Rogue Thoughts (Journal) by Kazgard

[Keeper Of Lore]

A loose stack of parchment is placed inside an unremarkable-looking leather pouch with a tarnished metal buckle on the front securing the flap.

January 18th

I swore that I would never start a journal. They’re wretched things, desperate efforts to ascribe significance to lives almost certain to be undeserving of it. Yet here I am, marring the first virgin page of what will likely become a collection of many others. In my defense, permit me to add that my initiative to write was born out of a need to catalogue my thoughts. I recognize fully that my existence means little in the grand scheme of the universe. Simply, recent events have clouded my focus and may compromise my effectiveness should they remain unaddressed. This journal should aid in dispelling any confusion or uncertainty regarding those events and serve to steer me along my true path. As a preemptive measure, future transpirations will make their appearances within this collection as well.

When the magics that animate and sustain me fade at last, leaving my broken body for dust in some distant hellhole encircled by the corpses of my enemies, may these few lines enlighten whoever should ask of their author. Kazgard Kevatrix lived. He stole, swindled, loved once, lost everything, razed, rebelled, rebuilt, and put a lot of bastards in the ground doing it. That said, let us begin.

Last Sunday’s assault on Allerian Stronghold was essentially successful. Three Fists plus or minus change constituted the attack force, which decimated the stationed personnel and tore through the handful of Alliance that came to the stronghold’s defense.

The attack is not recalled without mixed sentiments, however. A good third to half of our number began the attack prematurely. Seeing them engage, I jumped into the fray as well, but the remainder stood and watched from where we gathered by the base of a destroyed tower on the outskirts. Shouts flew across the stone, some among them noting that the Hand had not given the order to proceed. I felt ashamed, realizing my error, but this feeling was soon replaced by frustration. Did they not realize our presence was betrayed? The time for preparation had passed, the battle was now upon us, and yet they sat by the tower, watching idly as we painted the bridge into Allerian red with blood. We needed to establish ourselves within the walls before reinforcements arrived, but many chose to wile away the first few precious minutes of the attack taking in the scenery.

I wonder if the Path of Ruin has robbed many Grim of their sense of urgency. The affairs of the battlefield proceed at a wholly different pace than they do within the dungeons and dark places of the world.

The rest of the attack force was eventually compelled to join those of us already fighting, and the occupation continued as planned. Unfortunately, our departure was as troubled as our arrival. The bulk of our force exited south before heading west along the border of the Bone Wastes, leaving a single disjointed Fist to tangle with the fresh reinforcements touching down in Allerian. As luck would have it, I was among that Fist. We managed to hold out longer than I had expected, but the growing number of Alliance inevitably felled us.

I’ve tasted earth enough times to not be bothered terribly by it. It’s the manner in which I came to sample Terrokarian soil that bothers me. The strike group forged on ahead to Shattrath, seemingly oblivious of the fellow Grims that had fallen behind. I’ll be curious to see if this lapse in concern was an isolated incident or emerges as part of a larger, ongoing issue.

The New Year Masquerade was enjoyable. I succeeded in assembling the pieces necessary to disguise myself as some sort of shadowy, priesty figure. Aest saw through it within moments of laying eyes on me, but no matter. Setrema’s family home on the Northern Shore was the perfect isolated spot to be host to several hours’ worth of drinking, dancing, discourse, and dueling. I chose not to partake in the spirits provided, but Atticus wasted little time before taking the plunge.

The former Hand drinks with much abandon.

Toward the end of the Masquerade, those of us who hadn’t yet left for the night gathered around a campfire and told ghost stories. I think I can confidently say that my contribution was the best of the lot, but it raised some matters that I had let slip from my mind a long time ago. My story centered upon an unusual experience of and told to me by Morothold Crenwish, one of my partners in crime back when I was alive.

