Lunauviel

After day has faded, the white earth has cooled, and the stars are spread overhead, Shimmering Flats is a hauntingly beautiful place. I returned there after dusk, having retreated to the cool interior of Gagetzan earlier when I was defeated the heat. Even the bustle of the racetrack had all but quieted, and I left what little there was behind me, swallowed by the horizon.

Creatures of all manner took the night air. Most of them were lazy, dull, stupid beasts- gigantic lizards, foul-tempered scorpids, annoyed birds of prey. I enjoyed testing my skill against them. I managed to collect enough of their skins to commission the new armor I've been wanting, as well as a few things the goblins and gnomes of the racetrack will pay for dearly. My only hindrance was the need to stop and feed Crisolin fat slices of watermelon at an alarming frequency; the dry air does not agree with him.

At first I hunted the turtles along with the others. Their shells are apparently quite useful, and admit shamefully I was thinking of little else. Eventually I grew weary and sat to take a rest. My eye was drawn to the ponderous movements of the spikey-shelled beasts. The lumbered amiably over the salty flats. I was transfixed by their peaceful, purposeful walk, as they grazed for a rare bit of scrub or a warm patch of rock. It had a certain familiarity I could not place.

It came to me then that it was wrong to kill these magnificent creatures. They are crabs of the desert. I threw away all the shells I had gathered and told the man who asked me to find them that I was resigning the commission. Then I sat and watched the turtles, long into the night, with Crisolin beside me.

The purified water of the Temple of Elune rained down onto Lunauviel's head and ran down her body, stealing away dust, grime, and worry with the torrent. She was not expressively religious but at certain moments she did feel the need for peaceful contemplation, and to her that had always meant going to the temple.

Thirtieth rank! It might not have meant much to most people, but to Lunauviel it felt enormously significant. Her training was half-complete. Of course, the more difficult half lay ahead of her; she didn't dwell on that. She was finally ready for the more advanced teaching she had eyed with envy for so long. The trick of creating the illusion of death, for example. And the training in riding that had seemed almost infinitely far off before now seemed right around the corner. Upon arriving in Darnassus she spent some time admiring the lounging cats in the grove, stroking their large heads and feeling the deep rumbles of their purrs. They were beautiful animals, self-possessed, elegant. Nothing like a silly horse. Not that I'll ever be able to afford one, she thought with a mixture of sulleness and amusement.

She moved away from the waterfall, into the still shallow pools at the edge of the fountain. There she sat with her nose just above the water and her eyes closed. Truth be told she found the human concept of the light, a formless symbol of good, to be much more compelling than some distant benevolent moon goddess. Elune, however, was a cornerstone of night elven culture. To refuse to acknowledge Elune in any way was to unbecome a night elf. Like many of the new generation Lunauviel possessed a certain amount of contempt for tradition, and traditional values, she was still very much a night elf, and liked it.

If a plain and ordinary sort of night elf. She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the water. White hair, white skin without even a hint of purple to give it a proper look, angular face and silvery eyes. It happened that way sometimes, much more frequently than albinism in humans, but not exactly commonplace either, elves born without any color. Of course, they tended to acquire color, in the form of sunburnt cheeks and noses... Even her name was ordinary. Lunauviel. It meant "full of grace", like its many variants- Lunaeviel, Elunauvain, Telunariel, and so on. She couldn't even adopt a translated version to make it more memorable, because running around calling yourself Fullofgrace felt more than a little foolish. Honestly she didn't know what her parents had been thinking.

Still, she felt extremely accomplished. She had acheived thirtieth rank, she had two loyal and highly trained pets, she had finally learned how to cook without burning anything (usually), and she could turn a neat seam. All in all it was quite satisfying.

I knew no good would come of going back to Ratchet.

