World of Warcraft: Forgotten Curses

From the Journal of Allarin Mageblade; part 2

Wiggles Crits for Minimum Damge

~Yet again, I found myself wondering what keeps me with these brazen adventures. True enough, Atruaghin is a cunning warrior, blessed with keen tactical insight and a sure fist. His leadership in combat is undisputed. However, his eyes like mine, seem pulled to horizon, towards goals still yet out of reach. Do we remain to hone ourselves as the group stumbles through the world?

Or Chizbolt. I can admit to myself that my earlier prejudice against the short green one was unfounded. The diminutive stature belies a towering intellect. His plans, both implemented and mumbled about hunched over paper filled with as many arcane symbols as I use. But his manic, almost rabid, desire for technology cleaves to close to my own struggle with craving of arcane energies. In staying with the party, do we aid each other in this, or amplify each other’s folly?

I digress. These are ill thoughts, bred by an idle and troubled mind. Sitting in this cavern, waiting out the night for a nearly omnipotent dragon to return and force, through applied or implied power, us to do his bidding weighs heavily on me. My allies sleep, all but Syrnek, the Forsaken slipping into his familiar roll of undead guardian while us mortals are relegated to helpless, inert forms. Next to me Wiggles, my stalwart ally rests comfortably, and across from me the saw like noises of goblin snoring rises and falls. What strange eddies of fate brings such groups together. It is nearly time for Malygos to return.

~Third day at sea, and first that I am able to sit and write. As I read over my past musings, I can chuckle at my previous ignorance. It was far worse than imagined. Malygos’ tale is one of ancient Highborne plots, the planes, and chthonic horrors returning, and he wants to send us to stop it from happening. Granted, even as I write this, the staff of frost he gave sits within arm’s reach, leaning up against the bulkhead. Frost forms where the heads of the staff touch the metal, and the wood weeps and steams lightly. A princely gift, but is it worth our lives.

The worse part about all of this, and I can see the ink staining the page the pen nib pressed deeply into the paper, as I struggle to write this calmly, is that we must travel to Tedrassil. The forsaken, perhaps I should find a better word in light of current company, home of the Night Elves. My ancestral hatred for these ‘kaldorei’ threatens to choke the breath from my chest. It will be all I can do not to unleash the full might of my arcane skill and take far more of them with me when I go.

But even if Malygos is prone to draconic flights of fancy, the world is still in peril. And while I have no desire to save even one degenerate, beast loving ‘night’ elf, I and my people are still a part of this world. And if the Matron indeed is freed…
I best head to the cockpit and check on Chizbolt, it feels like a storm is brewing.

~Crashed. By all the fates and gods above and below, I am so tired of these mechanical machines and their infernal habit of stranding me. Chizbolt would insist that no goblin wrought machine would do this, and both of our crashes are attributed to shoddy gnome craftmenship, but I need to start researching teleport spells. Ah there is the way to travel. As I write this entry, I sit in an inn. I use the term loosely, as I could very well be in the mayor’s house, town hall or just some other shitty hollowed out tree that the Kaldorei have graced us with as shelter. We met up with my barbaric, degenerate cousins on the shore after the storm, that was definitely not natural. When we meet the owner of this little accursed laugh that follows us, I will burn her to the ground.

This collection of old growth, that anywhere in the Eastern Kingdoms would be called a forest, is called the city of Astranaar. And while these simple minded creatures sought to ‘aid’ us, it quickly became clear that they were unable to aid even themselves. To the south east, one of them reports, they were attacked by centaurs. Which gets Atruaghin’s ire up. The Tauren hates the four legged plague with as much intensity as my disgust of these elves. But it is their symbol that bothers me most. They are, connected to events that have plagued us. So with little discussion we decide to head out, into the wild to save a people who are not worth it.

~The battle is over. Between frost and hammer and bow and giant mechanical beast, our enemies lay slain at our feet. But even as we tend to our wounds, matters force us to split. A satyr, who seemed to be in command, stole the amulet from Atruaghin and teleported away. I must learn that spell. On top of that centaurs captured Syrnek, who held the dagger. Something fell seeks these items, and we must recover them. Even now the group prepares to spilt, with time being of the essence some will seek out Syrnek and the rest will track the satyr.
If the fates brought us together, perhaps they can find a way to do so again.

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Leketh

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