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.