It started out innocently enough. I needed a break from the omnipresent dreary darkness of Duskwood, so I thought I would take a nice, relaxing trip to Durotar. I was planning to sit back and drink some grog and do some fishing in the Echo Isles, which is in my opinion one of the most beautiful places in the world. Palm trees, soft sand beaches, cool ocean breeze and a sea the color of the sky. And lots of crabs, of course.

The trolls are so funny, too. They could pass for my kind in a poor light, at least the women, but they're so much more laid-back. I think it's the influence of the tropical atmosphere. Or maybe it's the coconut.

In any case, I grabbed my hat, my fishing pole, and my summer dress and took the griffon down to Booty Bay, then hopped a boat to Ratchet. The journey was much more pleasant than my last- the others on the boat kept mainly to themselves. As I stepped onto the dock in Kalimdor, who should I see but Dalo, with (yet another) female acquaintance? I have to learn to stop acting against my better judgment. I stopped to say hello, knowing it was a bad idea, but I stopped anyway. I also to my great misfortune mentioned my intended destination.

When last we met Dalo was very sick, and he looked no better today. He claimed that he had entrusted his soul to a troll woman, for reasons he would not disclose, and that he needed to retrieve it from Sen'jin village. Since I was headed that way as well, I could hardly refuse to accompany them. I was planning to see them to the village, then finding a nice lagoon to fish.

As we crossed the river into Durotar, I paused to ask Dalo to sheath his sword. I knew this place was home to a number of young horde warriors, and that the horde was rightfully protective of them. We were here to find someone (or, in my case, to fish), not start a fight. I myself had my fishing pole slung across my back. Dalo did put away his blade, though neither he nor the woman mage made any reply. We saw several trolls and orcs as we made our way across the rugged land. I waved to them cheerfully. After all, I was on vacation.

Dalo stood, staring at the village, for a long moment. Then he ran toward it, a strange expression on his face. He soon came back. "They attacked me..." he said, sounding bewildered.

"I don't blame them," I replied, perhaps too lightly. I didn't expect him to try again. "The Darkspear tribe was nearly wiped out not so long ago. They are only trying to protect what they have left."

Dalo remained silent, sulking. We worked our way around the village to the beach. "Do you see her?" I asked. Dalo was still staring at the village.

He muttered something under his breath, and then charged a guard. I watched in shock as he cut him down. "What the hell are you doing?! He has nothing to do with this mess of yours!"

Dalo stood there, blood glistening on his hands in the bright sunlight, looking more confused by my outburst then remorseful. Then he turned and ran off.

There was nothing in my power to do for the guard. I could only hope the spirit healer would be merciful. I returned to the beach, the woman following me looking as confused as I felt.

I pulled out my fishing pole and cast into the ocean. To be perfectly honest I couldn't think of anything else to do, except strangle Dalo, and since I couldn't see how that would help anything I wanted to keep my hands occupied. Cast, wait, reel in, repeat.

The woman soon activated her stone, leaving me. I can only presume Dalo did the same. It wasn't long before more senior orcs, trolls, and even undead made an appearance. Needless to say, they were not too happy. They clustered around me for a while, making obscene gestures and comments that sounded just as rude, even if I could not understand the exact meaning. I continued to fish until I felt calm enough to activate my own stone, taking me back to Darkshire. So much for my relaxing tropical vacation.

I am done with Dalo, and his theatrics, his stupidity and his neediness. I have better ways to waste my time.




((ooc: Even though nothing really happened, I'm going to apologize for what occurred in Sen'jin, because I don't want anyone to get the wrong impression. Perhaps I was a little thick-headed, but I literally did not figure out what he had planned until we were within sight of the village. At that point I left the party to both avoid being flagged and to demonstrate my disapproval, which I also voiced both IC and OOC. The two I was with ignored my objections, killed one guard, and then hearthed it when the horde came to defend the village. I stuck around fishing on the beach, smiling and waving as I was slapped, /ruded, spat on, etc. trying to demonstrate that I had nothing but good intentions. Not that I blame the horde who were there for their emotes, it was a more than understandable reaction.

