The soft knock upon the door received an equally soft reply, “Come in…” The courier entered with a bow and handed the small, folded vellum to the priestess. Without need of more, he spun upon his heel and strode from the room. The Kal’dorei woman chuckled softly, remembering the man’s arrival as a boy courier and how many times they’d argued over ‘proper etiquette’ and how many bows he needed to give or whether or not it was required or seemly to speak during the course of duty.
Still smiling, she walked slowly back to her desk, slipping a slender finger under the seal and gently lifting it to unfold and read the missive. A thoughtful look crossed her face as she carefully folded the letter, placed it upon her desk, and turned to the picture window overlooking the temple gardens, “A new name, albeit one with much accolade preceding it,” she murmured softly, “The long sleep passes from yet another and there is curiosity in the air. Does the pattern repeat?” She laughed quietly to herself and corrected, “When does it not?”
She glanced slowly across the room, her eye drawn involuntarily to the crimson and azure tabards hung with care alongside the oddly patterned box upon the far credenza. So much time had passed since her last fitful waking upon the cool marble of the Temple’s fountain. Could it be, after all this time? She shook her head slowly and returned her eye to the temple gardens, “Those who pass are not like seasons, departing and returning. The precious lost, once departed, forever gone. New names, faces, and spirits arrive, some, so like our precious lost that we ache. But it is wisdom to remember impermanence,” She blinked rapidly and said more firmly, “It is wisdom to remember.”
Turning from the garden window, the priestess allowed herself to indulge and soon she stood before the small settee and desk where the two tabards hung. Her hand fell lightly upon the oddly shaped box with its strange emblem; two cresent moons, placed back to back, at the middle of them, a small diamond glimmering, “Why does this become such a necessity? It feels like penance, an act of atonement, remembrance of things long ago forgotten by all but me.” The Kal’Dorei sighed heavily as her hand passed from the box to the thick, richly bound book sitting in the middle of the table, “A book of stories; footsteps on the path,” she murmured to herself.
She gazed about the rooms appointed to her by The Watch and pondered it. So much had changed and the duty she felt to maintain the now thick journal had begun to wane. If she undertook the effort once more, it would mean re-opening old wounds…. if for no other reason than to maintain the continuity. On the other hand, there were good lessons and more than a few things worth remembering found in the old, vellum pages and she knew from personal experience that the meanings she found in the old journal wouldn’t necessarily be the ones found by other readers. “Meaning is where you find it, and most often reflects more of who and where you are on the path than anything.” She chuckled softly to herself at the ease with which her mentor’s words rose from the depths of her mind. She understood now – some things stay with you because they hurt, others, because they heal.
Anesidora nodded to herself, yes, it was still worthwhile. She opened the book and began to read of the life of another priestess, in another world, much like this one, but so different in so many ways….
Of the Emberkeeper
Listen and hear the tale of how The Emberkeeper came to be, and learn in the hearing that which remains an homage to the strength and commitment of a house; the meaning and memory of The Fire and to all who hold its memory in honor.
Long ago, before the world knew sorrow, The Pantheon set life upon Azeroth by creating the first, perfect continent… Kalimdor, Land of Eternal Starlight and set in its verdant center the Well of Eternity, a fountain of essence, of energy. From the Well of Eternity, all things of the world have manifested and by it, all things of the world are nourished even until this day.
The tale of the Well of Eternity is long and deeply detailed. It’s history will not be uttered here. But of one race that sprang from it, we shall speak.
Among the first living beings of Azeroth, there was a nomadic and largely nocturnal race of humanoids. Their first name has long been lost to history, but we know them today by their chosen name, The Kaldorei, children of the stars. But, in the first days, before their transcendence, they lived as primitives, huddled and shuddering, moving constantly, nomads without a home.
