The · Diary · of · Radclyffe · Fair

Location: Thrallmar, Hellfire Peninsula
Weather: Still rather dry; brittle.


I confess to having neglected this diary over the past two weeks or so, but surely the excuse that I have been much caught up in the work of the Horde is a more than valid one. This fort steels that into one's fibre as soon as one lands here; through the haste with which everyone moves, the quickly constructed palisade that walls us inside. I must also admit that my sewing has fallen by the wayside, if only because it is impossible to still my hands for such labour, as every finger rings with the echo of spell upon spell.

In regards to the last entry herein: I did indeed find a suitable story for the storytelling event, and it did seem to go over very well for the most part save for a pair of gentlemen who seemed to dislike it (and myself, it seems) a great deal. One was a blood elf, and therefore I am not offended by his behaviour (much as I would not be offending at a bee for stinging), but the other was a Forsaken. After the telling of my tale he wandered over to me, kissed my hand in a most genteel manner, and then informed me that next time I should be more creative. I may or may not have said something about his throat and the tearing out thereof as he left. Honestly! The worst critics are the ones who stay through the performances, snorting impolitely, as if their continued lingering is doing the artist a favour, as if their opinion, in the end, is something that should be put inside a locket and carried close to the breast. This is not even mentioning that kissing my hand is beyond repulsive. I had half a mind to peel off the tainted layer of skin, but that would be admitting too great a trespass.

The Shattrath inn itself is rather high ceilinged, with two long bars and two small private drinking nooks to the far end of the tavern. Littered here and there on the main floor are tables, all visible from the walk outside, as the doorway itself is very large indeed. The stage from which the stories were told was likewise enormous, size enough to fit two bear skin rugs, with a falling of gentle, gossamer curtains at its head. It is altogether too sizable, too large. I much prefer the inn at Brill, if not only because it has a warm fire and suits my own personal aesthetic so much more, but also because it seems to conduct the voice in a much more intimate manner. In the World's End I could hear myself speaking and the sound immediately began floating up and about me, stolen away on the crests of foreign perfumes, and the constant hum created by a surplus of beggars.

Location: Thrallmar, Hellfire Peninsula
Weather: Arid

I've come through the Dark Portal at last! As soon as one crosses the threshold one's senses are assaulted; there are throngs of soldiers, all rushing, blades drawn and spells half-cast, and their foes? Demons! Rows upon rows of them, commanded by the largest of all, a devastatingly ugly brute of a creature with a grimacing face, and thick, slug-like body of scales. Obviously it was hardly prudent for me to fight my way through them, and after speaking to the officials there I was permitted access to their wyverns, who flew me directly to Thrallmar proper. During the flight I was treated to the landscape of this new world; it is insubstantial and still, so much of it hangs suspended. It is so strikingly dead.

I have been working very hard all this past week, and already my knowledge has been propelled forward further than I ever would have imagined! In addition to the excellent craftsmanship proven in the armour that they seem so desperate to outfit me with, I have finally managed to piece together enough coin to purchase my very own War Horse. He is beyond handsome, and two nights past I spent every minute putting the finishing touches on his barding. The scene was serene. I am very much excited to be passing ownership of Nell, who is beginning to show signs of wear, on to my sister. Even if she has no inclination (or ability) to actively ride her, it would do Hadley well I think to have something to take care of. I'll likely be stabling her in Brill for just this reason.

It should also be noted that I haven't had one nightmare or floating memory since arriving in Hellfire Peninsula.

[added, in a more hurried hand]
I haven't a story yet for the Storytelling night in Shattrath! Blasted Outland and its distractions! I have no option at such a late juncture but to be wholly disappointing to all attending! It is my sincerest wish that the talkative elf in attendance a fortnight past has been devoured by wolves!

Location: The War Quarter
Weather: When last I was outside, it was quite cool, and rather pleasant despite the dim.


My plans to leave for Outland have been somewhat delayed; Hadley's condition seems to have suddenly worsened, likely provoked by the fact that I've told her I'll be heading through the portal. Though I don't feel her outbursts are geniune (she can be so manipulative on such a childish scale), I am also loathe to leave her alone at this point. We've been alone together for so long now. I am beyond grateful that I do not have a clear recollection of the time we were apart (for many reasons) and I will never forget the sensation I endured upon finding her again, despite the circumstances of her condition at the time.