Lunauviel as a character doesn't flag except under extreme RP prevocation, on the basis that it's a waste of arrows to fight those she has no quarrel with, and I as a player think it's the height of despicable to attack a newbie village.))

I've been very busy in Duskwood of late. It's probably very wrong of me, but I adore Duskwood. The perpetual pall, the mysteries at every turn, the way the hair stands up on the back of my neck when an undead sneaks up behind me...I'm not a depressive person, but compared to Duskwood everywhere else feels like work. This is fun. Even when it's not- it's hard to have a good time, say, when you're delivering an account of a family's execution to the only surviving member. Interesting is perhaps a better word.

I haven't been spending all my time there, though. I went to Hillsbrad on an errand and left with a small green souvenir. I just couldn't resist. Her name is Spinach and she's a very healthy moss creeper, if a little young for a pet. Crisolin pouted and moped for the first few days but I caught him sharing his clams with her this morning so I think he's warming up to her. She eats much more messily than Cris, but then Cris has that handy smaller claw to transfer food to his mouth, and she cleans her own mandibles. I routinely have to scrape the algae off Cris in the places he can't reach.

I love her personality. She's so inquisitive about everything, and very trusting. I managed to get this stupid goblin sight-capture device working, so here's what she looks like:

[ooc: I could have sworn I took a screenshot, oh well, here is where her pic will go when the servers come back up :) ]


Naturally I couldn't leave Cris out:



I swear, this is worse than sibling rivalry. At least with children they can both be with you all the time, but in the kind of dangerous situations I routinely find myself in, I only have the attention to spare for one.

I saw the advertisement a few days ago:

"Eden Fashion Show! 6pm in the Park! Bring your hats, your scarves, your fancy pants and your signature Bolero boots! Prizes to be awarded!"

I can admit I sew. I tell people it's therapeutic, I tell them it's profitable, I tell them I don't like to get gouged just to have a enough space for my things. I tell them I need to do SOMETHING with all that cloth lying around. I don't say I do it because the clothes are pretty. I mean, I'm not cloistered priest or a civilized little mage. I'm a fighter. I kill things by hitting them with sharp pointy things. Preferably from a distance, but I'm not picky, and I've spent my share of time getting doused in blood and gore. I mean, how could any potential employer take me seriously if they saw me scrubbing at the stains for hours after I'm done hunting for the day, or knew that I'm almost out of space in bank account due to sheer volume of beautiful dresses?

So I wanted to go- I could only imagine the amazing outfits that would be on display, it made my heart race thinking about it- but I was a bit leery about showing my face there. Fine, I'll just stay in the background. Easy, right?

I arrived on the scene a little later than I intended, after the show had already begun. A large crowd- a VERY large crowd- was gathered to watch the going-ons. I didn't recognize ANYBODY. I'm a bit of a loner, have been all my life, and large groups of strangers have been known to occasionally unnerve me. So I tried to slip in unnoticed.

I think it was nerves that led me to completely misinterpret the situation. I thought I was choosing a seat at the back. I thought their runway was in the middle of the park, in the middle of all the people. So I chose a good vantage point, on the stone railing of the entrance to one of the pubs scattered around the Park's perimeter.

The next thing I knew, everyone was staring at me.

Eventually, a woman hesitantly said, "Um...could you please get down from there?"

I was SITTING ON THE RUNWAY.

My face went the color of a cooked lobster (not that I am advocating the consumption of crustaceans, but it is a vivid shade of red not inappropriate for this recounting). I mumbled an apology, and fled, as fast as I could.

The first bush I came to became my temporary refuge. My mind was incapable of any rational thought- all I could think was I made a complete cake of myself in front of what looked like half the realm. Very smooth, Luna, very smooth. Crisolin chittered uncomfortably. I think the bush was poking him in unpleasant places.

