It has only been a day since Master Merosiel has gone missing. Yet there is this nervous dread inside. Too many have turned up missing in my life thus far for me to dismiss this entirely out of hand, but I counsel myself to wait and see when my breath catches in my throat and I find myself watching every shadow I pass as if expecting to see him suddenly appear as I make my rounds.

Only yesterday. Iatrios was there, and so was Lady Windila.

I made many mistakes today on the Tourney grounds with the valiants and their training.

I must have patience. And trust in the Light. It is difficult.

I received a package today. I do not know how to feel about it. It is a brown package. Simple and tied together with string. Inside is what appears to be a small, hand-carved music box. It does not play any music, but when opened, a small flower sprouts and blooms, spinning around slowly. Inscribed on the underside in Darnassian is something that makes my chest tighten and my lungs feel as if there is no more air.

"May this fragment of love guide your heart."

Oh, Baelyn.

Where did you go? Why do you feel it necessary to send me heart-felt gifts when you disappeared without word?

What am I to think of this?

Perhaps talking to Master Merosiel might ease this uncomfortable, shattered feeling in me.

"Of Priorities."

((Not told from Astarin's POV but centric to him, so this is where it gets shoved. And as with many of my snippets, this is not fleshed out enough (in my opinion) to warrant posting anywhere else as 'complete'.))




It started with gold, and a simple question.

Gold used to be Merosiel's only motivation in the world; everything else had long since paled in comparison or proved only a disappointment. But with time, and further disappointment, gold, too, had begun to lose its specific luster.

A part of Merosiel recognizes this: he's slowly, with each passing day that adds to his age, losing the will to wake up the next, and not even a salary can help that.

He does not know how Rahmiel has weathered twice the lifespan Merosiel has, but it doesn't matter. The old man has the rotten little fruit to see at the end of each day, and Merosiel has nothing.

The quel'dorei hadn't taken the thousands of little opportunities that had presented themselves when he'd had the chance, and they had dwindled and then slipped through his grey, spidery fingers when Mathadris had waltzed into their lives and just as succinctly taken up residence in his former master's bed.

That boat had sailed, as the humans might say, and Merosiel now spent much of his time mired in regret and bitter loneliness. He had no master, no contract, no salary, and he had no one who really seemed to care if he existed. He was a ghost in the lives of those he came into contact with. Nebulous and distant and just passing through.

Of those he had made brief acquaintance with, some had been kind in their own fashion. But they all had their own lives, their own concerns. Everyone did. Except Merosiel. He had no purpose anymore, no reason to do anything but sit in a gutter and feel sorry for himself. On top of all the rest of the reasons to loathe himself, these feelings of self-pity disgust him, yet he can't find any reason to feel differently.

"Astarin is missing."

He heard this through the usual channels--which in general for Merosiel equated to spying.

Yet, no one seemed particularly concerned over the albino's absence. Not enough to do anything about it, at least. This struck a strangely sympathetic chord within the quel'dorei; it spurred him into getting up each day and spreading himself thin over the contacts he'd accumulated throughout his long life.

He began calling in favors, debts; he'd amassed quite a few at this point, and used more of them up in this single question than he'd done in getting himself set up in Silvermoon, posing as an Emissary--until Sunsear had made it 'legal.'

It was a simple question, with no apparent answer: "Where is he?"


---

Merosiel likes to think that he understands how it would feel to disappear off the face of Azeroth and have no one notice.

There are days it is a comfort to believe he will not be missed nor sought after if he disappears; then there are days like today--when the melancholy and depression hits him so swiftly that he might as well have been sucker-punched in the gut--that Merosiel wishes he has someone who would notice, who would search for him if he vanished and never resurfaced again. It is this second thought that has him shrugging off his apathy and lethargy to search.

And Astarin had always been kind to him when they were forced by circumstance or by design to work together. Or, at least, kind in the paladin's strange, distant sort of way, which for Merosiel, amounts to the same.

He had been the only one who had ever made an effort to learn signs to communicate with Merosiel easier, too. While his 'accent' had been clumsy, and his movements stiff with lack of practice or knowledge, the effort had touched the quel'dorei, made him feel somewhat less of an inconvenience to be around. This made Merosiel feel he had been, regardless of the reasoning in the draenei's head, somehow worth the time spent to learn; and it was that realization that had always warmed a small space within the elf whenever he found himself in Astarin's presence.

He wonders now what prompted Astarin's efforts, and regrets that he never properly thanked the little draenei for this morsel of unrequitted kindness. Perhaps if he finds him, the opportunity to will thus have presented itself.

---

Despite all of his connections, and the tapped well of information he's poured through to find more than hints or old sightings, he's coming up short on answers. So now he finds himself where perhaps he should have begun in the first place: skulking around the albino's room at the Harbinger base, far off the coast of Quel'danas.

