I lost my journal.
I don’t understand. I had it in my pack. Maybe it got mishandled while I was transferring bags through the bank yesterday. I know we’ve accepted Goblins as part of the Horde now, but I really don’t trust the grubby-handed little cretins. I’m not saying one of them took it, but who really knows. It seems like I somehow end up with less in my bags each time I retrieve them from the bank. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see them ‘confiscating’ some of my items to cover their ‘overhead’ costs.
I don’t know what they’d want with a beat up old tome, though. Its only value is to me. It’s the only thing I have from my father: A chronicle of adventures he likely never expected his daughter to see. I only started writing in it five years ago. Before that I guess I was too afraid I might damage the memory somehow, but it seemed a shame to let all the blank pages go to waste.
It’s been a long night on the battlefield.
So long, in fact, that the Lotus Bath House is now closed. I’m unsure what time they actually stop accepting patrons – at almost one hundred gold per full service, I suppose they aren’t lacking in funds – but at the moment I am sitting on a bench, staring at a closed sign and a darkened interior. I almost feel like the nearby fountain is taunting me; trying to tempt me into the water, knowing I am in need of a good washing.
Though at this point I would prefer the fountain to the river, honestly. I never truly feel clean, even from a fast-running mountain spring. And because I can’t afford room in my bags to stow a towel or a robe or any sort of small comfort, I end up freezing. more…
I write this from the inn and I’m still coughing up blood. It was brutal on the ever unyielding battlefield tonight.
The battlefield, where there’s no room for weakness. Even more so, there’s no room for foolish pride. Those who attack alone are destined to be stricken down, and that’s how it should be. I didn’t sign up to fight in this war so that I could wait in the infirmary and patch up fallen comrades. Aiding the Horde is all about asserting a tenuous balance and situating myself on the front lines.
Fortunately I wasn’t the only one who recognized this. There was another out there tonight who understood and felt the need to watch my back, just as I watched his. He happened to be a feral druid. He took on the form of a cat and hid in the bushes as we waited at the lumber mill. The lulls in battle… so strange. I observed how he looked strangely half-cat, half-dog. And how he smelled as though he had been rolling through a pile of corpses. Do they all smell like that? I never really noticed before tonight. Every now and again he would ruffle the leaves and shake the bush in which he was mostly hidden, his green eyes peering out at me.