Eventually I regained enough to composure to slip away. I found a new seat, on the elaborate trim that buildings favor in this city, though the view was atrocious. When it was over, I went to the Irregular, feeling like I needed a drink to wash away the last of the humiliation. Milk wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I KNOW Aunt Saru is involved in this somewhere...but at least it goes well with cake.

What a night, what a night.

I trudged into Goldshire- I always end up at the godsforsaken place- after an evening of moderately successful salesmanship. I came into a huge batch of linen recently, and took my wares on the road. I thought some of the newer priests would like a few of the items, but strangely another hunter turned out to be my best customer of the evening. She did look amazing in the blue robe, though, so I can't fault her fashion sense. I myself was wearing my latest creation, which all told cost me far too much money, and it was a steal at that price. I recently sold one just like it for a tidy sum... It's got a lovely drape and this amazing soft golden hue- who knew you could use red dye like that? I certainly learned a few things from that pattern.

Anyway, I was in Goldshire (again). I sat outside on the soft grass and watched the local energetics duel each other, while others sat around campfires, or meandered about trying to catch somebody's (well, this being Goldshire, perhaps "anybody's" would be more appropriate) eye, and so forth, quite amusing. I've said it before and I'll say it again, Goldshire is where kaldorei go to be wicked. I think it might have something to do with not having elders who are ten thousand years older than you are hanging around, but who knows.

It grew cold, so I went into the inn. It was the usual nightly mess, drunken dancing in the fireplace, people of all shapes and sizes lounging and drinking and hitting on each other indiscriminately. I claimed a spot on the railing and prepared to settle in with a nice drink. (Come to think of it, this might be some kind of elaborate curse of my aunt's. She despises drink, and warned me no good would come of it, and now every damn time I sit down to have a nice mug or two something interferes...and light knows the woman is witchy as hell, even if she won't admit it.) Then a human across the room slumped into a chair and burst into tears.

Now, this isn't really unusual. There are enough crying drunks around this particular watering hole. But the man wasn't just crying- he was weeping like his soul was being torn out. Luna, don't get yourself involved, you always get involved, it never turns out well, I kept telling myself, over and over, because it's true. So light help me when he retreated upstairs I followed him.

His name was Dalo. He was out of work, out of money, and just coming off the worst run of bad luck I've ever heard of, save for he wasn't dead yet. We retreated to the house by the lake, since he had an understandable desire for privacy. I'll reserve the details, mostly, out of respect for his grief. Suffice to say it was the usual thing in these troubled times, the death of his sweetheart (well, among other things...) It was an accident, more or less, certainly not Dalo's fault in any way, and it was years ago. He couldn't stand to speak of it for long. Then he started doing crazy things, picking up a coal with his bare hand, and something in me just...hardened.

I was trying to be sympathetic, really, but I was all out of patience with this kind of behavior. I saw enough of it a few years ago to last a lifetime. I know how stupid and pointless it is. He dropped the coal- the heat got to him- and I lit a cigar on it. I needed the smoke, so I wouldn't say the wrong thing. No matter how exasperrated it made me, Dalo was clearly deeply and dangerously depressed, and I couldn't risk flying off the handle.

He pulled out a knife and cut his hand. "You're getting blood all over the rug," I commented idly, taking a pull on my cigar.

Dalo made no response, but he bandaged his hand and pulled out a piece of paper. Then he burned it.

"Look," I started, intending to say something soothing, but he suddenly bolted out of the room. I followed him outside, only to see his head disappear under the placid surface of the lake.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, pitching the cigar into the ground. It was barely smoked, too, such a waste. Then I pulled off my robe and folded it on the shore. Hey, it was new. I wasn't going to destroy it in the lake. Then I waded in.

At this point I was getting really angry. If there's one kind of stupidity I really can't stand, it's suicide. I've wept and screamed and raged, trying to figure out the why, trying to reconcile something that has no reason or meaning. At the end of it, exhausted, there came a kind of clarity that often follows physical and emotional emptiness, and in it I saw the only possible explanation. Selfishness.

