Interlude (The story of the Great Seeds)

Taking a short break from Mohryn's tale...Here is a freshly edited version of my rpg game background. Nothing fancy about the rpg...it was text based on mIRC. I take heavily on the ideas of my favorite author, Tolkien. Much credit is given to his genius and imagination :)

In a time so long forgotten, before the age of despair and war, the world was pristine and full of hope. Form and shape were given to the lonely, empty void by the Creator and in its age of creation beings called Avatars walked its surface. They came from the places of which no story tells; coming to give beauty and life to the empty world. Each Avatar held within them the power over one of the elements: earth, water, wind, spirit, and fire. It is in this time and ever after that this story is concerned; the ages of wilting beauty.

Wind was the first to exercise her power. She created the sky and with the help of water sat the clouds in their place. Water with earth formed life in and out of the never ending seas, but it was not without spirit’s touch that life ever came to be. Many other creations were made and with each others’ help they created all there ever was. But one avatar withheld his power, choosing only rare times to create or form the world to his liking. Fire never was fond of creating beauty as others saw it.

Soon the world was as beautiful as the imagination can fathom but this beauty was never destined to last.

The Avatar of fire grew jealous of the others' work. He grew frustrated that no one took notice of his work's true beauty. The other avatars saw this change and quickly moved to encourage him, giving him rights to the world's foundation and allowing him to heat the world in its need. Spirit even created a small living thing with Fire...a flicker of blinking light on the warm summer’s night that we call a Firefly. His jealousy was only tamed for a short while.

The Avatars held council and within that council elected Spirit to manage the newborn world and govern it in the Creator's will. It was there that the prophecy of the races was told to them. Beings created not from them and wholly apart from them would awaken in the world. They would need the Avatars' guidance to fulfill their potential and it would be the Avatars' job to make the world ready for them. Fire, being partly perverse by the thoughts of greed and jealousy, only saw this as an opportunity to rule.

Through Fire's jealousy and greed he began to plot against the other Avatar and while in the solitude of his work he secretly perverted every single thing the others created. He grew strong and surpassed them in power and might. Even Spirit held no dominion over him. Fire delved a fortress into the earth, marring its beauty forever. There he brought forth legions of horrid beasts and mastered the power needed to blanket the world in his darkness. His form twisted and mocked the beauty he once held. He had become his own version of fairness.

As the days of the prophecy neared the end the Avatars came in council again. Fire came, covering his now twisted form in shadow... They discussed what each had done and the trouble they encountered with the perverted works of unknown origin. They knew nothing of evil or of how such things could come to be. But soon they would. It was here, in the midst of their discussion that the hammer stroke met the anvil. Fire unfurled his facade and called forth the army in waiting. The Avatars were overwhelmed and fled in the face of destruction. The world around them burned… As they fled they witnessed the decimation of their works.

The Avatars fled as far as the shores before turning and fighting off the onslaught that met them. One by one they fled across the sea, leaving the land they had called home. They fled until the dawning of the next sun. There Earth raised the ground above the water and Water carved into the rock. Wind carried the birds to their new haven and beauty began to take form once again.

Not much is told of this era in history. Though what is known is that most of the early races awoke to the blaze of the world's destruction. Many fled to unknown lands or places that the Avatars kept secret...places that somehow managed to go untouched from Fire's destructive hands. Others quickly fell into the slavery and bondage that Fire's subjects were treated to.

In this age of torment names were given to all things but not by the tongues of the Avatars but by the words of the races. Gaithlor they called the fearful Fire for in the common tongue it meant anger and fire… the fear causer. The other avatars were not yet known to them so of their names no one knows but the ancient among the races.

Through the echoes of the injured world the avatars heard the fulfillment of the Prophecy of the Races. They longed to meet them but in the age of torment and fear the Avatars continued in exile. At last they rose from their pity and decided to take back what they were promised. They created a fortress of their own, a haven for those they would bring back from the mainland and after years of preparation they embarked to save their home, the land of fire and death. It is said that in this time the lesser spirits abandoned the void for the call of war. Thousands heeded the call… An armada of white ships set a blaze with the light of the dawning sun reached the now foreign shores. They were met with little resistance and by the time the sun set behind them they had reclaimed just under half of the scarred land.

It was during this time that Gaithlor waged a cruel and wicked war with them. He sent the twisted forms of men and other races to fight the Avatars; to fall to their deaths in front of their supposed saviors. The war was at a standstill with neither side gaining nor losing ground. It was during this time that the Avatars searched their homeland in hopes of finding the prophesied races. They found Elves and Men and Draconians, but others were either lost or hidden.