When the grey-skinned elf picks the lock and opens the door to the unused, empty living quarters, he's assaulted by scents.

For the boy's apparent spartan arrangements--a bookshelf, a bedside table, and a small trunk at the foot of a neatly-made, human-sized bed--there's an astonishing amount of information about the paladin that lives subtlely in the air that Merosiel sucks in with each breath.

Most of the older smells are faded and useless, of course. It's apparently been at least a month, if not more, since the albino has set hoof in this place. But they're all interesting, and Merosiel spends several minutes simply standing in the doorway, nose lifted as he inhales softly.

He's limited by his lack of tongue, scent and taste irrevocably linked, of course, but he can still detect far more than most, and after a few more seconds of sifting through the scents of candlewax and incense and armor polish--and something distinctly unique that permeates the entire room--he steps inside.

His boots click on the polished and well-worn wooden floorboards, and for a moment the quel'dorei imagines the faint click-clack of those delicate hooves in place of his own boots. He summons up the memory of that sound, eyes closed, and his long grey ears quiver minutely for it.

Everyone has a talent; he's heard of this paladin's. He knows about Rahmiel's. His own is less grand, more focused, more finite. Perhaps it will be enough, regardless.

The quel'dorei reopens his silvery eyes to the empty room, and replays in his thoughts what all his senses tell him, and what he's learned from listening to the memories of sound and scent and touch that have lived in these walls and been absorbed.

He follows mutely the path that the albino has paced nightly: from door to chair to table, to chest, to bed. The click of small hooves grows more certain in his hearing, and the scents that have faded so much grow stronger, sharper. Particularly the strange one he cannot place--and then, abruptly, the quel'dorei understands what it is.

Astarin. It's a mixture of the armor and its polish, of soap and the odd musk of a draenei male, and something else that reminds him of mageroyal, of tea.

He lingers at the bed, a pillow somehow finding its way into his gloved hands; the quel'dorei's nose is buried in the soft cloth that confirms his revelation. It smells quite potently of the paladin, and cements in Merosiel's mind what to look for elsewhere.

Sense-memory leads him next from the bed to the chest. It's as human-sized as the bed, but otherwise it looks like any other footlocker.

Distracted for a moment from his primary search, Merosiel stares down at the chest with his mouth pursed lightly and his hip cocked to one side and his hand fisted against it.

Astarin apparently saw little reason in keeping secrets. The careless way the lock is hooked around one of the brass rings--inset on the side of the trunk as a handhold--attests to this. It is practically an open invitation to someone like Merosiel, and the lack of security doesn't immediately disappoint the quel'dorei or lead him to thinking that there might be nothing of interest inside. Not when he takes into account Astarin's personality.

The paladin was not the kind to keep locks on anything at all; if Astarin had wanted people to keep out of his things, his room, his life, he would have used the lock as intended.

Merosiel has seen further proof of this conviction many times and has noticed what many others ignored: the boy could say 'No,' could lock his door, could push back. He just did not want to, and although Merosiel had no idea why and had never had an opportunity to ask, he knew that the albino was quite capable.

He had--once--seen proof of this, although the situation that led up to it had been his own fault, really.

At the time, a kal'dorei had been courting Astarin: Baelyn was the name Astarin gave to the rather annoying druid. Merosiel had wanted to toy with him--pull the tail of the Beast, so to say--and Astarin had been an easy target in the quel'dorei's mind, to get a just-as-easy rise out of this Baelyn who was so protective and jealous over Astarin.

So Merosiel had enacted a simple plan to set things in motion; he buddied up to the bewildered paladin. He offered to help with the task at hand--something about loading cargo and getting fish for the next shipment out to the island--and had timed this offer for when he knew the druid was bound to show.

It had worked flawlessly--at first--until Merosiel took the prank too far and sat down next to Astarin. Merosiel had swiftly become distracted by the arch of his neck as the draenei turned his head, and so Merosiel had scooted closer for a more intimate view before he realized what he was doing. Astarin had glanced up, reeking of anxiety and confusion at the time, with those dull blue eyes flickering up and across Merosiel's face to peer at him while their thighs touched so lightly.

Then, instead of yelling or the punch that Merosiel expected, claws were digging into him and the quel'dorei abruptly found himself tossed onto the dock on his back, staring into the face of an enraged, stag-horned druid.

Baelyn had tried to gut him with claws and teeth and antlers, gouging them into Merosiel's shoulder and abdomen; Merosiel's leather armor had provided little defense for the flurry of attacks. It was Astarin who had been the one to stop the druid's fury, both blocking Merosiel's feeble attempts at retaliation--with such ease--and speaking almost sharply to Baelyn for his own behavior.