This being a time before magic was understood, many things today found common were held mysterious and sacred. Most such things were of that manner that permitted survival and sustained life, and primary among these was fire… that which protected through the long night, pushed away the shadows, cooked the meat that fed the clan, and, at times, served as a weapon that scorched earth and flesh and kept danger at bay.
The ability to call fire did not exist in these days, knowledge of such tools as flint and the technique of its striking were not yet discovered. Many times, fire was only known when delivered by storm, and so, was considered a gift from the gods. The Fire itself gave many gifts to those who could possess it – the ability to find warmth when the world was cold, the ability to prepare meats and meals to sustain the clan, the ability to drive off predators who often lurked in the night, and a sense of security that rose when these things were reliable. Thus, an occurrence of fire was held as a deep and meaningful blessing… and, when discovered in the world, a clan was quick to collect an ember so its aid could be called at need.
In these times, it was the clan without fire, without an ember, who often faded for being unable to sustain themselves in the world. For this reason, the ember was held a sacred thing, and the last ember from every fire was tenderly guarded, set within a metal lined box and maintained by an appointed protector, the Emberkeeper.
Over time, as the knowledge and ability to keep and call fire increased in the world, the duty of the Emberkeeper became ritual. At times, the ember served as an offer of friendship or by its light, as a welcome to new members. It was also a thing by which alliances were signified… two clans, meeting and intending alliance would contributed the embers of their clans to a common fire, two turning into one… and from that sharing, a new ember signifying their binding and commitment to strength through unity was then culled and maintained. The earliest Emberkeepers became keepers of the history and meaning instead; their duty, to protect and pass on the lore of embers and The Fire, and to oversee the welcoming of new members and teach the customs and rituals of respect for The Fire that contribute safety and security to a clan’s path.
Today, despite the arcane magics and tools by which fire may be called, the clans of the world in which the Kaldorei dwell still hold to at least the ritual of the old traditions; the act, if not the understanding remain as a means of demonstrating thankfulness to the universe for granting them transcendence: thanks to Elune for Her Grace, thanks to the Well of Eternity for its role in the process, and thanks for the lessons learned when once they roamed as a lost and nomadic people upon the face of the world, and thanks for the dedication of the Emberkeepers who, thorough their own honor and homage to The Fire perpetuate remembrance from which meaning and understanding rises.
Lifting her head a moment, the priestess chuckled to herself, “I’ll be here all the day if I intend to review the entire thing.” She flipped through the pages marking milestones and memories of spirits who have flown and smiled widely as the turning pages came to rest upon a tale of one of her older diplomatic efforts. “Ah, yes…. a good memory,” She tilted her head thoughtfully, “I’ve been woefully out of touch with my good friends within Azeroth. Perhaps it is time to revisit them.” She smiled at the thought and turned her eye to the page and began reading….
~journal entry – mid-morning – Searing Gorge~
In pursuit of honor in the eyes of the Argent Dawn, I have spent these last days in the cinder-laden bowl of the Searing Gorge. Within this wasteland, there is a species of spider that spins the Ironweb Spider Silk required to make the Runecloth Boots that the Argent Dawn have requested of me.
Needless to say, I now understand why they set this as a task to demonstrate loyalty to their cause. Initially, my heart was light to consider ‘merely’ making eight pairs of boots for their militia.
Now, two days later, with the scent of burnt land and spattered with the goo of countless spiders, weary, dehydrated, and low on supplies, I find this task more daunting than suspected and it is with a wry grin that I contemplate the smirk that the task officer had when this writ was given me.
At least the Firbolg make no bones over their tasks or what is involved in them. I find this manner in which humans insinuate ease as a means of procuring aid most curious. I would have been as willing to aid them knowing what was involved, but the manner in which it was given sets in me something of an annoyance. I am tempted to present them with a receipt for cleaning expenses, for surely to remove the gore of these many, many spiders will not be a cheap thing.
Still, I am close to the goal. Fifteen of the required eighteen silks are tucked safely into my knapsack. One of these given by Aramand, I smile to consider the manner in which we help one another in such things. This house entire has in many ways demonstrated this charity, and it warms my soul to witness the many ways these Riders carry forth a noble tradition.