Morothold was Stratholme born and raised, the sole son of a family that knew only financial hardship. He had always aspired to become a paladin—the Order of the Silver Hand began in Stratholme—but picked up work as a blacksmith’s apprentice in Lordaeron to support his cash-strapped parents. On one occasion, Morothold and a wag of wares were dispatched by his master with orders to deliver them to the master’s clientele in and around the town of Brill. Morothold set off, nearly completing his journey when his wagon was surrounded on the evening before his arrival by a group of bandits.

My group.

We inspected the wagon’s contents, which consisted mostly of farming or crafting implements to be sold off later, but also included a selection of blades and armor we’d put to considerably better use. I decided Morothold was fit enough to induct into my crew, offering better pay and opportunities to visit home if he joined and threatened to kill him if he didn’t. He agreed, and that’s how we first met.

Morothold synergized well his fellow thieves, proving his value to the crew numerous times and eventually convincing me to make good on my offer to let him visit Stratholme for a while. We were between jobs, occupied with selling off several crates of assorted gems lifted from a passing merchant, and could afford to go without him for a while. Morothold made his way to Stratholme and enjoyed a pleasant dinner at home with his parents, deftly fabricating stories about his success with his apprenticeship. He finally retired to bed and slipped into a dreamless sleep. Some time during the night, however, Morothold’s mind was gripped by a terrible nightmare.

He found himself in his room, witness to the sounds of a confrontation downstairs before hearing his father’s dying screams. Something made its way up and cleaved through the door, revealing itself to be the Scourge-turned form of his mother. Morothold found himself unable to act when the ghoul approached, lunging at him and seizing him by the throat. As Morothold’s vision darkened and he fell into unconsciousness, the city suddenly appeared below him, ablaze and battle-torn, he himself floating above it in a blood-red sky. His levitation gave out abruptly and he plummeted downward toward the rooftops, but awoke a moment before impact. He chose to withhold the tale from his parents, but recounted it to me upon his return.

Stratholme burned a year later.

In retrospect, Morothold’s nightmare was so obviously a premonition that it’s almost painful to think that we wrote it off simply as a fantastic, albeit disturbing product of natural dreaming processes. I wonder if the evil perpetrated in Stratholme somehow rippled outward in time, causing Morothold to see what he did. That’s a matter probably best left to the Bronze Dragonflight. I doubt I or many others could begin to comprehend the truth of it.

I’m fairly confident that Morothold would have sought to return to Stratholme once he heard it was besieged. I can’t say that with full certainty, as I was lying dead or lurching undead by the time Arthas swept through. We had expanded our operation enough to consider working two different locations simultaneously. Morothold, now my second-in-command, was off elsewhere with his crew when mine chose to seize a grain caravan from Andorhol.

Our deaths must have been agonizing.

If Morothold did indeed travel to and was killed in Stratholme, then the likelihood that he ever became Forsaken seems exceedingly low. Scourge-turned Stratholme probably had enough measures in place to see that the undead located there remained subjugated when the Lich King weakened.

I enjoy the company of the Grim. They are a talented group of murderers with whom I am pleased to associate. However, bringing up Morothold has opened up a wound I cannot bandage and a priest cannot prayer away.

I miss my friend.

[Keeper Of Lore]

January 27th

I have undertaken something that requires a great deal more optimism than I am accustomed to exercising. I intend to find Morothold.

This venture seems inherently condemned to failure. Morothold is merely one Scourge amongst legion, a single ghoul in a sea of thousands spread across two continents’ worth of undead strongholds. The “needle in a haystack” metaphor just doesn’t capture the sheer futility of it.

But I’m going to try anyway, and I’m wagering my success on a handful of factors. Morothold has probably remained in Stratholme or near to it. I suspect that the Lich King engages in little repositioning of forces, choosing to strengthen his holdings using resources available locally. Strike groups traversing long distances have been few and infrequent, testament to the largely defensive campaign the Scourge has fought since its considerably more aggressive initial expansion. If Morothold has managed to avoid obliteration in some scrap with the Argent Dawn, the Scarlet Crusade, a third party, or from some other cause, then Stratholme may hold him yet.