Learning just how distinctively two-faced the little draenei truly was to have fooled Merosiel, who was a champion liar and deciever, was both startling and humbling. He had never before glimpsed this side of the albino, and he never did witness it again; but this small peek at Astarin's real abilities had made Merosiel a little more wary after that particular incident.

It was one thing to fear the face of the Beast that Baelyn wore so openly, and another entirely to realize that the calm, placid little albino he'd thought he'd known actually possessed the strength and will to kick another's ass if he truly desired it.

Yet, at the same time he'd taken to keeping his distance, ever after, Merosiel caught himself straining to catch more hints, more glimpses, of what Astarin was really like.

At least, he had, until Rahmiel had left the Dawn to seek out Commander Ashtalon, and Merosiel had been forced to go with. All thoughts of the strange little paladin vanished within days, for Merosiel became so caught up in his disgust and loathing for Mathadris and his budding relationship with Merosiel's master that there had been absolutely no room for any intellectual puzzles such as Astarin.

I should have stayed, Merosiel muses, ears half-tucked. Perhaps I could have avoided the misery of the past few months that way. He runs his gloved palms over the wood, tracing the nicks and dents that have accumulated with the years of use that had gone into this trunk. Fingertips trace the inlays and the seams of the planks, and Merosiel imagines for a minute how much smaller, white fingertips might have followed the exact same paths and touched the same worn places he is.

Opening the top of the chest is done with little fanfare, a few flicks of thumb and forefinger and the lid rises almost on its own. There is little inside worth seeing: neatly folded sets of clothes, tightly rolled up bundles of cloth in just as neat lines, and underneath, several aging books.

The rolled up bundles prove to be multiple spares of his masks, in various hues and made of the same usual linen. The clothes themselves, however, prove to be of a style Merosiel is completely unfamiliar with, done in silks quite unlike the usual linen that the albino seems to prefer.

However, the books underneath the clothes are far more entertaining. As ancient as the books seem to be, each is well-tended to. Inspection of the first, a palm-sized little affair with gilded edges, proves to be a ledger of personal expenses. No purchase was apparently too small for Astarin to record.

The second and third books prove to be large, heavy librams. They appear--based off the several examples of handwriting in margins and the various notes left throughout the holy texts--to be passed down from at least three other generations of paladins. Merosiel wonders absently how these made it into Astarin's small hands when it is clear they are not draenic in origin.

Two others are handwritten notes and schematics bound together from loose parchments, ranging from blacksmithing to metallurgy to rune scripting.

It is not until Merosiel reaches the last book in the stack that upon realizing what it is, that he pauses to read more than a few pages.

The parchment in this one crackles, too, like the rest, and many of the pages are yellowing from age. The page that Merosiel first opens to is a hint at the writer's personality through script. It takes him longer to realize that he is reading Astarin's handwriting, that this his journal. Heart suddenly thudding in his chest, the quel'dorei sets it aside a moment to pick up the tiny ledger. He compares the handwriting--they are a definite match.

These are his thoughts. Merosiel is hit with sudden understanding far quicker than guilt or shame might have appeared. The journal is half-full with dry, concise, fragmented sentences that are as heavily structured and confined and rigid as what he gives to the outside world. Even in his neat, cramped writing, Astarin appears to have been unable to relax, to feel welcome with his own thoughts.

Each time Merosiel might skip to a new page, the tiny, precise handwriting is there to greet him: thousands of words, hundreds of entries.

They all carry the same flavor: "I do not understand. I am lost. I am alone. I feel strange. I wish I could sleep. I need a purpose. I wish I was normal."

Merosiel's hands tremble as silvery eyes flick back and forth, scanning entries at random. After several minutes, he has to force himself to close the journal, leaving it unfinished, unread in entirety. Even he is starting to feel discomfort for prying into something so unequivocally private. He tucks the book back in with the others, packs the belongings back the way they were.

"You're trespassing."

The whisper of the throwing knife that appears at Merosiel's fingertips and is released in the same breath is swift and resolute; the sound of metal sinking into flesh and scraping bone tells his ears that he's struck his target, yet when the quel'dorei turns to see who had dared to sneak up on him, his jaw drops a little.

The man in the doorway is an elf like him, certainly; he is broad-shouldered and grey-skinned like Merosiel, too, but with sleek white hair that curls against his high cheekbones and those muscled shoulders like a cloud.

Turning his head, the intruder's dull, amber eyes flick over the silvered surface of the dagger protruding from his palm; he had used his hand to block Merosiel's attack. Blood trickles down his sinewy arm, but the other elf only smirks, sharp teeth shown in a glimmer as his lip curls up.

"Cute. You've got a bite to you, little woman," the white-haired elf says lowly, in a drawl that the quel'dorei is unable to place at first.

Merosiel bristles when he registers the kal'dorei's words. Another throwing knife slips into his fingertips, held lightly as he steadies his body into a more fluid stance and takes the moment given to further study his opponent.