The Avatars taught them knowledge of many things and in the end of their teaching, beckoned them to come to the far lands with them. Too few heeded the calls and so it was that many were split from their families; some to go to the far lands and their safety, others to go to the ever-burning war and their impending death.

The Avatars tested their strength against Gaithlor and still found it wanting. Each test waxed their hold upon the faraway lands. They knew of no way to defeat him and his armies but with the instilled knowledge of those who came with them they found a way.

Together they created the shells of four seeds. Each Avatar would in turn pour into the hallow shells their power, their immortality, their being... The sacrifice was great but in its fulfillment laid hope. They were to find the seat of Gaithlor's power and there plant the four seeds. When all four were planted the world itself would destroy the scars and malice of Gaithlor and his army...leaving the world in the care of the races.

Each Avatar set out alone and on different paths towards Gaithlor’s seat of power. Elves and Men devised weapons of warfare while the Draconians held the onslaught at bay. As the strength of the Draconians failed elves and men swooped down from the southern mountains, killing any who stood in their way. With their newfound power they pushed back the armies of Gaithlor until at last they were in the very shadow of his fortress. The last gasp of life had succeeded thus far...

The Avatars themselves were a part of the last gasp and as they neared the fortress; Gaithlor unleashed every horrid creation he had ever made. While the battle churned each Avatar found themselves face to face with their destruction. Wind fought off the claws and fire of a giant land wyrm while Water and Earth fought off the countless spawns of shadow. It was here during this desperate fight that Gaithlor himself came forth and confronted Spirit. As Spirit was about to plant her seed, Gaithlor came with furry and fought off her attempts to end his reign.

Their fight drew on into the night with neither gaining any ground with the other. Even after Wind, Water, and Earth had planted their seeds Spirit and Gaithlor fought on. Spirit's strength was failing and with that Gaithlor was able to wound her several times. She fell before him, barely able to support herself on her knees. As he was about to draw his sword across her throat an arrow struck at his chest...then another, and another. The arrows of a man, elf, and draconian struck him with precision. He stumbled back. Their efforts to kill him were fruitless. He seemed to hold the power over life within his grasp, but just as he was about to end Spirit's life the other Avatars struck. Gaithlor was heavily wounded and before he fell his own blood trickled down his sword and upon the seed of Spirit.

In her last moments of life, Spirit planted her seed. The wound of the world was healed but the blood of Gaithlor's evil still coursed through it.

The last of the four avatars, now reduced to a mortal life, lived amongst the races until their death. It is told that before the Avatars died they made the races a promise.... a promise that in their greatest hour of need they would return to destroy the tainted seed and restore the world to its former beauty.

Note: Spirit, wind, water, and earth were given names which are recorded as: Vanya, Vendethiel, Athradien, and Bruicaunion respectively. These are not their true names but those offered to them by the newly liberated races.

Of those that fled to the faraway lands…Little more is told in this story of those races, but still much is known. Other legends recount how after the Avatars’ death the faraway lands fell under the same curse of spirit’s tainted seed.

Mohryn's Tale 5

…In what manner does one know sorrow…happiness…? How does one know loss or gain? If one does not fight how does one know the harms of battle beyond the superficial glance through the lens of the past?

My father told of wars far before me, of Azshara and of Illidan. Flashes of magic wisped around in my head, meeting with the clash of steel. In my mind’s eye I was with my father as he fought…my mother as she stood valiantly beside. None dare stood before their fury… but what does a child know of bloodshed?

I could see the storm approach as the Echinoid cut through the waters with reckless abandon. Its jaws were set tight, closing the rows of wind around us as its thunderous laughter mocked our plight and still the cannon fodder fell. I still see her when I close my eyes…

Equinox threw open the fury of her men and ship when the first shots were fired. Hope was an afterthought. Hail and fire rained down upon our heads and yet the Echinoid prevailed…volley after volley. Thunder was echoed with gunpowder…the billowing wind with the cries of death. I did all I could to stem the unnatural fury of the storm…I still hear her in the silence of my thoughts…

Wood buckled to our indignation. Men died to our hands…to my hands. They cried out for our deaths in theirs and still the storm mocked us.