I began the search yesterday. Entering through the city’s south-facing main entrance, I struck down perhaps a dozen skeletons and ghouls before deciding that the most expedient approach would be one made under the cover of stealth. The undead are notorious for seeing through it, but the trials of Outland have improved my technique and permitted me to slip by unnoticed save for on a handful of encounters. Flash powder proved its value in each instance.

I skirted along the Crusade-held west side of the city before cutting eastward, dodging countless patrols along the way. I eventually came upon the hulking figure of the late Magistrate Barthilas, made known to me by assorted records archived in the Undercity and by testimony from adventurers who had entered post-Plague Stratholme and lived to tell of it. Garroting wire met bulging neck and enchanted mace met infected fist, leaving me battered but victorious. Searching through deteriorating pockets, I located a key to the city, which should make future incursions easier to execute. I regained my strength with the Magistrate’s remaining flesh. The taste was abhorrent.

Proceeding north, I searched several more groups of ghouls for any familiar features, and finding none, laid them low. I set my eyes upon the spirit towers erected in the culs-de-sac, slaying the wardens of three and the Thuzadin cultists within. Following the booming voice of the death knight Baron Rivendare led me to the Slaughterhouse, a most menacing and, on this occasion, apparently impenetrable structure, for I could not compel the doors to yield despite felling every lumbering abomination in the courtyard. A large gate behind me barred conventional departure from the city, so I made my escape via hearthstone to Shattrath.

I cannot give an exact date for when I will return to Stratholme. Soon, undoubtedly, but after sufficient time has passed for the city to replenish its numbers and call back any patrols it had out at the time of my culling. Some day, perhaps months or years from now, I hope to find my hand stayed by a familiar face and a liberation waiting to begin.

[Keeper Of Lore]

March 4th

It appears that I have been grossly negligent in fulfilling my duties to this journal for well over a month now. My apologies.

The cowardice of the Alliance is persistently problematic. For reasons unknown, the Horde chooses to award disproportionately high amounts of recognition to soldiers fighting alongside the Frostwolf clan of Alterac Valley and neglects to offer appropriate compensation for similar degrees of valor displayed in Arathi, Warsong, or the Netherstorm. Were the battle for Alterac always raging, I might overlook the matter, but naturally this isn’t the case. The Alliance, having consistently suffered considerable losses in the Valley, is hesitant to make further large allocations of troops to the struggle. The Frostwolves refuse to advance on Dun Baldir until the Stormpike have mustered sufficient numbers (it’s the honorable thing, or some rubbish), leaving hordes of the Horde’s finest milling about in Orgrimmar and elsewhere, waiting for the call to arms. The prestige garnered from fighting in the smaller battlegrounds is too little in comparison to motivate many to invest any noteworthy effort in attempting to take them, thus leaving the Horde stagnated by Frostwolf policy on one front and fighting for nothing on the others.

I walk the Path of Vengeance. Crawling through dungeons is hardly my passion or forte (though the Enforcer has encouraged those Grim of Vengeance to assault the Ivory Tower, to which I have just recently gained access). The sources of my equipment are almost exclusively through the quartermasters of the Horde or the Steamwheedle Cartel. When the Alliance is too scared to fight or the Horde too disinterested to try, the number of options available to me for improving my gear decrease dramatically. I suspect those Grim walking the Path of Ruin do not encounter this problem. The powerful foes of the Horde in Outland and elsewhere seem stubborn enough to require continued putting-down. I can’t imagine Lady Vashj (or whoever the fel Ruin is working to topple next) ever stepping forward and saying, “Sorry, folks, I’ve had a change of heart and just don’t feel like scrapping with you anymore.”

I have not seen or heard Atticus for some time now. Drinn is a fine rogue, to be sure, but Atticus seems easier to relate to as a fellow Forsaken.