Dressed as strangely as he speaks, the stranger wears only a simple pair of leather pants and a ragged cloak that drapes over the entire left side of his body; it hangs down toward linen-wrapped ankles, and the tattered edges flutter lightly in the current stirred from the man's shift in weight.

"No fear? How appealing. You smell of interesting things, little bird, but--" here one of the stranger's ears rotates, pivots back to fold against his head, "--you aren't interesting enough for me to ask you to stay. This isn't your room."

He watches the stranger flick his wrist in a smooth downward motion that dislodges the dagger. It hits the floor with the thunk of metal glancing against wood. Blood follows again, spattering at the bigger man's bare, taloned feet, yet he ignores it, amber eyes sliding back to stare directly at Merosiel again.

"Get. Out." Both words are bitten off as soon as they're snapped, showing more of his teeth.

The anger bubbling under the calm words is as startling as his presence is for Merosiel. Who is this that he is incensed more by my being in this particular room than simply being pissed at my breaking and entering?

"Are you deaf, woman?"

Merosiel grimaces, ears flattening to his scalp as he jerks his mask down over his face. Rude barbarian, he thinks, and then draws in the shadows around him.

((Reserved.))

"Fishing"

((A snippet of bare-bones conversation--I use the term loosely, given that when Merosiel 'speaks' it is with his hands--between a certain elf and draenei. I may or may not go back and flesh this out at a later date--and stop being lazy by inserting the typical ( ) to denote signing.

Uhh. Enjoy, I suppose.))

"Astarin?"

"Yes, Merosiel?"

"Why didn't you say no?"

"Should... I have?"

"I feel as if I took advantage of you, Astarin."

"Did you?"

"I... you... why do you have to always answer with a question? Why can't you just answer?"

"I give... the right answers... perhaps you do not ask... the right questions."

"You are utterly exasperating."

"Apologies."

"Astarin!"

"Yes, Merosiel?"

"...Sometimes I can't help but think you do this on purpose."

"I fix people."

"...Eh?"

"Pain. Sadness. Loneliness. Despair."

"Fix people, huh?" "Maybe you should fix yourself, instead of worrying about others."

"Is there.. something to fix... about me?"

"Mother Moon, there you go again." "You can't sit here and tell me you're happy being this way!"

"What way?"

"Augh!"

"I... am content."

"Are you?"

"Are you?"

"A-am I what?"

"Are... you happy, Merosiel?"

"I--what?"

"Are... you happy?"

"...I... I don't know."

"Ah." "And before?"

"...I was waiting to die."

"Ah." "And now?"

"Heh. Not so much waiting."

"You... smiled."

"...D-Did not."

"As you say."

"You could have said no."

"Perhaps."

"You didn't have to drink with me."

"You asked."

"You didn't have to sleep with me."

"Do... you regret?"

"Astarin..." "I... no. I don't regret it."

"Ah."

"Aren't you lonely living this way, Astarin? Everyone using you, and then discarding you when they're through?"

"I serve... my purpose."

"Is that all you want out of life? Just to exist? To be used?"

"It... is all I know."

"You mean it's safe."

"Perhaps."

"So what if I'm just using you, too?"

"Are you?"

"...Damn the Well, stop that." "What are we doing, Astarin?"

"...Fishing?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Yes, I know..." "I am... not Lok Tichar--"

"I-I know that!"

"--and you... are not Baelyn."

"I don't want to be all those other people, Astarin. I don't want to be just another person who uses you. I know what it's like. I can't understand how you can say you're content to be that way! It's such a miserable existence!"

"If something... makes you unhappy, Merosiel... and it is within your power... to alter it... then do so."

"What?"

"If you... do not want to... use me. Then do not."

"Is that an ultimatum then? Use you, or get lost?" "What if I don't like those options?"

"No. Merely... a suggestion." "Make new ones--"

"--is that an option?"

"Is it?" "Astarin. I do not know what to think about you."

"Perhaps... you think too much."

"Don't I know it!" "...What if this doesn't work?"

"We could try... different bait."

"Astarin!" "You're dodging again."

"Perhaps. Perhaps you... live your life by... too many 'what ifs.' "

"And what do you do?"

"I live."

"That isn't enough!"

"Why?"

"Listen. I just don't need anymore heartache. And I don't want to--" "I don't want to be a reason to cry."

"I... do not cry."

"That's not the point!"

"Ah." "What is... the point?"

"...I don't know, anymore, Astarin. I still don't know what we're doing."

"Fishing."

"You make my head hurt."

"You smiled."

"...Yeah. Yeah, I did." "Okay, Astarin. We're fishing. Happy?"

"Yes."

Peculiar to find that I have no regrets.