It doesn't do to be so anxious. She won't become that again if I leave.

I was tardy to the guild meeting the other night in Brill, and what happy fortune that this face does not betray embarrassment half so easily as the one before it. Lady Meridith had taken ill, which was curious, and the evening was presided over by Executioner Plagos. We, each of us assembled (for their were two others beyond myself; a priest wearing shadow and a girlish warlock) read our pledge to Curse, at which pointed we were promoted beyond mere initiates. The docket mostly consisted of announcing the attack the Frostmanes are planning on Dun Moragh (which I will not be attending, preferring to spend a full day on Azeroth with my sister rather than aiding loosely affiliated trolls, the leader of whom I recall murdering several apothecaries last season; besides, I am still brushing the dust off my armour, I would be of ill-use) as well as plans for the next evening of Storytelling. The Executioner made a point to mention how impressed he was with the stories told at the Gallow's End of late, particularly those spoken by our own members, and singled me out for a nod. The meeting ended rather quietly, with both superiors leaving without much of a word, and though I spoke to them on the steps I seemed to gather the impression that they were having some difficulty with pirates. I had to excuse myself. I knew little of pirates, and less of their context.

I would never had supposed that he cared much for the story I told! Was, for the rest of the evening, quite pleased with myself and felt very fine, despite the earlier chagrin of my late entrance. I must begin writing something especially brilliant for next week. After all, no one until now has ever really heard, let alone read, one of my stories, save for Hadley. Even then, she usually marks up the page with her own notes and endings, fooling with what careful narrative I was attempting to craft in the first place.

Perhaps this time I will accomodate the elves. I'll make mention of mana, or gold, or red, or fussy little harp strings. I also hope they will tell a story or two. I refuse to believe they are half so dull as they seem.

Location: The War Quarter.
Weather: --------

Triumph! Last evening I told a story at the guild's Storytelling Night in the Gallow's End. Not once did I mumble or miss a word, and it is worth noting that every seat in the house was filled, to the point where people stood, loitering around the railings! The only thing that took away, at all, from my performance, was the elf who seemed to lack all sense of propriety altogether; especially for someone who came into the room when I was already in the midst of the telling. There were several like that. The event does not begin when you arrive, have some respect (for yourself, most of all) don't be so eager to display how clueless you are.

Quote, "Oh boring, a love story" or "What is this about?". Though I myself was never in love, when faced with the tale of a groom burning his young bride to death in a fireplace, I would err on the side of finding that unromantic in the extreme. I feel I would be doing his race a disservice to extend my disappointment with him to all of them, but from the half dozen assembled there not one gave me one reason to do otherwise. The elves did not tell a single story, and more to the point, they acted repulsed and sickened by what stories they did deign to hear. I am left to wonder precisely what they expected. They should admit to themselves how voyeuristic they truly are, or at the very least find somewhere else to hug each other and carry on.

Location: Brill.
Weather: The cool, grim quality of the minutes before rain.

I've begun preparations to head into Outland; by the end of the week I should be stationed in Hellfire Peninsula, at Thrallmar. Though it is regrettable, I will not be able to bring Hadley along with me, and thus have made arrangements for her to be housed with several others in Tarren Mill, not far from where Papa's inn once was. It is doubtful that she will be monitered all that carefully, but it's of little matter. I've already spoken to the apothecaries there. Simplest way for them to administer Hadley's medicine (when I am not present) would be for them to inject it into the nearest warm-blooded animal (up to the size of a middling dog) and put a fetching bell round its neck before pushing it into her vicinity.

Of other encouraging news, I am now an initiate of Curse, the guild I mentioned last entry. The Lady Meridith is exceedingly genteel; her associate, Executioner Plagos, likewise impressive in his bearing. It is imperative now that I prove my own worth, and I am confident of accomplishing this on the other side of the Dark Portal. I've spent the night working and reworking my incantations, loathe to give over to rest. I am eager to see how my spells work on the demons of the Legion! The power to mend as you destroy seems to me a very fine asset indeed, and I cannot wait to see it sharpened

Constance was unable to last her wedding night. She fell in love with the stablehand, but ate her groom's throat out when he forced himself upon her, and thus had to be hanged.