I am hopeful this will be my last day in this sulferous place. Even as I recall that Rian seeks to journey into the Blackrock Mountain itself… something about retrieving an item lost therein. Checking my journal, I see I too, have a task in that place… to discern the tale of Reginald Windsor.
I ponder this a moment… the task has long set in my journal and perhaps the matter has been discovered while I have slept. Uncertain, I decided I will undertake the matter when we travel into that dark mountain… perhaps I am not too late to help the people of Stormwind uncover the truth of events.
~journal entry – late evening – Stratholme~
I had just turned toward the inn for the evening when, upon the wind, a whisper arrived. The voice was unknown to me, but it was filled with desparation, ‘M’lady, might you consider a kindness toward a paladin of the light in dire need of aid?’
Puzzled, I whispered, ‘What service might I provide to one unknown, who speaks over distance?’
The paladin had been set a most difficult task, to journey into the depths of Stratholme and retrieve flasks of holy water stolen from their rightful place.
What ends the ghouls and fell beings of that ruin might have with blessed waters escapes me, but as it seemed a worthy task, and the thread of despair in the paladin’s voice was real, I sighed and set myself to the task.
Journeying to the Eastern Plaguelands, I was dismayed to see that the disease and rot seemed to have thickened since my last visit. It has long been difficult for me to endure the vivid decay of this area. The Argent Dawn remains steadfast toward its healing, and I suppose in time, I will more devotedly undertake the task… but not yet.
Arriving at the Chapel of Light’s Hope, the small group huddled before the rickety church and spoke quietly of their plans for the night. Apparently, there are a number of injustices to be set right within that hopeless place. Myself, having no tasks to that end, listened quietly and pondered the time when I might undertake a cleansing of Stratholme more directly.
The direction mapped upon the parchment, the paladin rolled it up and tucked it into his armor before signaling for us to mount up and follow him. Arrival without incident, we prayed outside the gated of the place and then, walked slowly through the gates into what may only be described as hell.
The undead were a thick, cloying presence in this place. Their shrieks and moans were enough to lift one’s skin from the bone. Strange and venomous creatures chittered in the corners, and harpies dashed in manic, frenzied delight across the decrepit courtyards. I have never in my life seen such horrors but for the day I fled Quel’Thalas as a child. I have no shame in admitting that all I wanted to do was run from this place as quickly as my feet might carry me.
Swallowing hard, breathing deeply, reminding myself that I was there on behalf of another, and with Elune’s hand about me, I set myself to duty and let the horror of it all drift from my mind.
Entering the first courtyard, we were set upon by a mass of rancid ghouls and harpies. The fight was long and difficult, and in the end, I was reduced to applying bandages to the others as they bravely swung again and again at the creatures who gibbered and clawed at us. When it was over, we were all panting and already staggering under what seemed a weight of despair. So many of these creatures to overcome… the place was thick with them…. and if we were this ill-prepared at the onset, what hope for success might we hold?
It helped slightly to hear the mage recount that this was a lesser used entrance and thus, harder to make one’s way into initially. This, a bolster to the confidence of all, helped. We made our way slowly deeper, and within the first crate we encountered, the paladin whooped to find a flask of the holy water he sought.
Shushing him, we crept further in, the wails of a banshee rising from around the corner ahead raising the hairs upon my neck. ‘The Baroness,’ the mage whispered grimly to me, ‘It would be an honor to send her spirit to its final rest.’ Looking toward the Paladin, I could see his nod… and we cleared the larger courtyard until we could see her standing there, sobbing and mindlessly trembling.
Pity rose sharply within me, what it must be like to never know other than such a “life”. I think I actually sobbed aloud, for the rogue snickered, but she was quickly shushed by the younger Kaldorei hunter with us. The hunter turned to me with a whispered apology, ‘Nez here, she doesn’t understand as we do the concept of eternal torment. Gnomes, you know…’ I nodded and set it from my mind.