There is a comfort to be found in this quel'dorei's sudden, unexpected companionship. Leaving the Dawn permanently will be less of an open wound now, I believe. We talked this evening after things settled down--which I will elaborate somewhat upon in a moment--and he has agreed to sell his contract to my Captain and come with us when we move out of port for the next couple of months to finish fortifying the base against winter.

The pleasure I felt in hearing that he wishes to remain nearby and to work at our side--my side, he had specified to my bewilderment--puzzles me, but I am uncertain of whether I can speak on these things to him. Perhaps soon. For now, he is a warmth against Northrend's bitter winds as I make my rounds with the Kalu'ak, each of us to check our respective nets and to share in either good or ill fortune before dusk crawls in early to spend the night.

As to the day's events:

I find myself wishing that Lady Windila had not stumbled upon the two of us in my bed this morning. She could not seem to stop laughing long enough to explain what was so amusing to her--and Master Merosiel vanished as soon as she showed her face. I get the distinct impression from him that he is quite put out with me for not making use of locks on my possessions (including my door). With the Lady Windila, however, I very much am in doubt that a lock would stay in place for long against her curiosity and her desire to know everything.

No regrets for waking up in a bed of rumpled sheets that smell of quel'dorei, but I will endeavor to never again let an elf convince me that I should join him in drink. My head aches as badly as when I have an attack, with an added 'bonus' of what feels like millions of tiny hammers pounding away at my skull.

Master Merosiel calls it a 'hangover' but the word is peculiar and I wonder if he is making it up. He is prone to  what humans coin 'tall tales.' Regardless, I am uncertain if I shall get any work done at all today; I feel far too ill, and Lady Windila's laughter is making the little hammers work overtime.

Brewfest has been a complete blur for me thus far. So much of my time during this holiday has been spent keeping order at the Harbinger base as well as filling in at the Tourney grounds for all the missing squires drowning in the kegs the Dwarves have so cheerfully brought along for the ride.

The Argent Crusade (and their partners, the Silver Covenant) seem appreciative of my efforts. As liaison for the Harbinger crew and our Captain, this is an important step in a long waltz I have undertaken. I must endeavor not to feel pride in my slow advancement up the ranks in the Crusade's respect; this is what has been tasked to me, I will fulfill it perfectly, without allowing misplaced pride to waylay me.

Duties completed for the day, I return for the last time to the Dawn to leave my key and portal insignia for the Lady Spennig; after all, if she should so happen to return at some point in the future, she might need them for the future Keeper of her grounds.

I linger, of course, detained by memory and an overwhelming sense of loss for all that had come before within these walls that would not come to be ever again.

As I am dallying, feigning excuses in my mind to stay through tidying up, I am given a most peculiar surprise in the form of one very tipsy, nervous elf stumbling his way through the portal.

I have not seen Master Merosiel in nearly a half-year, and we had never been particularly close--nothing so familiar as to merit the label of friendship--yet I find that in seeing his familiar face once more after so long, I am immediately overcome with a strange pressure in my throat and chest that forbade me speak for several minutes.

His crooked smile is strained when it is flashed at me, and silver eyes seemed less bright than I recall, but he seems genuinely pleased to see me.

It is then, however, that his emotions choose to batter at my weakened, lowered guard: pain, loss, despair, they all smack into my face and drown me under their tide so that I am unaware at first of how I cling to the edge of the bar counter, gasping softly.

So much loneliness inside him, for so long, that I very nearly choke on it all before I wrest control back and force him out beyond my flimsy protective shields. By then I am noticing that he's got his long, lean arms around me and those silver eyes are peering down in concern. His body is warm compared to mine, and I am tense in his loose embrace, fearing another relapse amplified by his touch.

It does not happen. Either I have managed some true semblance of control for a few unsteady moments, or he has recognized the source of my 'mild' reaction, because the sensation of his feelings are a muted buzz in the back of my head, like the fuzzy tingling of inhaling the foaming head of 'a good beer.' However he has reigned himself in, I find that I no longer tremble quite so much, and the vise gripping my lungs loosens mercifully so.

Scent tiptoes next upon the heels of his emotions. He reeks of bourbon, as if he has fallen in a lake of it and then forgot to change his clothes before coming here. Yet, when I offer to take his half-empty bottle from him, he cradles it close as if it is a precious jewel, and when I point this out a little dryly, he smirks in silence and then chugs down a gasping mouthful rather than hand the bottle over.

I have seen that kind of behavior before, and asked after it enough to glean a kind of understanding for the nuances given over to drinking habits. His is one of an attempt to siphon courage from his (likely pilfered) spirits.

We talk, then, he and I, and I am reminded during of another time, the last time in fact, when we had conversed:


(Drink?) Merosiel had signed to me, and I was forced to respond with a gentle reminder of:

"This one... does not drink, Master Merosiel."