Sulfur and blood, the ‘scent of hell’, rose through the sheets of rain bringing down a mixture that stung our eyes. Desperation overcame thought as the Echinoid’s guns went silent. The madness of battle rushed in to meet the void. As they boarded, Equinox unfurled her cloak. It was as if the hand of Ragnaros had risen from the core of the world to swallow those before her. One ship and three fold men fell to her wrath. Then the end came…

No manner of magic could shield us from the torrent of volleys that came. Within minutes the Echinoid was no more and I was merely another piece of flotsam amidst the cackling storm. The laughter passed swiftly and I was left with a familiar yet unknown voice.

“ Dalaran? Yes of course it is a good choice Abbess..”

With little left I submitted to the veil of unconsciousness.

I awoke already beaten and chained to a rock wall. What personal items I had were taken from me or still floating out at sea. I was surrounded by men clad in red sashes… For sometime I was mocked for little more than my race…but then the questions came. Questions to which I had no answer came between the passing moments of inhuman torture. I could hear Equinox some distance away…her pain I have not the heart to tell.

I knew little of the unfolding events I had stumbled into and luckily they knew little of me. Three months of torture I endured. I could no longer here her past the first…

My usefulness reduced itself to the mines where I spent another four months…biding my time. It was amidst one of the numberless days that I saw her once more, the mistress of the Echinoid. She was broken and bore the chains of a rabid animal but still I could see the fire within her. She would not tell me of her ordeal and I did not ask. Our paths crossed quickly and frequently from then. Thus our escape was planned.

I had long feigned my broken spirit beneath a freshly scarred body. When the chains were released from my numb hands I finally knew bloodshed. Elune’s grace found me once again in the form of my pack and journal. With Equinox in tow we passed from underneath Westfall’s stone to Northshire Abbey.

There Equinox fought yet again for her life. Infection had followed her along the path to safety…I will never forget the year of true peace…

Mohryn's Tale 4

“Get up, get up!!! If yer lazy arses don’t get us sunk then the dwarves ‘ll do it for ya!” The captain’s shout rang clear through the floorboards of the ship’s deck, startling the cook some 3 decks below. The merchant ship cut mercilessly through the undulated surface of the water…only a few leagues from harbor as the crow flies. The captain’s order was greeted with the sullen nods of the still half drunken sailors fresh from slumber as they slowly reached deck.

Mohryn had seen this all play out many times before. He fastened the clasp to his journal and stood, awaiting the day to come. The ship seemingly had more fine spirits than real cargo which probably had a lot to do with why no real pirates bothered them. The “Echinoid”, playfully called that since it usually had more barnacles than wood it floated on, had a reputation for carrying very little worthwhile cargo but somehow managing a hefty payload for its captain and crew.

A red dawn greeted all aboard the Echinoid as they sailed towards the Eastern Kingdoms. The rays of blood hued sun danced across the growing mass of clouds, beckoning only the crazed or iron willed to enter its maw. Though it had been a month of ‘hard sailing’ as the captain said, it would be a few more days of the same if she was to get her payload into port on time. ‘Through the blood dawn we go..’

Mohryn glanced at the enigmatic captain from his view on port side. The crew often called her “mistress”…others called her “cap’n”, but to Mohryn she introduced herself as Equinox. She certainly looked it…Her oddly soft, pale skin was matched by jet black hair which was often slung over her shoulder in the form of a braid. She was equally dark and light in her presence and tone using every curse known to man and dwarf yet sparking more than her fair share of coy remarks.

“You bless us with your presence yet again, master elf.” She said with a playfully sarcastic tone. “It’ll be but two days before our parting.” She left it at that, taking a moment to lean over the rail.

“Bless is not the word your crew would use…” It had been a tough month for adjusting, more so for the crew than for Mohryn. He spent his days wrapped tightly in cowl and cloak and still felt the wary stares of the crewmen.

“Don’t be modest now. The crew has taken a liking to ya…I have taken a liking to ya.” She winked and went back to bellowing out orders to her crew before any of Mohryn’s reactions could be gauged.

Just as he stowed his journal away into his pack the first mate called out the day’s role. The greenhorns were always relegated the remedial chores of cleaning the night’s dinner or maybe even checking the ropes if the first mate was feeling ‘froggy’. To Mohryn went the lines and main sail. He was the most nimble and comfortable even amongst the old sailors…to which came more glares.

As he went to his post he could hear the sailors talk amongst themselves. “Red dawn..” they said. He had seen a life’s worth of superstition in just one month…this being added to the growing pile that he did not yet understand. Red dawn or not, he climbed up the ropes and began the day.

The morning drew to midday and the sun threw off the cloak of haze that threatened to envelop the Echinoid. The bleeding rays of light passed and offered a reprieve through the storm ahead. Boredom, the bane of recent days, had become the routine the closer they came to Menethil Harbor. But not every day was a red day…a red dawn.

