I fear for Iatrios; today was particularly bad for him. I could feel his unhappiness so acutely before he ever entered the room. I think he broke our promise again; he smells of blood and that something as musky, sharp, as when

::The previous sentence is never resumed, and instead skips right into the next entry. Many of Astarin's delicately written entries are less brief than this one, less candid, as if he's had more time allotted to express this day than in other occasions. This one is extensive, spanning several pages just for one entry, as if to emphasize the impact it has had on him.::

I met the most interesting person today. He is ancient; I can feel him even in the next room like a warm rock pressed to my back.

I have not seen many of my own kind that have weathered the many thousands of years he has and survived the ill-fated crash.

It was obvious to me from the first moment he approached that he was blind, yet there was a certain assurance about him that was soothing. His presence did not frighten me despite his immense size and age.

So very tall. He is immense, fills my vision with the rich luster of his black skin--sometimes I think perhaps it might be purple, but it varies in the lighting. So much power contained within him. I feel even smaller and more ugly than usual against a proper example of draenei breeding. It reminds me of when I first returned to the wreckage of the Exodar.

He smells so wonderful, like sunlight, like incense. I think that he smokes; the scent of herbs clings to his clothes and silver hair.

His voice when he greeted me in the traditional prayer was a gravel tone that reminded me a little of Commander Ashtalon's. Both his and this Master Rahmiel are far lower in timbre than Iatrios--oh, this thought hurts me. Why?

It is true that Iatrios has been missing for too much time for it to mean anything but ill fortune.

I miss him...

Missing him and my purpose to him has been my forever distraction. Worry over Iatrios led to my undoing in this meeting with Master Rahmiel, as well.

He touched me before I could say any word of caution or request. I think that it was meant kindly, but the weight of him in my head... I cannot begin to describe it, but I shall try. Perhaps it will enlighten me later if I return to read this.

My clothes should have afforded me some security--sometimes I am lucky and this is enough to fend off the unguarded emotions transferred through physical contact--yet inexplicably I could feel ink coating my lips when he rested his massive hand on my shoulder.

Just one of his hands is as large as my head; before he had reached for me my thoughts had wandered so briefly, lingering on one of the human phrases I have heard.

I was saved one embarassment by suffering another: the sensation of the thick liquid on my mouth was so real that I could actually taste it, and in fact I was so convinced of this impression that I even touched my fingertips to my lips.

They came away dry and unstained, of course: my mask was the only thing covering my mouth.

“Forgive me,” the elder had said to me, and with such hesitation lacing his rough voice.

I like his voice. It makes me wish I understood some of the sensations people instill in me.

No one mentions them, I do not know who to ask, and yet these things are obviously something to be ashamed of when no one else speaks of them. They make me feel so unnatural, wrong.

“Your Captain mentioned your particular gift, but she gave no indication of just how receptive you are to another’s.”

I could not bring myself to point out that I hardly find my curse to be any sort of gift. Instead, I informed him as graciously as possible that I had no formal training.

“Truly?" he said to me, "How strange to think you were overlooked for proper instruction.”

In spite of the confusion--and curiosity--in his remark, he was tactful enough not to press any further after I went quiet. I am surprised and grateful. I do not think I could have handled giving him so much so soon, and I had sworn oath never to answer such questions about that part of my past.

“You taste like crushed mageroyal petals.”

This information was so strange to hear; but mercifully the elder's hand retreated, taking the taste of ichor with it.

He has invited me to consider proper training. I am afraid. What if even a master such as he cannot help me? I am so unnatural and my thoughts would defile him.

What choice do I have? My Captain wishes my training. I will do as she asks, and pray that he will not choke with disgust.

I wish Iatrios were here. He makes these uncomfortable feelings go away for a little while.