(What good are you then?) He countered, ears forward to show he was not truly displeased with my answer.

I recall trying to find the most uncomplicated way of explaining, and settling for an unsatisfying continuance of: "Drinking is... problematic."

This had then netted me a puzzled look, a hiccup, a grunted, "Huh?" aloud, and then a wrinkled nose when I touch my gloved hand to my masked lips. I had hoped at the time that merely pointing out the obvious (literally) in reminder would suffice, but his quiet "Oh" and continued blank stare ended up reminding me of just how soused he had become.

Still hopeful, and uncomfortable with discussing my meaning, I waited while he mulled the gesture over, and also waited while he took several swigs of bourbon, brow furrowing in exaggerated thought.

(I don't get it,) he had admitted then with tucked ears, squinting. His signs had been sloppy, his elegant hands reduced to uncoordinated attempts at communication.

"You have seen... this one's face." I supplied, but even this evasive hint failed.

"Ye-e-e-eah," he had agreed easily, drawling the slurred affirmation out somewhat yet saying nothing after.

"My face." I repeat with a sigh, realizing that his obtuse reactions will force my proverbial hand and literal action. His ears prick forward again in interest, but not in realization, because he notes with a considerably stupid grin stealing over his face:

(You wear a mask.)

"...Yes."

(Take it off?) My surprise is such that my reaction becomes visible to him, I know it; I can feel my brows lift and my eyes widen, my body stiffen and my tail twitch.

"If it is... all the same to... you," I hedge anxiously, "Master Merosiel, this one... would prefer not to."

And that had been that.

The circumstances are familiar to me, for here he sits now as I write down my observations and drink in the quiet between us as surely as he slogs through another bottle of cheap bourbon.

"Ash'a," comes his unsteady, slurred voice; not all of it is alcohol. It is often easy to forget his handicap--I wonder if he forgets mine sometimes (without the aid of drink), or if it is as glaring to him as it is for me.

"Yes, Master Merosiel?"

(Where's your room?)

The silent question is distracting, puzzling, and for a moment I wonder if I have read his hands right.

"Upstairs."

He looks away from me, nurses his bourbon for several moments in delayed, oddly dainty sips. Then those silvery eyes slide back to stare at me, boldly meeting my gaze. I cannot decide still if it is the brazen look or the question that has me yielding this time and looking down at what I have already written here.

The image of his long, grey fingers framing the words (Sleep with me?) seem burned into the backs of my eyelids. Abruptly I can make little sense of my own writing, and stare blankly at the pages under my palm.

"As you like," slips out without my consent.

I find that I have no desire to retract it once said, and that my heart knocks against my ribs in a response I remember but have never understood.

When I look up, Merosiel's jaw is slack, his face a mixture of stunned incredulity that is then mirrored in the silent (Just like that?)

From some buried part of me, amusement wells up, and I prod it aloud by countering with: "Do you... wish for this one to... say no, instead?"

(Well, no, it's not that--Astarin, I--It's--I'm not--I don't--)

His hands stutter for him, a slurry of words that trip and stumble together until even I cannot make sense of the tangled mess. Reluctance is so palpable I would not need any talent at all for reading him, but something about the way his mouth twists has understanding clicking into place.

"Ah," I say, and then, "I know."

His ears tuck in shame, but his eyes say confusion, and I step around the counter, leaving my journal behind to give him my reassurance that we can all have handicaps, and still find some kind of comfort.

Received a mail this evening, a letter from Master Rahmiel, of all people.

Curious about why he had not come to see me in person, I read it, but was only left with further confusion.

Something about a debt, and that someone has been needing to speak with me for some time now. A man named Megid. Curious. No description of him, and no information on what is required of me. Simply that I must arrange a time to meet this man.

Not even a mention of where I should speak with him.

How curiously frustrating.

I am wondering if perhaps Master Rahmiel is finally feeling the effects of his age, and is beginning to act senile.

I shall have to recommend a healer to him--is that irony, to recommend a healer for a healer? And what if he decides that this is offensive instead of helpful.

Iatrios was not any help when I showed him the letter. He shrugged, grunted in that noncommittal fashion of his, and resumed staring out across the lake he has taken to calling 'home.'

He speaks less and less these days. In fact, the last I remember him really saying much is when he dragged me back out of the cold northlands. He had quite a lot to say then.

I wonder what troubles him now that takes his words away. I hope it is not trouble between him and the Captain.

I was surprised to find Master Ryutan in the Dawn this evening.

We talked for some time after his orc companion grew so angry with me that he left.

I would have liked to have gotten to know him, if nothing else, to understand why he was so frustrated with me and my behavior.

I was the perfect model of polite host. Yet still he raged at me and bared those tusks.

Orcs have tusks like trolls. I never thought of this before, but then, I have not seen one up close in a very, very long time.