The Baroness caught sight of us and the battle was engaged. For a gibbering shade, she was amazingly powerful. Throughout the fight, she latched onto the minds of those with me, turning them against their friends… and it was hard for me to engage them as enemies. The only means by which to shatter her hold being to beat them until they were half-alive. The horror of such a thing is only now leaving my mind.
Eventually, we did lay the pitiful thing to rest. And in all honesty, the effort undid me. The hour was late, my mind was all but scrambling to the edge of insanity to escape the things I’d seen, and the chuckle of the mage as he entertained the thought of savoring some other such grave-inducing effort was more than I could bear.
I asked the paladin where he thought another vial of that water might be found, but he was uncertain. It seemed to me the entire venture was soon to turn ill… and no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than we were under attack by another group of decaying bodies and arachnid minions.
We fought bravely, but there were too many of them, and soon I found my spirit floating over the cracked cobbled stone of that condemned place, in that moment, as much a compatriot of those cursed ones as ever I would dread to be.
It was too much to endure… I released my spirit to the void and only by the grace of Elune was it caught by a spirit healer and set into the world once more…. wearily, I donated for what restoration she might confer upon me and from the tranquility of the graveyard, sent my apologies to the paladin for having failed him in this task.
A kindness he gifted me, forgiving me and saying even further that he had never known one as steadfast in the face of utter doom. Absolved of blame, he then bid me rest and thanked me for my part in aiding him to find even one of the flasks he was bid to seek.
His hope for success seemed restored, even in the face of our failure and when I asked of it, he revealed to me a deeper and more tender truth… his faith had this night all but failed him in the face of his inability to so much as progress in this task for those who counted upon him.
That he had in any part succeeded was balm and restoration to a downtrodden spirit…. and that one who had no reason or interest might move across the world to render aid to such an end for him was itself a gift.
He turned from me rapidly, but the glimmering in his eye was not missed. I coughed lightly and turned away myself, to grant him the privacy in which to restore the control he sought…. but I smiled for being able to grant such restoration to another. Elune blessed us both this night, and I am thankful for it.
~journal entry, mid-morning, Winterspring~
I determine the Timbermaw are much craftier than initially suspected. I have, for some time, labored to earn their good regard and increase my reputation with them. In every instance, they smile, nod, bow… and then, lightly mention yet another round of demonstrations are required.
I cannot imagine where they keep all the feathers and beads I have set before them. Their villages are too small for the many upon many stacks and bags I have delivered.
Perhaps they use them in their rituals. I often see fires within clearings near their camps. Perhaps they gift them to other tribes. I cannot say I know and they are not telling. Only that half-smile, that knowing gaze, secure in their ability to command my efforts. *chuckle*
Were it not for the mandate of Darnassus toward seeing our people revered by them, I like would have given up upon this some time ago. Still, I can understand that the effort to restore our lands will require the cooperation of its indigenous peoples.
I find myself dreaming of these firbolgs. I suspect this is part of the attunement process. Maybe this explains the smiles of their totemics and shamans as I wander through their tunnels.
I consider it. I have known others who, gaining favor with this tribe, have become able to channel their essence and at times, appear themselves as Timbermaw. I ponder the circumstances under which I would be compelled to undertake such a transformation.
It seems… pointless… and yet… it is well known the Timbermaw are deeply attuned to the world and those places in which they dwell. There are stories of their uncanny sensing of coming disaster. Perhaps there is benefit, or would be in some future moment, to being able to call upon the deep magicks they hold.
They have been kind enough to teach me certain enchantments and have shared with me patterns of sacred garb that imbues its wearer with increased intellect and, in some cases, mystical replenishment.
