Event Log - An Expedition of Whimsey
Daala - December 27, 2005
Though a few know of it, I shall restate that I am currently
detained upon a minor journey, of sorts, sifting throughout those
isolated little pockets of geography that I so enjoy.
Passage would've been a simple enough matter, but privacy was
desired and the wholesale slaughter of an Orcish frigate didn't
feel terribly appropriate. An alternative was found in a human
fishing barge of quite adequate girth; the crew was dispatched in
a terribly generic and completely hackneyed fashion, and thus,
the event is not worth the time of enscribing it upon this
parchment. As for the captain, a grizzled old man with
laugh-lines etched along his cheeks, I dipped his face into a
basin of water. Drowning him seemed too...fitting, for a
fisherman. I'd acquired a useful toy in recent days; it was used
to solidify the ice, trapping his head beneath. I knew I'd have
to bind those pesky limbs of his; quite fortuitously, amongst my
repetoire of techniques is the facilitation of breath without
air. Finally, he was strung up like some bloated ham; and so, he
was devoured like one. I began by slicing a neat little patch of
his neck away, tearing his spine free as though boning a fish. As
for the rest of that morsel, I would spoil the memory by sharing
it, I'm afraid.
But all that was merely a diversion, seasoning upon the true
confection, without which I'd have had no need for that succulent
sugar. Piloting a barge remains firmly out of my capabilities,
alone. However, acquiring deckhands would've defeated my purposes
altogether. A solution was found in the conjuring of several
imps; they were paid for their time, as is the nature of
contract, and served well enough.
My premiere destination was the first outcropping of tropical
islands that I might find, in the uncharted seas where virtually
no legged creature existed, fettered by the unassailable bastion
of an inescapable reef or sand bar. I found them well enough, and
though there were some noteworthy occaisions, the telling of them
would diminish the only occurrence, to this date, that I feel has
any true significance.
A sort of basin, a massive bowl of reefs and rocks; though the
waters moved freely, the bowl's contents remained quite
thoroughly imprisoned beneath the brine and salt. Though I enjoy
dramatic linguistics, my time, at the moment, is short, and I
shall cut to the chase. The area was approximately three miles in
diameter, filled perhaps a third of the way with massive bones;
it was a draconic graveyard.
In days long past, members of the blue dragonflight
under...Malygos, was it? flew to Northrend in their twilights to
find their last nest. When the Scourge swept through that chunk
of frozen piss, those boneyards became sites of mass necromancy;
thus, the Scourge's deadliest agent of brutality, the Frost Wyrm,
was borne. Skeletal drakes imbued with the chilling energies that
are at Ner'zhul's beck and call. Were it not for the Frost Wyrms,
I suspect that Illidan's march to strangle Icecrown might have
had more success.
This grave site seemed to be unspoiled. I was gripped with a
terrible sense of enormity; it was as if the hopes and dreams and
screams and crushing demises of our peoples rested in that site.
In hindsight, I cannot rationalize it as an end-all victory by
any means, should the Scourge discover the site and raise a
hundred or so new Wyrms. But how many might fall? Perhaps the
Kaldorei and the Wyrms would kill one another off. But then,
perhaps the Darkspear tribe. But, what if the Forsaken deduced
the rituals necessary for their conception? Such thoughts coursed
through my mind with a desperate urgency, before it occurred that
the last time any had had reason to cross this ocean was Thrall's
exodus; before that, I can only think of the Highborne fleeing
their lesser Kaldorei brothers and sisters, thousands of years
before. The site should be safe, at least until it wouldn't mean
a thing in the war.
I enjoyed the sunset; a very meditative locale, good for
gathering my thoughts. I'll right more letters, detailing my
journey. The parts worth mentioning, at least. Not sure where
I'll head next, but that's quite alright.
An Imp should be bringing this missive to our archives. If it
arrives soiled, please smack the little devil about to your
heart's content.
Upon my departure from the more tropical climates, little bumps
or bruises were to be had, save for a near-encounter with a tribe
of cannibalistic trolls. I was forced to defend myself, and at
times, I defend myself pretty hard. For brevity's sake, let it
simply be said that they were impressed with my proficiency for
shadow magicks, and an armistice was formed, sealed over a
feasting of their three newly-deceased comrades.
I've enjoyed the taste of troll on one prior occaision in the
Hinterlands, and two or three in the steamy jungles of
Stranglethorn. At the time, I found the sensation to be
curiously, but unmistakably, reminiscent of devouring a Kaldorei
or Sin'dorei. In any case, the flesh of a sentient seems to be
all the more zesty; Jubu'kal, their chieftain and head chef, and
I shared many recipies and techniques. I greatly look forward to
the opportunity to make use of them, hopefully cooking for a few
comrades that share both my tastes and appetite. But I digress.
A convoy of Naga out-reachers sheared across the oceans to my
position, but fortunately, I still remember how to speak my
native tongue of the High Elves. Hearty banter ensued betwixt the
Myrmidons and I, as we compared stories of all sorts, and idle
speculation as to what might be afoot at the dusts of Outland.
They graciously offered to escort me across the waters, a hundred
spans in a direction of my choosing.
Against my better judgment, I chose north. I do not know why,
least of all at this moment in time. Nevertheless, I felt that I
had to lay eyes upon Northrend's shores. Though my vanguard
peeled off long before reaching my destination, the course was
set and I intended upon following up on it.
I was stricken by how completely devoid the perimeter seemed, at
least the tiny patch that I had opportunity to reconnoiter. Not a
single Tower, not even blight. Perhaps the Scourge favors
subtlety, at this juncture; who could feel threatened, gazing
upon this wasteland? But then, what had I been expecting? A
teeming hive of ghouls, scrabbling over one another like rats on
a plank that is sinking, ever so slowly, awaiting nothing more
than a means of mass transportation to pour over our walls like a
flood, like the last time? Perhaps I am too paranoid for my own
good. But then, there are many caverns beneath the ice. Perhaps
I'm not.
I wandered through the glaciers and floes for two days (at an
agonizingly slow pace, for the sake of caution), when I came into
contact with a small cell of Nerubians locked in arms against an
even smaller party of ghoulish lumberjacks, likely scouting out
new regions of timber. I believe that my spontaneous aid against
the Scourge here was all that convinced the spiders not to kill
me; perhaps I was of this renegade undead, whose rumors whispered
across the winds and waters? It was terribly fascinating, living
with this cell for a brief time. I most strenuously interviewed
their Lord, picking that brain and rending knowledge from those
gem-like eyes of his. To imagine such a rag-tag faction of
guerillas at the very doorstep of Icecrown was uplifting; I
gained much in hope for the future, there.
I did not dare to delve any further into the continent; soon, the
Citadels would be in sight, and I'd already spotted three Frost
Wyrms and four Gargoyle flights overhead. As I left, I did so
with a rather thorough and graciously complete understanding of
Nerubian culture and tactics, knowledge I thought to be virtually
lost.
For now, I have no more to write. There shall be at least one
more letter before I return.