Hebenon (et al)

Today we sailed. It is with great concentration that I avoid looking inside the boat, gaze transfixed on the horizon. We speak little, I am focused on the smallest disturbances in my sensory field of perception, he is lazily leaning into the boat as we tack across the water. A true seaman.

---

A day into our trip an albatross descended upon the boat, carrying a message lashed to its legs. As it made its escape I admired its long, powerful wings carrying it to the heavens, itself sailing on the currents in the air. I admire its strength and grace, at ease in its own element.

His face fell as he read the news: Journey back at your own risk. Eversong Woods has fallen to a plague, no doubt engineered by the Alliance. Disease outbreaks have all but stopped trade and makeshift militias are patroling the countryside eradicating the infected where needed. He thinks of his wife and children -- I can't help but think: This is the hand of fate, gently guiding these souls into the beyond. A mass cleansing, a good death. Should his family survive, it just places that much more importance on their lives. But I know enough that this would offer him little consolation. I shift my hand on my blade, silently appreciating the gentle vibration of its satisfaction.

I found him the next day down by the harbor. He was tall and had a sword by his side. He told me he had sailed on a small boat and was likely to be the first of many to be setting foot on this continent.

When questioned, he puzzled and looked at me with wonder. No, I have never heard of Sin'dorei. Myself, I am still in awe that this elf even exists.

Silvermoon, rebuilt. Sin'dorei. Kael'thas. All these words fill my head and the pressure is deafening. So hard to breathe. My sword trembles and shakes in my grasp.

He is shamed when I question him about his eyes. But how long has it been, since I took solace in the sword, and embraced the cold? We all find our own means of getting through the night.

He is returning next week with notes on his explorations. I believe I shall book passage on his small craft, if he will have me.

The warlock attempts mastery over the nether but in the process inevitably is mastered himself. Biological processes are no mystery to him and he can manipulate them at will. It is the unification of magical energy and disruption of biological processes that give the warlock the ability to cause debilitating pain and agony. Through control over the flesh and communion with the nihilistic forces of the nether he can summon forth nightmarish creatures and make their presence manifest in our own reality. Those who commune with nightmares inevitably crumble under their influence. While the warlock may set out to establish dominion over his charges he eventually succumbs to demonic forces or becomes destroyed in the process of rebellion. This magic is not good for the soul.

Whereas the warlock seeks mastery over flesh and the nether, the death knight seeks mastery over death and over the elements. The two sorcerors are sides of the same coin but they are in opposition to one another: Death vs. life, the abyss versus the forces of nature. One line of thought would be that through mastery over life warlocks seek knowledge of death -- the corruption of flesh eventually leads one to the brink. And through knowledge of death one can appreciate the transitory nature of life.

There is a certain reverence towards this fragile thing, life. So quickly it fades, flowing slowly over the grooves on the blade...

Waves break, moonlight reflecting off smooth sand; the chill of the wind whips about my neck and even with a day now, the news is no easier to take. Yesterday a young elf, looking not a day over 100, walked through town. His eyes burned a curious emerald green, a sign of -- what? I've never seen the like before and yet -- the skin translucent, but with a ruddy hue, the delightfully arrogant gaze... Quel'dorei, I am sure.
 
This fact hit like a sack filled with iron. I dared not speak to him; perhaps tomorrow. I must learn the truth, how it is possible that he walks Azerothian soil? Could I have been wrong all this time? Dissonance buzzes indistinct and blurred, conscious thoughts turn to both guilt and wonder...

Cold sunlight contrasts decisively
with warm pleasures
of fleeting memory
is branded with faces, the supposed screams
of the fallen,
echoing in dreams.

But the chance to mourn has past, Children of the Sun.

All lost in the expanse of void
rent in our hearts by the storm.

Head high;
barren tear ducts, dried through the years.
Never forgotten.

Choking on dry swallowed truth.

Is this guilt?
Misguided — sins unforgiven?

Nevertheless.

A passing fear engulfed in endless night —
an allegiance to cold metal —
forbids me to mourn you, Children of the Sun.