I find Darnassus not unwise to seek alignment with this tribe. They often appear base, perhaps even savage at times, but as I get to know them, I find increasingly that theirs is a close and dramatically deep relationship with this world. Sometimes, the simple things are paradoxically complex.
Actually, another outcome of my time with them has been a re-evaluation of my choice of study. I recall my first moments within their tunnels, when, regrettably, I reacted poorly to what was, at that time, perceived as an attack. The firbolgs fell back in fear as I releashed the horrors of shadow upon them, fleeing my presence as the shadow words of pain and the power of the mind flay leapt from my hands.
I do not think they had ever witnessed the shadows of Elune, and it was some time before I could convince them that I was not intent upon their demise.
At any rate, I have, over time, realised the wisdom of expanding my study to include the holy aspects of our people, and to undertake more rigorously the study of discipline in order to hone my talents and display the aspects of healing and regenerative magicks. This change seems to please the Timbermaw.
See, diary? I am all but obsessed with them. Reading back over this, I laugh for it. Will I not speak of my house? Have I lost all sense of the remainder of the world? Perhaps I am spending too much time with these Timbermaw.
I will note here that the house remains strong and happy. We have in recent weeks had a number of elders choose to walk with us. It brings a smile to know that our house is a respite for those who have grown weary of the chase after fame and riches.
These new ones bring deep wisdom and insights to our house. Even now, they lend the accumulated experience of their years to our younger ones. Add to this, they teach both myself and others of longer season more deeply of the world and the various conflicts that rumble through Azeroth.
We continue to welcome younger members, though in truth, it has been some time since we spoke upon the winds and sought to convince others to walk with us. It would seem our house name is spoken often and well throughout the land… and those who arrive now do so with the recommendations of others upon their lips. This is a thing that pleases me deeply, for it is one thing to think your house a noble presence, and another to have the world confirm it.
The gathering fire continues to grow… new faces and houses arriving to linger and savor its warmth. And of late, there is talk of alliance… several houses tendering interest to such ends. I proceed slowly in this… for many reasons… and seek the counsel of our Pathfinder, knowing in his words, our true direction will be found.
For now, my duty to the Darnassian Council continues, and my days are spent gathering feathers and beads and tending what tasks the Timbermaw set to me. When there is need, I travel with those who would walk the deep places, and discover their secrets on behalf of Stormwind and Ironforge.
Ah, yes, I almost forgot. I ventured last week into the Warsong Gulch on behalf of a friend. I must say, it was at once a horrifying and intense experience. Yesterday, to my surprise, I received visit from a courier of Stormwind, who presented me with a commendation and award of the rank of Corporal.
I am torn as to how to deal with this sudden accolade. On the one hand, it seems so direct a conflict with my goals toward unity and peace that I feel almost embarrassed for it. On the other, it is well known that there are certain parts of the world wherein the words of a priestess may go unheeded… but the words of someone with rank would not.
It is, I know, a honorary rank at best. Still… perhaps there would be merit in pursuing such favor with the Alliance Military. I suppose one never knows when such a thing might come in use. As a servant of Darnassus toward the raising of my people into favor throughout the world… I cannot be too quick to reject any leverage to this end.
Knowing this, I decide to more carefully consider my choices and perhaps defend at times in the Gulch or other places. If nothing else, the experience will serve well… and there may come a day when such is the difference between conflict and conciliation.
I end here… for now… my mind set to contemplation of this. We will see how time unfolds the path, and I will set my foot where it seems the ground is most sturdy.
~journal entry, dawn, Ashenvale~
I find myself sitting within the retreat of the Raynewood feeling rather sheepish and more than a little foolish. Ah, diary… after this much time in the diplomatic circles of Azeroth, to make such an overt error of assumption! I really should know better… what will I tell those who wait my report in Darnassus?
Picture it… I stand there in the tunnel of the Timbermaw, the latest delivery of strange beads taken from Winterfall sitting at the feet of the shaman. She smiles to me, nodding slowly, and in her thick, guttural accent tells me that she wishes to show me something.