I found him at the bottom of the lake. Without bothering to even try to gesture, I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into the air. He gasped and sputtered, his burning lungs taking over in their need for refreshment. "Don't do such stupid things!" I yelled, treading water and pulling muck out of my hair.

Dalo retreated to an island, looking sullen. His cheeks colored slightly as I pulled myself out of the water. I was wearing nothing but my shirt and underwear, but I wasn't about to pretend to be embarrassed by it at a time like this. "Do you think this is good way to honor those you loved? Is this what they would have wanted for you?"

I was getting carried away. I wish I had more self-control, or at least more over my tongue. "You want to know about loss? Yes, she's dead, but at least it wasn't your fault! My lover killed himself! How's that for failure?"

Why did I say that? I never talk about that, I HATE talking about that. Why in hell did I bring it up? Why, just once, why couldn't I think before I spoke?

Dalo hesitantly asked a question. I mumbled some kind of reply.

Why, why, why?

Suicide is selfish. It's caring more about yourself and your own pain than about anyone else around you. It's spitting on the people you love. It's telling them you weren't enough for me, you weren't enough to take away my pain, you weren't even enough to make it worth taking another breath. It's easy, being selfish always is. And people try to make it noble- I can't live without him, I can't live without her, I sacrifice myself, blah, blah, blah- but it's not. It's cowardly, and it's dastardly. And I wasn't going to put up with it from this sad, sorry stranger.

There wasn't much I could say without getting into things I wanted to avoid. All I know is it's easy to die for someone, but it's damn hard to live for them, especially when all you want to do is give up. So that's what I told Dalo, shivering on that flyspeck of an island. And, somehow, amazingly, it seemed to work. It was like someone flung cold water over him, shocked him out of his despondency.

I left him in Goldshire. He gave me a robe, as a gift, refusing any payment. It's lovely, though looking at it makes me feel cheap. What I did is- is without payment, not in the sense of being priceless, but in the sense of something that shouldn't be paid for. I hope he's alright. I hope he can find something else that gives him meaning.

It happened in the snow-covered mountains only the dwarves could love. When I found the broken body I carried it to the nearest settlement, trudging through the snow, his blood staining my clothes and my hands and my heart. The largest coffin they had was human-sized. They buried him on his side, with his knees bent to fit. But this was years ago. It's in the past, and the past is dead.

Did I say that it was impossible that I should have two extraordinary days in a row? I suppose, technically speaking, this was still part of today...

I walked up to Stormwind, thinking I'd put my feet up and get a drink at the Irregular, since I hadn't been yet and light knows there's been enough advertising for it. I wanted to see if it was worth all the talk, but as it happened I never got the chance to find out.

As I approached the pub a white-tufted gnome started waving at me frantically. His name was Shadecrank, and his friend, a young elven priestess, had collapsed on the ground. When I got there the gnome and another night elf were hovering over her, while a very senior priestess- Glissa, I think?- attempted to heal her infirmary. Nothing, not even the highest magic, seemed to work. Karsiana (the sick woman) was burning with fever, and could scarcely speak. Her breathing was growing progressively worse.

Various people came and went. I have seldom felt so helpless. I have no knowledge of sickness, or its cures, or of poison, or whatever ailed her. We are still not entirely sure. All I could do was sit beside her, trying to keep her fever down by bathing her forehead with...well, liquid. After all it was a pub.

After a time, light be thanked, two experienced healers arrived. One, Kitsunei, was an expert in poisons, and the other, Kinst, had a little skill with healing and considerably more with prayer. Between them- and the fortuitous discovery of a small bolt lodged in her back- Karsiana recovered, enough to sit up, drink some water, and speak a bit of what happened to her.

Lawrance was the name she gave. Apparently one of the forsaken, he used some kind of new goblin concoction on her, rendering her sick and helpless. I have no idea who or what this Lawrance is, but he nearly killed a woman who did not have the strength to fight back for no discernable reason. I'm no crusader, but if the man ever crosses my path, he is as dead as I can make him. My arrows are hungry.