“Three vessels on the bow’s horizon, cap’n!” called Three-eyed Johnny. They called the ‘old bilge rat’ that because they swore he could see a ship a mile behind all the while looking at two barmaids in front. Mohryn, half way to the crow’s nest, looked across the calm waters. Three smaller ships were indeed there. “They are sailing towards us, mistress. Right outta tha storm.” Johnny called once more.

“Thank ya, Johnny. Can you see their mark?” Equinox said calmly as she strode to the bow’s railing, looking for herself.

“They bare no flag. By the looks of ‘em they be bigger than schooners, mistess”, he called back.

“No mark, bigger ‘en schooners, and they be sailin t’wards us…”, she turned towards the crew, sage hued eyes cutting into each. “Greenhorns get below deck. Tell Mr. Barley that he best be holding off on makin tha stew…” Mohryn watched the crew scramble to their new positions. He knew little of open sailing and what three ships sailing towards them meant, but he judged the captain’s tone well.

“Throw open the standard of Stormwind, lads. Let’s see what size cannon balls they think they have.” The crew raised the flag bearing Stormwind’s insignia. Its tattered edges thrashed against the changing wind, heralding the shifting fates to those aboard. As Equinox strode to the wheel of the ship a brilliant flash of lightning descended through the curtain of storm. Like the touch of the vile gods, its outstretched hand struck at the water between the Echinoid and its unforeseen fate…

Mohryn's tale pt3

… It had been months since ‘the voice on the wind’. Days had passed with little to no occurrence and in the maw of boredom I could but only spend my free time thinking of the past. Amidst the haze of the azure sun my eyes would spot images of a young, spiteful elf deep in the rigors of Talon’s Den. I was poor, humiliated, a shadow of what once was filled with the hate that at that time resided in me. I had sat in the halls of noblemen, dined with what mortal men would call kings…and now was reduced to the passing grains of sand and dirt.

I spent all of 10 years there. I lost my mother within the first. The torrent of my hate knew no bounds other than what my will dictated. I hated my people but that hate knew its place…beneath the veil of my smiles. ‘I will one day reclaim my honor’ I oftentimes told myself when the candle light no longer stayed the depth of the shade.

I learned much beyond what my father instilled in me and I was wise to not demonstrate what magic I managed to gain from him before the ignorance of my people took him away. I was broken…tamed and molded from what my mentor had told me. I had become what all druids aspire to be…but still the shadow of my past followed me and still my hate sought ways to destroy my own.

Rynthariel the Keymaster, the beautiful enigmatic teacher of wayward druids. Who knows by what means she saw through the obscurity of my soul or by what means she came to know my true name…and who knows by what power she redeemed me from my path of hatred? I look back to her now and wonder if Elune herself had taught her the knowledge of compassion and the strength of ardent patience. She never withdrew from the venom that filled me and she never loathed me for the harms I caused her. She instead day by day filled me with hope and light until no other could remain. By her I learned of Elune’s grace and wrath…and by which to live.

My time at Talon’s Den ended and I was left to now go out and heal the wrongs of war. I had heard of a small outpost in Feralas that had need of hands. So there I went and offered what service I could for 2 years. I befriended Quintis Jonespyre quickly and with him we made quick work in helping build Feathermoon. But, word had come to me of my father…in the form of his journal. It was early morning on a day in mid-spring that I received a package from Rynthariel. There I found the writings of my father when he was no further along the passage of time than I. He spoke of Winterspring and the Owlkin…of archaic magic long brushed beneath the knowledge of our people. Rynthariel urged me to follow his path. Where she came to possess my father’s writings she has yet to say. Why did she urge me to follow my father’s path? Again, I do not know but to those ends the story has been told.

Along the road from Winterspring I constantly recalled the happenings of days before. I thought myself crazy for leaving when the remnants of my father were so near. Yet, it was the call of ‘the voice on the wind’ that entranced me to follow. What other means could beckon to those steadfastly on one path to seemingly follow another? Entranced, I followed to Auberdine where I worked for nearly a year until I found myself aboard a merchant ship traveling towards the Eastern Kingdoms and the realm of man. Beyond the hopeful rays of sun that beckoned to the sea I would find ‘the voice on the wind’… but that is yet a story beyond another.

PT2 and really just beginning!