Appropriately attentive, I smile and return the nod, patiently waiting as she moved with obvious portent to a small, crudely hewn cabinet and withdraws a bundle of leaves and strange looking twine. Turning with a proud look, she brings it to the stump that rests between us and sets it there with a flourish.
I mirror her look of pride and shift it to an expression of wonder and awe and curiousity. She is pleased. I ask slowly if I might be permitted to view what lies within the wrappings. It was an appropriate question, she smiles more widely and nods that typical slow nod that their race uses both as assent, acceptance, and approval.
Gingerly, I lean forward and with careful and reverent movements open the twine… being careful not to cut or snap it. Lifting and spreading the leaves slowly, I eventually manage to reach the center of its snarled pieces, finding two small trinkets. One, a wooden carving in a shape that roughly approximates one of their people, and the other, a necklace made rather unsurprisingly of the very beads I have so long labored to deliver to them.
It is an unfortunate truth that, as a diplomat, one if often presented with amazing tokens and strange magical items. Beyond the rather risky process of trying to figure out what they are, what they mean, and how they work without offending or injuring myself or those presenting them, I am often hard pressed to respond with appropriate levels of enthusiasm.
Diary, I may say such things here as may never be uttered elsewhere… but in truth, I have seen so many crude carvings and recycled items, so many clever things and many more decidedly unclever. I fear my travels have jaded me in some fashion. To look upon these two items, knowing them items of pride and much hard effort by these people and feel other than wonderment for that effort made me feel… small and somehow unworthy.
In that moment, puzzlement and my own guilt filled my mind, but I manage to shape my face into an expression of pleasant surprise and amazement. I look up to her, smiled broadly and said, ‘It is beautiful. I am deeply honored to view such a delicate and superbly crafted work of your people.’ Her smile turned brighter, a thing I had not thought possible.
She rumbled softly and replied, ‘We are thankful of your efforts on our behalf, Ambassador, and this token of our esteem and appreciation is crafted in particular for you as such.’ Her look turned to something approximating humor as she reached for one of the items sitting upon the leaves, ‘Watch… ‘
Her huge paw almost obliterated any ability to actually see what she did with the trinket. However I noted movements that looked as if she had in some fashion stroked or polished the outer shell of the item. Suddenly, before, a young Timbermaw appeared. He is in his prime, and dressed as a shaman.
I glanced quickly from the corner of my eye and noted the appraising smile of the female ambassador, making note as well that apparently, this young Timbermaw male was considered highly attractive. Stifling the chuckle, I returned my gaze to him and waited to see what happens next.
The young shaman bows first to the Timbermaw Ambassador, then to me, smiling as he murmurs odd words and sways lightly… nature magic swirled up from the ground around him to rush out and envelop me. As the breeze of it settled, his image faded and disappeared.
Turning to the Timbermaw Ambassador, her expectant look tells me what the desired result should be… ‘My friend!’ I gasp in delight and amazement, ‘That was wonderful! Truly amazing! How do you craft such intricate and amazing things?’ Without waiting for the reply I know she will not give, I continue, but only briefly, ‘I will cherish being one permitted to deliver this token of the exalted esteem of the Timbermaw for our people to Darnassus!’
Ah. Such foolishness. Her frown was brief, and she worked to cover it quickly, but it was there. My heart sank into my very shoes to see it and my mind raced… what could I possibly have said wrong?
Reviewing my own words as I pinned the smile to my face and made distractionary efforts at admiring the other item nestled in the leaves, I pretended not to notice. The Timbermaw Ambassador sighed heavily as she moved to her seat across from me. I did not make any response to the verbal cue… pretending absorption in the craftsmanship of the necklace and hoping it other than a fatal misstep.
The silence extended and became heavy until I could no longer ignore it. Looking up to meet her eyes, I smiled… but allowed it to fade before her level and serious gaze. ‘What is wrong, my friend?’ I asked with concern… but before she said I word, I knew I had somehow gravely erred.