After some discussion we dispersed throughout the city, seeking knowledge of this Lawrance creature. Unfortunately I was able to learn nothing of value. I did, however, run into another of my acquaintances, Sazzmo. Like myself Sazzmo understands and appreciates the many virtues of crustaceans, and we passed some time discussing our lovely blue crabs. He's also not a half-bad enchanter. I'll have to think of some way to repay him. Sazzmo refused any direct payment for his work, claiming it was only part of his duty to promote his organization, The Faerunian Exiles*. I've met several of its members in my travels and they seem a decent sort.

There's not really a whole lot left to say. I never did get my drink.



((*ooc: I also solved a minor mystery tonight. Since seeing the guild name for the first time in Darkshore, I've wondered if it was just a name or if there was some kind of plane-traveling backstory to the guild. That would be pretty strange since Faerun and Azeroth have nothing in common, but it turns out it's just a name. More power to them.))

The elven woman settled herself on the stairs of the Lion Pride's Inn, oblivious to the discussions, flirting, and boisterous drinking going on around her. She carefully set her mug of good dwarven ale on the step closest to the wall, to prevent it being knocked over by accident. A small leather book lay open on her knees.

She stared at the blank page. What could she write that could possibly describe what she had seen that day in Ironforge? What words were there that could portray such a strange merger of the odd and the amazing, the silly and the beautiful, the impossible and the factual? After all, she would never have believed it if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.

Sighing, her hand reached into her pocket, withdrawing a slim, much-abused carton. She tapped it once and pulled out a plain cigar. These came from Westfall, where she'd first learned the habit, between dealing with the never-ending supply of bandits, angry machines, and territorial condors. With a cigar set between her lips, it was impossible to be anything but relaxed. A match flared as she lit the end and took a long draught.

Her gaze returned to the blank page. Nothing for it but to start...

I'm back in Goldshire tonight- no matter how far I roam, the road always leads back to Goldshire. Sometimes I almost wish it wouldn't.

The last few days have been eventful. I finally managed to make my way down to Booty Bay, at the southern tip of this continent. It's damn beautiful down there, hot, lush forests, the sea as blue as the sky and smooth as glass, and every color of beast and plant you could imagine. It's enough to make me want to put Crisolin to pasture for a little while. Granted, I'd been thinking about it anyway, but then he looks up at me with those funny little eyestalks and my will evaporates. Maybe someday.

More out of curiosity than anything else I gained passage on a ship to Kalimdor, landing at a place called Ratchet, where I had never been before. It was an ill voyage. Two of my fellow passangers, a troll and one of my own kind, spent the first part of the voyage trying to break the temper of some poor human. Such rude treatment I would have expected from very small children, perhaps, who did not know any better, but to see two grown men engage in such antics was beyond the pale. At some point the troll became bored with his unresponsive prey, and tried to flirt with me. Of course he had earned nothing but my contempt, but I restrained myself to simply ignoring him, upon which he spat on me. I know there has been talk of peace with the Horde, and while it may be a noble goal I hope we can all agree to keep our respective idiots to ourselves. Light knows we don't need any more over here.

Ratchet was a dull and miserable village, little more than a dock and a few shacks on the shore of a wasteland. They lacked even such a common amenity as a hyppogriff master. I can't truly say I was surprised; why would someone as valuable and highly trained as a hyppogriff master want to waste her time in a dried-up goblin town? Luckily I was still bound to Menethil and I took advantage of the first opportunity to return. It'll be a cold day before I'm back in Ratchet, that's all I can say.

I messed around for awhile in the wetlands, skinning crocolisks and relieving orcs and gnolls of their belongings. I never though something as everyday as wool would be so damn hard to find.