I wonder if he remembers Draenor as it was. He seems old enough.

Master Ryutan seems sad; but I cannot read him as well as I can most others. He is like a blankness, an empty spot to me. I worked so long at suppressing the reactions my body and the holy magic that fills me has against his Forsaken presence that I cannot feel him at all.

At least it still allows me to know he is around; that very lack, that empty hole in the space he occupies is enough.

Someday I should like to speak with him about these things, but not tonight. He looks so sad. I wonder if my urge to hug him should have been acted on, or if he would have been disgusted with me.

Iatrios, not my Iatrios, but the new one, dragged me back today.

The Golden Dawn is lifeless. Empty. The grounds' construction remains incomplete.

I would rather be in Northrend, in the cold, lost in thought, than here surrounded by memories of all the people I cared for who are gone.

Everything hurts, yet I am alone, with no other's emotions to batter at my senses. Is it to mean then that this pain is from me? From inside me?

Baelyn has disappeared. No word in a month. I can still smell him when I close my eyes, still feel the sharp tang of his simmering anger barely held under the surface.

He is always so angry.

Where is my purpose with him gone? The new Iatrios does not need me, either. Master Rahmiel is busy with Master Mathadris and the boy. Spennig has become a reclusive hermit. Hermitess? Something. I must look that word up. My Captain--my former captain... I wonder where she is now.

Captain Jei is no different than Captain Oscella; they need me so rarely these days. Icecrown and the tourney has kept everyone busy. They no longer seek within Ulduar, and turn away from the Burning Legion's lingering remnants to battle the Scourge.

To me, it all seems without purpose. Distractions.

I wait for when this Arthas, this once-human, sweeps us all away in the tide of his power. This seems inevitable.

Baelyn.

I loved him, I think.

What do I do now?

I am surrogate for Master Rahmiel today with the boy. I do not mind him so much. He perplexes me, for many reasons, and I do not think I should have brought him to the Alkahest complex to see Master Rahmiel, but he missed his Maev so.

At least the Nagrand sky is always beautiful in the mornings. I wish I had the time to enjoy it. Or to enjoy it with someone aside from Master Rahmiel's 'son.'

I like Re Shi well enough, he is, despite his attempts to play draenei, an animal at heart, and even a proto drake whelpling is easier to understand and attend to than most, regardless of the form he might choose.

Master Rahmiel prefers calling him Faramos, he says it is more in keeping with draenic naming principles, but Re Shi seems not to care what he's called as long as he's called at all.

I understand this feeling, a little, yet I still get upset when my name is not used.

I went through so much to recover it.

I visited Master Rahmiel today. Master Merosiel was nowhere to be seen; there is some stranger in Master Rahmiel's bed, a fel elf. The sin'dorei is polite, speaks a nearly-accentless Common. I like him, a little, but even being across the room from him pains me so much that even Master Rahmiel cannot help me. I would not ask, even if he could.

I do not think his new friend likes me in turn; I think I have offended him by keeping my distance.

I shamed myself, as well, when we went to hunt demons as an experiment--Master Rahmiel had explained to me that Mister Mathadris needed fel energy now to sustain himself, somewhat akin to how I suffer without emotion even though I keep myself from it zealously.

I am always eager to serve my purpose for Master Rahmiel, but I could not concentrate surrounded by so much fel energy and so many demons. I nearly hurt his friend when I misinterpreted an action of his.

I think Master Rahmiel is disappointed in me.

This hurts worse than Mister Mathadris' presence.

Where is he? I am so alone. There is no one to talk to.

I have no purpose.

::Specific co-ordinates are written next to some of the following headings, along with a detailed, but incredibly tiny traveling map for each.::

Alkahest complex; Nagrand xx, xx

Medic Ward; Shattrath 62, 7 13, 0

Silver Covenant's inn; Dalaran

Must remember to pass along the above information to Lady Spennig, she has requested the easiest ways to get in contact with Master Rahmiel.

Something about some strange druid who is rumored to be mauling and raping women in Stormwind. I had to look up the word raping. The answer confused me, but I have no time to think on what this word means.

I am afraid. The druid is described to have hair white as bone, grey skin. To be vicious and particularly cruel.

Naaru help me, I pray it is not Iatrios. Why will he not come to me with what he needs? He promised he would not hurt anyone any longer but me.

I cannot sleep again.

Master Rahmiel and Master Merosiel have left the Golden Dawn. They visit on occasion, but Commander Ashtalon seems to have asked for their services.

I miss them. I miss the comfort and peace in Master Rahmiel's presence. He makes everything silent inside.

Baelyn is angry with me; I think I hurt him when Iatrios came to take me away from him. But I have obligations I have to attend to. I need a purpose. I must return to the Captain and the others.