I am considering turning my focus away from shadowstepping and back to an art more fitting with rogue ideals: mutilation by daggers. The enhanced mobility offered by slipping through the shadows (of whose mechanics I’ve still yet to have a complete understanding, though I perform it well enough) is impressive, of course, but maces are clunky, graceless things and I long to feel the smooth entrance of clever blades once again. Reviewing the publications of several well-established rogues who employ the mutilate style has dispelled for me some of the misconceptions about the supposed incontestable superiority of shadowstepping. Mutilate has a variety of techniques at its disposal that, when paired with the appropriate equipment and enchantments, resolve many of the commonly perceived issues with the style’s mobility. Furthermore, the burst damage afforded by mutilate is far and above that available to shadowstepping rogues and has the potential to drop even formidable opponents in mere moments under the right circumstances.

My position in the arenas is less than desirable. I have been partnered with a fairly-capable troll hunter in the two-versus-two bracket for some time now. We’ve done decently well so far and I think we could advance a good distance up the bracket were it not for the detrimental presence of another rogue on the team. Whatever relationship Sarphon has with this rogue is apparently sufficient enough to justify retaining someone who is essentially deadweight. Of the fifteen matches Sarphon has undertaken with this other rogue, all but one was lost, whereas Sarphon and I manage nearly two wins for every loss (forty-one to twenty-three, if you want exact numbers). I imagine our ranking would be considerably higher if this other rogue wasn’t dismantling a good portion of our efforts every week. I am hesitant to suggest cutting him loose as he was already on the team when I joined sixty-four games ago and I do not want to alienate my working relationship with Sarphon.

A promising three-versus-three featuring Sarphon, Oddel (an exceptional tauren druid), and myself appears to have all but disintegrated. We burned brightly for a short while, skyrocketing to near seventeen-hundred rating before a series of devastating losses annihilated our progress and sent us plummeting down to the mid-fifteen-hundreds. Our morale never recovered.

I’ve yet to see action in the five-versus-five bracket beyond the handful of matches I fought in as part of “Kill Emmons First.” This is made more unfortunate by the fact that larger teams are awarded additional arena points, resulting in the possibility that a mediocre five-versus-five reaps more points than a decent two-versus-two. As I seem to be fated to seeing only smaller-scale action in the arenas, my feelings concerning this are, needless to say, far from pleasant.

I’m encountering an issue with the flying machine that’s causing the engine to stall momentarily when in a hover. Other systems are managing to catch it when it happens and provide a resolution automatically, but not one with any sort of permanence. This seems to be the only significant fault, however, and I should probably consider myself lucky that I’ve not seen more trouble, what with the schematic’s gnomish origin. Regardless, I’ll probe around when I have the opportunity and see if I can’t nail down the cause and fashion a fix, though the thought of riding a sputtering, smoking blur down from several thousand feet to a high-velocity death on the ground below is terribly amusing.

[Keeper Of Lore]

((This and future entries will be posted with the majority of the text sans-italics for readability's sake.))

April 9th

Another month, but few developments. Quality over quantity, I suppose, as this entry will show.

Most prominent amongst the events betwixt this entry and the last was the simultaneous departures of the Hand Drinn and Atticuss from the Grim. It would seem that the Enforcer’s administrative methodology applied during his meeting with the blood elves was sufficiently incensing to prompt two of Vengeance’s strongest followers to throw down their tabards and forsake the Mandate.

The Mandate. A powerful phrase, to be sure. It is the fundamental binding force of the Grim, a veritable prophet in whose name every Grim deed is done. However, it would appear that the binary elements of the Mandate are not being given equal representation. My inquiries made in the week or so since the ill-fated meeting have only reinforced my suspicion that Vengeance has been playing second fiddle to Ruin. There already exists a gross disparity between the sizes of Vengeance and Ruin, long exacerbated by weak, possibly restrained recruitment of new followers for Vengeance and now by the loss of several of Vengeance’s finest; the blood knight paladin* Mavia and the priest Deathshadow left shortly after the first two, totaling to a devastating loss of four soldiers amongst so few already. Cristok—tournament manager and now apparently the new Hand of the Grim, at least “temporarily”—released a statement last Saturday claiming that, though Vengeance was injured and had been bleeding “loyalists [to Drinn],” “we can expect it to end now.”

