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.
All my blood, sweat, and tears poured out onto those pages, lost somewhere out there in this big, bad world, totally vulnerable and wide open for someone to find. At least I didn’t leave my name in there anywhere, and my father always used a made up name, like he was writing some crazy story. It’s been less than a day and I already miss thumbing through the time-hardened pieces of parchment strung together with leather cording and his haphazard penmanship.
I guess I should look at this whole thing as a fresh start. Maybe it was cursed from the beginning. Writing in the journal of a dead man does have its drawbacks, after all.
And it’s not like losing a silly journal is ever going to put me in any real danger. I once lost my hearthstone – now that was an ordeal! You never realize how much you depend on a quick route home until you lose it, and of course I lost mine in the middle of a swamp, surrounded by two-ton crocodiles and muck-beasts. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few Alliance soldiers found me and thought they’d have some laughs at my expense.
Once I finally got back to the city and begged for a new hearthstone – after taking a good, long bath – I didn’t dare let the thing out of my sight, and you can bet I haven’t lost it since.
I’m sitting here on my usual spot, on the roof of the Auction House in the Valley of Strength. Ogrimmar is dirty as hell; dust and embers everywhere. It’s been over a year since the attacks and this place still looks like Deathwing just dropped by. Even the air is dirty. I have to get about 300 yards from the enclosure to breathe in fresh air, and that’s only if the wind is blowing favorably. The small waterfall next to me is peaceful, but it offers little relief. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this city at all.
But I can’t leave. This is my home. I love this spot. I love watching the people below as they hustle and bustle about their daily lives. I love seeing the crowds of people that just hang around outside the Auction House, showing off and posturing. I have no idea what they are doing down there. Are they talking? Resting? Trading? They don’t seem to have much in common; just a bunch of Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, and other Elves standing around. Oh, and the occasional Goblin if they’re not blocked by someone taller. Once in a while they might jump or bust out in a dance. And there’s always hugging. Lots of hugging. It makes me wonder if all of these people haven’t just poured out from the Tavern.
Fights don’t seem to break out in the streets, which I guess is good. Occasionally some overly-ambitious idiot will pick a fight with the Tauren from the inn, but that never ends very well. I guess the guards are quick to put a stop to violence, though I never see them really doing much of anything. Mostly they just stand around. Sometimes they’ll give directions to some poor, lost soul.
At least the patrol above gives some security, protecting the city from air strikes. Deathwing was an exception; one of the few times this canyon has seen real darkness. I can still remember his wings blocking out the sun. At least it got noticeably cooler with him circling around. Until he set the whole place on fire, of course. But it’s always bright as fuck out here. And hot. Blessed Light, the heat. Sometimes I swear I can see steam coming off the rocks.
I feel so out of place here. It’s filthy and I don’t know anyone. I guess I could go back to Silvermoon, but that’s not really my home, either. The new city they built… it’s too pristine. Like they’re trying to forget the attacks ever happened. Every spire, every arch is just another lie. And it’s not like I know anyone there, either. At least here I can talk to the Matron. And my boys.
I can’t leave them. Who would take care of them if I didn’t drop by? I know the Matron is in charge of their safety but she has at least ten other kids to watch at all times, and I just worry. I told them to be careful who they trust, but I know they’re still friendlier than they should be, and they go places that aren’t safe. Every time I go away, I think about them wandering the streets without shoes, begging for scraps, going to bed cold and hungry.
They ask me why I can’t be their Mommy – even the Matron has asked me to adopt them – but I’m just not Mommy material. I care for them, and it breaks my heart to think that they want for anything. But I just can’t take them in. My duties keep me in harm’s way, and that’s not the sort of life children should be raised around. I don’t want them to know the pain that I knew, losing a parent at such a young age, not really understanding why.
I don’t want them to end up alone years later with some old journal being the last memory they have. Some old journal they inevitably lose, because that’s just the way things work around here.
Nothing lasts forever.