The magical, steel blue torchlight burned around him…tempting his austere, flavorless expression to slacken as he listened to the verdicts of his ‘peers’. He had seen this played out many times before but the words rang out with the harsh clarity of a fresh experience as if he were a young elf again….scolded by his mother for doing what he knew he should not have.

“You have desecrated the sacred teachings of our fathers...” “…introduced vial evil…” “You are banished forthwith!!!” The words lifted into a crescendo of segmented shouts, only ending as a gavel struck its course…the final nail in the coffin of an already steal ridden box.

It was always then that he woke up, cold and clammy from the reoccurring vision of the past; not even his…. The hearth still offered defiant warmth against Winterspring’s unending chill. It mattered little. The wind blew where it willed and closed doors or bright flames never seemed to hinder its path. He sat there for a moment, recounting and recollecting his scattered thoughts.

‘Hundreds of miles from home and the ghosts of it still find me’, he thought to himself. He lifted himself from his bed, brushing aside the coverings that kept him warm. He dressed himself slowly for the day to come. It was hours before the siege of night would be broken.

A knock broke him from his tired trance. He opened the door to a small dwarven woman looking up at him with impatience in her gaze. She wore her fiery red hair in a bun, always. With a brief smile she invited herself into the room, carrying the day’s provisions as well as a hefty breakfast. “I was just ‘bout t’wonder if ye’d be getting ‘round t’day or not”, she said in her thick accent as she placed the food on the parchment riddled table. She glared at the young elf for a moment, “I thought I told ye t’clean up ‘round here?” She huffed. Not waiting for an answer she went about collecting all the papers and scrapings from the elf’s various note taking sessions.

“Please…”, was all he managed to get out before wisdom told him to just shut up and let the woman go. She didn’t take long, all the while threatening to use the stray papers she found next time as kindling.

By the time he managed out of the small building it was nearly dawn. He was still far too inexperienced for this place…but what secrets he had found were well worth the danger. Today was the day. He felt it within him…on the air…in the ground beneath his feet. Something big was going to happen. Leaving light footprints behind him in the crystalline snow, he began off.

He had taken the path to the owlkins many times before. With each day he learned to disguise his presence…even shifting forms and stalking very near them. It was on the eve before last that he had stumbled upon ruins and a giant azure crystal. ‘These were secrets…powerful secrets’ he told himself, recalling the sketches he had made almost every hour afterwards.

‘It was just over this ridge,’ continuing with his thoughts. He stalked towards the ruins in his recently learned cat form. Greeting him at the crest of the snowy ridge was a chilling display. A troll had stumbled into the owlkin encampment and, by the looks of the encounter, stirred the entire area. Owlkins scrambled towards the unfortunate troll, calling down celestial beams of powerful light. Each beam slammed down upon the wary troll, finally bringing him to his knees before the crowd of angry creatures tore him limb from limb.

Mohryn set his jaw tightly, watching with morbid horror at the gruesome scene that continued to unfold. He was unaware, in his shock, of the presence behind him. It wasn’t until the melodic voice echoed in his mind that he realized…

“It is not your time, little one, to learn all that there is here. Go now, and follow the voice of the wind…”

The presence passed over him like the tide of the sea. It washed over his body and through it until it completely engulfed him and the owlkins. It was the embodiment of peace that allowed him to escape back to the small roadway south. It was not until years after that he heard that voice again…

“Follow the voice of the wind….?” He asked himself in disbelief. It was there amidst the graceful yet chilling breeze of Winterspring that he heard his answer.

“Yes, I know what the hell I’m doing!! What do you take me for, a witless child?!” It was a voice very unfamiliar and distant but held the melodic tones of a woman. Still in cat form he looked about for the woman but found nothing but drifting snow.

“There’s no use of destructive magic within the gates of Stormwind, Miss…” More voices melded within the bellow of the now constant breeze. Where were these voices coming from??? He franticly looked around, trying to grasp unto anything real…”Unhand me! It’s not destructive…it’s just…a new spell.”

He changed forms and looked back to the owlkin encampment…now at peace. The voices fell with the calming of the wind but it did little to stem his confusion. He ran back to his small lodging all the while recounting what he had heard.

“Stormwind….magic. What is all this?” He had half a notion to check what the dwarven woman packed, fearing poison as retribution for his mess making. He unfurled a map once in his room and found the word Stormwind. He tapped the map in rhythmic thought. ‘Follow the voice of the wind….’ What a crazed thought. Stormwind was a big place and what would he find…anything? Why should he go in the first place? With little to nothing to gain or lose he made ready for the long journey ahead…for better or worse he would follow his fate.