I am not convinced, druid. Your penchant for healing and restoration has made you overeager to declare the matter contained and in recovery. The wound to Vengeance runs deep, perhaps deeper than you think, and the bleeding may well begin anew. You would be hard-pressed to find a soldier who had fought under Drinn’s leadership and did not believe her one of the most capable commanders and combatants in recent memory. Who amongst them could deny that they had been stirred to action by Drinn’s call, and might otherwise have sat idle and safe were she not its source? I am certain heretical thoughts occupy the minds of some Vengeance still. Should you fail, “Hand,” in rallying your broken troops, you may find yourself staring slack-jawed as your charges abandon you and seek leadership capable of directing the Vengeance they enlisted for.

My own course of action is irresolute. On one Hand are the Grim and the Mandate, whose messages of “Peace through Annihilation” I truly do believe will bring peace to the Horde. However, evidence suggests that the Grim has merely carried the Mandate’s catchphrase and has forgotten what the Mandate says about “A Grim Purpose:”

The complete destruction of the Alliance is the Grim’s goal. […] Through our Hand will the Horde become the dominant force on Azeroth and beyond. […] This is our purpose. [...] Everything we do we do for this one single goal.

Permit me to state the first sentence again: “The complete destruction of the Alliance is the Grim’s goal.” The goal. The “single goal.” The only goal, to the exception of all others. Now, the Mandate does mention certain “beings of ancient power and growing strength plot[ting] our downfall” and “We will save the Horde from these threats,” but these are supplementary things, distractions. They are not the goal of the Grim. The Grim, in its present form, has dedicated the vast majority of its manpower to distractions, and has seen it appropriate to, over trivial matters, over further distractions, publicly humiliate who was formerly the most talented leader of the Path actually working directly toward fulfilling the Grim’s goal. I am baffled as to how I may continue in good conscience to serve an organization that has lost sight of its core objective and so blatantly undervalues the officers working toward that objective as to believe it acceptable to disgrace them before their assembled fellows over the most inconsequential and completely irrelevant of issues. Should the status quo remain where it is now, I suspect I will not be able to for long.

I appear to have begun a play on the “on one hand, on the other hand” expression a few paragraphs back, so I best close it. On the other Hand is Scorn: a young guild borne out of the first Vengeance exodus, the new home of a selection of people I have come to trust most on the battlefield, and an organization showing a level of dedication to the Grim’s goal that the Grim itself has failed to match. However, Scorn’s weakness lies in its age. With the ink on the guild charter still wet, Scorn has had little time to expand its numbers, and to my knowledge, no such expansion has yet occurred. Scorn lacks both manpower and a distinct purpose, aside from taking down the Alliance and not being Grim while doing it.

I know not down which path fate will lead me, and the instability of the current situation foils all mortal attempts at prediction.

The Isle of Quel’Danas, the home of the Sunwell, has been opened to both Horde and Alliance, who now simultaneously lend their assistance to the Shattered Sun Offensive as they slaughter each other out in the forests. My memory of the area is fragmentary at best, though I wonder if some dormant imagery might resurface as I continue to aid the offensive and explore the isle. I’ve a sneaking suspicion I’ll not have an opportunity to see the Sunwell in person a second time, though it can’t look in near as good of shape as it did before we the Scourge had its way with it.

The two-versus-two arena team I spoke of in the previous entry has been discarded in favor of a fresh partnership with a skillful frost mage, whose talents, I hear, will form a strong complement to my own. Early matches have been promising, but all things are subject to change.

*Following the spiriting away of the naaru M’uru from his imprisonment in Silvermoon City, I heard mention that blood knights are no longer to be called blood knights, but instead paladins, like their Alliance counterparts. I’ve not taken a moment to test the veracity of this claim, however, so I’ll undoubtedly offend a knight/paladin mistakenly at least once by using whichever term is inappropriate.