Grim Views

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.

((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.