Mohryn's Tale

Fwew!!!! Man!! It's been a very long time but now I'm finally in a new place/home. I'm going to grad school for paleontology and teaching mineralogy and sed labs at the local university. It's weird to be grading...very weird but all in all it's been pretty fun. Well...here's the new site...a repository for old...new...good stories? Post your own in the comments if you like...I'm a fantasy nut as well as WOW but not a lot of time to read or do either at the moment! This story is the present looking back whereas the story will start near the beginning. Enjoy.

The candlelight dimmed further into the waning hours of another fruitless night. Many moments had passed since the last question had been answered. He had half hoped that would be the last account of an already old story. The wizened faces that greeted his wary gaze told enough not to keep his hopes up.

By the time his haggard footfalls carried him back to his room it was nearly sunrise. His room was plush…too plush… complete with its bookcases full of empty, vain knowledge to the half-heartedly made shrine to Cenarius. There was little left to do but to deny the comforts and unfurl the bedroll…to which he laid his staff beside.

“I see the council kept you late again.” called familiar voice from an equally travel worn elf in the room’s only chair. His green hair was fresh with the various leaves of the forest’s trees…still firmly planted between the threads of his matted hair.

‘If not on twigs they had at least found an equally earthy home…both rarely get a bath near enough to wash the dirt away’ thought Mohryn.

“They can never get around to the point of things can they? I have seen human women grow beards faster than they make decisions.” Quintis Jonespyre was always an elf quick with words and quicker with actions. It was a trait Mohryn found refreshing…

“There are matters still yet to be discussed. Evidently my story has not settled well with many of them…nor have my accusations.” Mohryn commented as he lit a fresh candle, snuffing the waxless wick out with a wetted finger.

Quintis yawned, standing slowly as to stretch out his tired muscles. “Well at any rate, Stonetalon hasn’t changed much…neither has the orc encampment to the south.” No sooner had he cracked most of the bones in his body than did he plop down on the plush bed.

Mohryn shook his head slowly, walking to the balcony of their room. “No…not much has changed…” He looked back to find Quintis already breathing rhythmically, deep in the throes of sleep. “No…not at all.” He walked back into the room and to his pack, withdrawing a small leather-bound journal worn with the passage of time. The pages fluttered through his searching fingers finally stopping on one of the last pages. His tired gaze passed along many of the words as they had so many times before. ‘Beware the complacency of knowledge…of power that becomes stagnant through fear of use.’ Heresy some had called those words…traitorous teachings is what it had eventually been termed.

He sighed, setting both his book and his body down. It was the same words waiting in the throats of those in today’s council. Would he too follow the path his father took? Branded as a traitor for sound teachings… cast to the outlands to save his family and his house.

‘No…not this time.’ The house of Moonstar had fallen long ago, soon after his father had disappeared. There would be no one to sacrifice for…no honor to lose.

Quintis’ snoring became too much. Mohryn, with a quick jab to Quintis’ side abruptly stopped a long, obnoxious snore…sending him into a series of snorts and mumbles of not wanting to get up just yet. He eyed the journal for a moment before taking it back into his hands.

“Just enough room for another story…” He said to himself. The nearby quill and ink was taken up and served its purpose. In the early moments of sunrise he began the story told to the council once again…

I am Evensong Moonstar, first and only son of the house of Moonstar. Here I write my story; next to my father’s…here I recount the betrayal of my family and the lie I now live…

He wrote for another two hours, recounting his tutoring under the Talon Den’s druid council and Rynthariel the Keymaster after his father’s banishment from Teldrassil. He wrote of how his father was betrayed and why… He wrote of his mother covering their trail from Darnassus to Stonetalon…of her death at the hand of orcs soon after. He wrote of changing his name from Evensong to ‘mourn’ and of remembering his father’s teachings of magic…forbidden. The words told of his path from the secrecy of the Talon Den to Feathermoon where he met Quintis…to Winterspring where the secrets of the Owlkin were found and to Azeroth where his alliances now stood.

He stopped with his friends…with the mention of Ascension’s guildhall. The path forked here. At the impasse of the present there were but two choices, his friends or his past. The last words he wrote stung him.

“I am Evensong Moonstar and though my story will not be told while I yet breath I carry the honor of my father and the memory of my mother…now long since forgotten.”

A separate note was written and tied to the journal that stated that it was not to be opened until his death. It gave an address in Darnassus to which it was to be sent. He bade Quintis a fare journey back to Feathermoon in between his now resurgent snores and began the long ride back home…his past behind him, his friends before.