I've been trying to work my way up to what happened this afternoon, and it doesn't seem to be happening, so I suppose the only thing left to do is jump in. I wound up in Ironforge. I put a few incidentals up for auction, and placed yet another bid on that lovely shirt pattern I haven't been able to get ahold of. Perhaps this time luck will be with me. I made my way out of the commotion of shouting traders, and to my surprise I saw an acquaintance of mine, Rowynne, chatting with some others across the bridge.

I say "surprised" because I only met him a few days ago, and yet I seem to be running into him constantly, odd considering how widely both our feet are inclined to wander. He was deep in conversation, so not wanting to interrupt I gave him a wave and continued to the mailbox. He surprised me by inviting me over. It was a mixed group; aside from him I didn't recognize anyone there, so I let the conversation flow past me. I'm not one to poke my nose into other's business. Eventually only Rowynne, myself, and an elaborately dressed human mage who introduced herself as Lillie Anna were left.

I will say this about Rowynne- he might be a little taciturn and more than a little paranoid about that mask of his, but he has a startling breadth of experience and acquaintance. This mage, for example. She was swathed in blue from head to toe, only her eyes naked, peering out at the world between her hood and scarf. Rowynne had apparently done her the favor of saving her life at some point- how I do not know, but she was grateful enough to provide him with an enchantment. The conversation turned to other matters, and soon Rowynne mentioned there was a certain place he wanted to show us. The caveat was, to access it we would have to endure death.

At first Lillie Anna balked at this, but I was intrigued. It's what my aunt likes to call my "bloody cursed curiosity", and it's sent me off balconies head first, to the bottoms of deep lakes with hardly enough air to swim back up, into caves of things that consider me a gourmet meal, and today it sent me-

-but I really can't write that part. Rowynne made us promise not to tell. Suppose I lost this journal, and someone read it? Suffice to say we ended up in a passage I didn't realize existed. Excited about his surprise, he ordered us to close our eyes and follow him down the hall. This didn't present any difficulties for me. My life depends on being attuned to my surrounds, and compared to some of the places I have been navigating a simple stone tunnel blind presented no challanges. I stopped as I heard the the breeze start up, blowing my hair forward over my shoulders.

"Open your eyes," Rowynne said, with a grin I could hear.

For the longest moment, all I could do was stare. Then, before I could think how foolish it would sound, I exclaimed, "Look at the ceiling!"

Above us glittered a massive dome of blue crystals, encircling a huge chamber within the rock. Our footsteps echoed softly as we made our way up the ramp to the center of the chamber, craning our necks, trying to take it all in. On my life it was one of the most beautiful places I have seen in all of Azeroth. I do not know how Rowynne managed to discover it. When I asked he only smiled mysteriously and commented on how dull it would be if one only explored the world of the living. I didn't reply, but I thought that when I take advantage of my death to do some exploring, I don't go battering my spirit form into- but that would be telling again, wouldn't it. Blast it all.

We stayed there for a time, admiring and wondering. The braziers were burning well, so someone must come to refill them when their fuel runs low, which makes it strange that the secret of this place is not so widely known. Or perhaps I am being silly, and it is well-known, simply not to me- though the mage was just as surprised, it seemed.

I wondered at the age of it, if this was the real Ironforge, buried beneath the grime and muck of the city we are all so familiar with. There was something clean and almost holy about the place, the kind of silence that comes with dust and time and forgetfullness. Above, the blue dome glittered, while far below the faint red glow of the blood of the earth cast eerie shadows on the rocks, and there us, suspended between...

Lillie Anna was kind enough to offer me a lift back to Stormwind, which I took gratefully. I had been somewhat concerned as to how I would get out of the hidden chamber. Now I'm sitting in Goldshire, plain, ordinary Goldshire, writing about an odd and extraordinary afternoon and failing miserably to recount it properly.

Tomorrow will be an ordinary day, like yesterday. I'll probably go back to the marshes of the wetlands, looking for wool and silk and pearls, and cursing over the apparently extinct giant crocolisks some deluded leatherworker in Menethil wants me to find. After all, I could hardly have two days so unusual in a row...