come of it. Every time we picked it up, it remained inert, a silent, mocking presence between us.
Today, though, something felt different. The air was thick with anticipation, as though the artifact itself were urging us to uncover its secrets. Sebastien, his brow furrowed, stared at the page. I could see the same frustration mirrored on his face as I felt within myself.
“We’re missing something,” Sebastien muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “There has to be more to it than this.”
I nodded in agreement. The quill had always moved, but it never felt like it was doing anything useful. It was as if it required something more—something we hadn’t yet given it.
That’s when it happened.
Without thinking, I took the quill in my hand, feeling its weight as if it were pulling me into its orbit. Without consulting Sebastien, I wrote the simplest thing I could think of: What is this artifact?
The moment the words appeared on the page, the quill snapped to life. The ink glowed a faint purple, and before I could react, the question was gone—erased in an instant. But something had changed. The quill was now writing of its own accord, the answer appearing in front of us.
The words were a riddle, cryptic and unsettling:
To ask is to see the path. To question is to bear the weight of knowledge. A heart of flame, a path unseen. A curse, a gift, a price to pay.
I looked at Sebastien, unsure of what it meant. Neither of us could make sense of it, but it didn’t matter. We had learned something important: the quill and the page only responded to questions, and once a question was asked, the answer was written, regardless of our will.
The artifact was alive with power, but at what cost?
It didn’t take long for the riddle to make sense. The page had given us a clue, and with it, I understood. There was a fire, a house burning with children inside. The path to save them was hidden beneath the blaze—if I could find it, I could rescue them.
I didn’t know how the artifact had shown me this, but it was undeniable. It was as if the very answer had been burned into my mind, as though the riddle had opened my eyes to the truth of what was happening.
Without speaking, I grabbed my cloak and headed out of Sebastien’s house, leaving him behind. The artifact had already given me the answer I needed, and I was driven by it. Sebastien didn’t fully understand, but I knew he would follow if he could.
I found the house, its flames stretching toward the heavens, but I wasn’t afraid. The riddle had guided me here, and I followed it down into the cellar, where the children were hidden. I carried them out, saving them from the fire that consumed the rest of the house.
But when I returned to Sebastien’s home, a horrible realization took hold of me. Sebastien was on the floor, his body unmoving, his eyes wide in fear.
I had left him behind, but the artifact had not.
The moment I saw him, I understood. The artifact had cursed him. Sebastien was paralyzed—his body frozen, unable to move or speak. The cost of the knowledge I had gained was not just a riddle—it was the price of Sebastien’s health.
I had been so focused on the answers, so eager to follow the path the quill had shown me, that I hadn’t realized how much it was costing him. The curse was already taking hold of him, and now I wondered: was I too late to save him from it?
As I write this, I feel the weight of what I have done. The artifact’s power is undeniable, but the consequences of its use are far greater than I could have ever anticipated. And now, with Sebastien gone to shadow, I must ask myself…
What price am I willing to pay for the answers it gives?
Journal Entry 1397: A Journey Begins Anew
Years I’ve spent in the quiet corners of the world, shrouded in solitude. The flicker of candlelight, the scratch of my quill, the endless echo of my thoughts—this has been my existence. But today, as I closed another tome filled with half-answers, I felt an unfamiliar stirring. Restlessness.
It’s not enough anymore to sift through relics and texts, piecing together fragments of ancient truths. My path leads elsewhere now. The answers I seek may not lie in dusty ruins or forgotten libraries but among the living. Their stories, their experiences, their struggles—they might hold the key to understanding the artifact and the shadows it carries.
I’ve decided to go to Stormwind. A strange choice, perhaps, for one like me, but the city calls to me. It is a hub of knowledge and opportunity, a place where scholars, adventurers, and wanderers converge. Surely, among them, I can find those willing to lend their skills—or their stories—to my quest. And perhaps, in helping others, I’ll uncover allies who can help me in return.
There is unease in this decision. The artifact feels heavier tonight, as if resisting my resolve. A whisper brushed the edge of my consciousness as I packed my tools, faint but undeniable: “You’ll regret this.”
I won’t let it stop me. Whatever this thing is—whatever it wants—I cannot let it dictate my choices. Stormwind awaits, with its sprawling streets and endless possibilities.
Tomorrow, I set out. For the first time in years, I’ll leave behind the silence and step into the unknown.
Journal Entry 1407: Arriving Among Stories
I stepped off the ship in Stormwind Harbor, the scent of saltwater and stone mixing with the air. Adjusting the strap of my leather backpack, my fingers brushed the edges of my journal, a familiar comfort.
As I made my way through the crowded streets, the city’s charm hit me as it always did—history and progress intertwined in every corner. I found my feet carrying me toward the park, drawn by the hum of life that echoed through the trees. There, beneath the shade of a few scattered oaks, people from all walks of life moved about—merchants calling out their wares, children’s laughter ringing through the air, soldiers taking a break from their duties. I paused for a moment, taking in the scene, the vibrant mixture of faces, the ebb and flow of lives intersecting. Finding a quiet bench, I pulled out my journal, the pages creaking open as I began to observe.
I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories of those around me, stories that, perhaps, I might one day write.