“For some time, the Kaldorei have come to our tunnels,” she said slowly, “And each time, we have welcomed them and opened our paths to them and made gesture of acceptance when they display interest in the things to which our people have dedicated themselves.”
Her eyes glowed slightly as she dropped the thick accent, and it was all I could do not to gape at her as she shifted to a manner of speaking that revealed to me just how grave a misstep I faced… for no longer did she speak as a tribal, but in tones as dulcet and smooth as any ever heard in the marble courts or indeed, the Temple itself, “We endure the ignorance with which we are judged by you upon your arrival. We endure the patronization as you vie for our deepest secrets. We endure the awareness that, from your lush fortress of marble and moonlight, you look to us and see not a people who have suffered under an onslaught of corruption and who yet endure, but only a rudimentary people, a tribal village that, perhaps, might serve the Kaldorei’s own ends.”
I think I actually squirmed as she uttered that last. It was so like the words of Staghelm that I could not but feel utterly convicted by them. involuntarily, the blush rose to stain my face as my eyes fell to the ground and, for the first time, I felt almost ashamed for my people. A new and strange thing, indeed.
Looking up once more, I found she had turned from sternness and was once more smiling to me. Heartened, I weakly smiled back as she continued, “You are a sincere and noble representative of the best of your people, Shandala. Many words have those who abide and watch given on your behalf, and it is not without understanding that we choose to hold you honored in our midst.”
Her eyes hardened slightly as she spoke further, “But the regard we set upon you for your dedication and actions are not a thing we choose to extend to your people en totale. Rather, let each who would become less than patronizing and seek in us more than a convenient fodder for this unfortunate war come to us, work by our side, and demonstrate of themselves such understanding that is deserving of honor or exaltation.”
Reaching to the center of the table, she carefully wrapped the two items and secured the simple twine about the leaves once more, rising and turning away, she walked to place the bundle back into the rustic cabinet. When she turned back to me, she was no less gracious or pleasant, but it was clear that I had failed in very particular manner this test.
She smiled to me, and reaching where I sat, set her heavy paw upon my shoulder and comforted me, “My friend, it is not your place to earn for your people a thing they will not seek to earn for themselves. If you would find yourself exalted among us, it is well… but know that what reputation you earn with our people is yours and yours alone.”
I nodded slowly and taking the non-verbal cues from her movement back to her side of the table, rose to depart. As I crossed the threshold, I almost missed her softly whispered farewell, but the wind, ever friend, brought it to me as I walked quietly from the tunnels and turned for a time to Astranaar, “Go in peace, Shandala, and worry not that we, that I, might think less of you if you choose a time to undertake other things. When you are ready, that which we endure remains, and as always, your aid is welcome.”
The flight from Felwood was spent in somewhat somber contemplation. I suppose it was niave of me to think that ever would the acts of one bring esteem to many. We each create in the world our own reputation, and it cloaks us as we walk our path, and by its colors does the world know us, often better and more truly than we sometimes see.
I honor my friend, this Timbermaw Ambassador, for surely it is not an easy thing to endure the many assumptions of which she spoke, nor the unintended slights they give for the various things they convey. She might have chosen anger or even disdain, surely my presumption was deserving of both. But… she did not. And in this, a lesson for me, delivered well and fully.
I will make my report to Darnassus, though surely it is a thing they have long heard. I ponder for a moment why, knowing as they must that this is the case, they set me to this inevitable end. I consider as well what wisdom remains in pursuit of status for my own sake.
While I know there is much work to be done in Felwood and Winterspring, I am also aware that there is a point at which such seeking of reputation becomes its own kind of arrogance. Is it possible to find myself exalted without becoming somehow prideful of it?
Here, a momentary smile for a lesson given that only now becomes apparent… and a smile as well for the insight and care of a good friend… who, seeing me snared in the strings of political machination, chose to gently free me and, knowing it may well mean a loss of aid, still chose to enlighten me to its workings.