Location:The Magic Quarter
Weather: Moot

I've begun work on a new novel. The heroine's name is Constance, family name inconsequential, the illegimate daughter of a local land baron and his wife's maid, who flees the Plague by procuring passage upon a less than reputable captain's ship. Though the vessel, of course, sinks, abandoningConstance to the whims of several dozen serrated shark's teeth, she manages to wash ashore intact save for her right arm from the shoulder downward. The blood from her wound attracts a pack of wild dogs, whereupon she plays dead, and waits until the leader is distracted digging his snout against her stump, before putting out his eyes with driftwood. His head she skins and wears as a mask, his tail she skins and wears around her waist. The rest of him she eats and shares with the pack.

I suppose after seven or so years I'll have her rescued. There's a decidedly reluctant marriage in her future, perhaps to an older, lecherous gentleman who has already had several wives. He will have to be villianous. I doubt there are a great many respectable men who would seek to marry a girl who is missing an arm, and who, most like, has been fornicating with a pack of wild dogs for a decade's better half. I'll write in a sympathetic stablehand.

I've also written to a Lady Meridith Darrow regarding inclusion in the outfit that she oversees on behalf of the Dark Lady. Should she consent to a meeting with me, I believe the encounter shall prove to not only convince her that I am an able and competent priest, but also that I am more or less acceptable company. She came highly recommended from the apothacary who sees to Hadley's medicines. In fact, I am giving a great deal of thought towards having Hadley present when the two of us do speak; certainly I cannot lock her away in an attic for the duration of my service. I'll have to have several words with her when the time arises. She needs to cease putting everything she finds growing, crawling on, or falling off of her body in her mouth.

Speaking of, I've stoppered up the back of my skull with a blue patterned sheet. It should halt the progress of the mother mouse eager to make her nest there (though I soaked it in ether just in case she made the attempt).

Location: Tarren Mill
Weather: Damp, low sunshine, faint chill.


Having relegated the bulk of my silk to a future of close contact with the arms, chests, and bellies of Elves, Tauren, and Trolls, I find myself at rather a loss. Runecloth is a precious commodity; toying with it, creating more toss-a-way experiments like those garish Holiday shirts is simply not an option, and thus I have little to do with my idle time but carefully map patterns for more worthwhile projects. Still, I must confess that the weekend's market was a success, and that at the very least it afforded both myself and Hadley an opportunity to visit Kalimdor once again. She could use the sun, and the socialising appears to be have more benefit to it than (especially) hideous drawback.

I have been giving much thought to lending my services once more to the Horde, and in particular heading through The Dark Portal. I am most curious. Though my resignation from The Harbingers of War was indeed regrettable, I am afraid that such a unit was as suited to me as a green Holiday shirt. The Forsaken among their ranks proved to be especially narrow minded in their methods of thought. How easily one may despise the Apothacarium when one has deluded oneself into thinking the Orcs and Trolls they rally about are such noble beasts in comparison. Which is not to say that I have not found members of any of these races to be fine allies, but to concentrate on the Good and Bad of a thing is to fall prey to all sorts of pettiness, regrettable further if such hatemongering leads to resentment of what you are yourself. To dwell on sorrow without learning from it compounds said sorrow, and makes of you a very pitiful creature indeed. How much simpler to focus one's attentions on strengths and acceptance. For instance, I accept that it will be within my power to do anything I put my mind to. I accept that others won't stop me.

Note: The thin webbing of skin between one's fingers is an elegant place for the storing of pins; one can pull them to your fingertips on the same hand if one proves deft enough, and there is little tearing. It is better than holding an assortment between your lips, particularly if one detests the taste of metal. Though it would certainly behoove the tailor to be Undead, I would posit that this is less necessity than luxury; skin may toughen to accept just about any sort of discomfort; a steady mind and even temper is the key to any undertaking.