Knowing even that guilt and shame would turn me a time from their tunnels, she gave to me the gift of understanding and, in this, demonstrates a compassion that will surely see me once more laboring on their behalf so that, someday, I may give my own gift to her and her people… and if indeed I will be exalted, it will not be for Darnassus, or even the trinkets that rest in the rough-hewn cabinet, but simply because there are those things in the world deserving of effort… and whether or not I find fame or repute in pursuing them is, at best, a marginal consideration.
Indeed, it is humbling to discover learning where arrogance thought none might be found. I smile. Good lessons, all.
~journal entry, the Temple of Telhamat, Outlands, mid-morning~
Ah, diary… were I to try and summarize, you would think me quite mad, I’m sure. So much has changed.
The opening of the Dark Portal has brought the gapping maw of eternity as feared. Altering the very streams of time, it seems. There are rumors the TimeMaster himself is in flight, and one may only imagine what would/will/may come of it.
I would chuckle to write such a thing, but remind myself one never knows where one is in the stream of time but that others around one say it is ‘here and now’ rather than indicate it was ‘there and then’… which even reads oddly, only I know you know what it means.
Our anniversary again approaches, and I had thought to host the most amazing event… invite the world and crow for the joy of the foundation of our house remaining firm, strong, and steady.
But I rethink the insanity of such pride in a world torn with war and the despair of those who have forever lost their homes. What kindness to strut, crow, and preen over our good fortune in the faces of those who have lost all? It seems something of cruelty, in truth.
While the world and time may be cruel, I would much prefer not to be so when it may be avoided and am thankful that my eye could see it before the time, rather than after.
I do chuckle here. Time. It seems a theme today, does it not?
Time passes. Things change. Names appear like roses in the garden and then, just as one becomes content and perhaps reliant upon their sweetnesses, they fade and pass as well.
I ponder the wisdom of being so needful of the rose that I must mourn every season’s ending, and all their passings. Perhaps it would be wiser to savor them while here, and then, release them when they fade, and should they once more bloom, all thankfulness… and should they not, merely to smile for that they ever did so.
I am pleased to once more greet you, diary, and in you, find the truth of this lesson of the rose and it’s nature… for, setting myself as you a moment, I suspect I may at times appear as such myself… long neglect of you, only to return as if I have just decided to write… had you sentience, would you not think me that seasonal flower? Wonder if I would once more bloom?
Ah, my accepting, quiet, flat and thirsty friend, you diary page. How many times have you helped me ‘figure out’ a thorny problem such as the rose’s nature? And how many times have I sat here, laughter mixed with tears, to realize you are but a book, nothing more than blank pages, and the true battles happen here, within the landscape of the mind?
Some turn to the Temple and whisper confessional thoughts. Some speak to friends in quiet moments. Some speak only to strangers. Some can only speak when ale has loosened their tongue. Some never speak at all.
Myself… I most often speak to you… which is, I suppose, to speak to myself… words upon a page… reminding me that in the end, we all battle in these ways, even if we do not all write of them… and just as everyone else, often, it is not the world or others who are my ‘worst enemy’… but only myself, opponent and most tender nurse, taking turns flaying me or saving me here, in the battlefield of the mind.
I pause. Laughter at it all, of course. No, I fear I am no less serious than ever I was… but I do smile. It is a merry time, I am delighted by the roses within the garden, each of them, all of them… I thought to name them, but why? Shall some small bloomlet weep for seeing only the large, most fragrant blossoms remembered?
No. Instead, simply to say, ‘In the garden of this house, there are many roses… and in each of them, I take sincere and solemn delight.’
And no, I shall not strut and preen in the last days of that third month… instead, walk in the garden, enjoy the scent, delight in velvet petals and presence.
Ending here with yet another chuckle. Stars save me from the analogy and the irresistibility of the metaphor.