I wish he had not looked at me that way. I do not understand the emotions he flung at me so unknowingly; it hurt, made my chest ache. I almost collapsed again.

I met another druid. He's been taking care of me while I recover. His scent makes me feel as strange as others in the Dawn did; and he seems to dislike wearing anything resembling clothes. Is this a druid 'thing' as Iatrios would say, or something else?

He seems pleased by the arrangement we have reached. I very much enjoy the way he smells, like earth and wood and smoke.

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.

Iatrios needed my help again today. It seemed to please him, at least. Druids are almost as strange as trolls.

::A single sentence follows: written in even tinier, cramped handwriting, as if even in a journal he feels uncomfortable admitting some things::

I feel so unclean for the way my body enjoyed when he bit me.

I wish that I could come nearer to Master Ryutan without such burning pain crawling in my gut and in my skin. I wonder if he understands that my reluctance in our friendship is not out of fear or disgust that he is Forsaken, but for my own health.

Likely not. I wish that I was normal.

My head feels as if it will burst

I smelled blood on the Amani dog's breath the last time I saw him, but he's 'under oath' he says. I hope for his sake he is a truthful dog; he makes me uncomfortable but I would not like to see him harmed for a lapse in judgement.

Troll culture is so fragmented and splintered. There are so many tribes, contradictory rituals, beliefs, gods. Some of them eat each other. How barbaric, yet symbolic. Consuming another to gain their strength, their knowledge, their power. I wonder if it works.

I wish I understood the motivations behind the things that others do

Master Ryutan rearranged the entire stock of alcohol, again, before I came down to attend to the evening inventory. He says it is not his doing, but I can smell the strange, papery scent that lingers on the things he touches, and it is all over the wine bottles I examined.

Then again, Spennig's troll seems enjoy joining in with his games; perhaps it was the both of them.

When I asked him, he smiled down at me from so high up, and brushed a thick-fingered hand to my shoulder. Then laughed when I flinched and stepped away.

This Amani dog of hers is even stranger to me, his emotions layered so thin that there are hundreds of contradictions that make me dizzy. I wish that he would control himself. At least his touch did not hurt quite as much as others' touches have.

Still. He makes me uncomfortable, like my skin is stretched too tight and my heart will collapse.

I do not think it is fear. Not from him nor me; I cannot smell it on either of us, yet I cannot pinpoint what it is, however. Something that sends my heart into that stutter and makes me fear it will tear its way out, and something that smells more delicious to me at times than anything else.

I do not know; I dislike not knowing.

I should study his kind. Perhaps if I understand trolls in general a little better, I will not feel so confused or strange.

I have noticed this feeling around many others, particularly when I see them in various states of undress. I wish I knew what these things meant. There is no one to ask.

I wish that I could sleep.

::The next entry is dated when nearly another year has passed since. His handwriting is unchanged, neat, precise, cramped to fit as many letters into as much usable space as possible.::

It seems that Master Ryutan decided to place his entire stable within my quarters this evening.

I am uncertain how this was accomplished, but he seemed so pleased and smug with himself that I did not want to ruin his enjoyment of his prank. Regrettably, animals within the Golden Dawn is an inappropriate situation, and I do rather prefer my own bed to the stables where his mounts belong.

Where did it begin?

These words continue to echo inside me, and I continue to fail at finding a true answer. But, so too echo the words first spoken to me by her. I have never seen a creature more beautiful than she. I am humbled, cowed, thrilled, all at the same time. She is as small as me, not at all like the two that hit me and spat at me.

"You might as well just curl up and die right now." She said this to me with a snort of such utter frustration, and knocked one small hoof against my shinbone. "Or, if not, then get up and get dressed. I don't need the headache of everyone staring at you..."

She never held out her hand to me to help me up, only tossed my rescued clothes at my face, but the gesture of help was there, implied with her too-caustic tones and those small hands fisted on those gently curved hips.

"Hey, runt, get dressed already! You're gonna help me whether you like it or not!" She pauses and her tail curls slightly, then uncurls with obvious annoyance directed my way. I am lost for a minute, watching the minute shift of her body's language toward me, the scents she gives on the stiff breeze, and the boiling rage that teems under the surface of her voice. It blisters the insides of my mind, and I stare vacantly.

"Ach, and don't go getting a swelled head, neither. I've seen better." I do not understand this phrase. Perhaps she will explain it to me some day.

I need her: her fire, her will, her beauty. She makes my body feel lightheaded, strange, even as her emotions scour my insides and fill me with with-held whimpers for the pain it causes.

Purpose. Resolve. Hope.

It all lurks under the guise of this female, under the pain being near her causes, under the confusion she elicits from me.

Perhaps this is where it begins.

I really wish I understood what has just happened, and why I feel even smaller, and so ashamed that my hand trembles as I pen this down. A few of 'my kind' found me, roused me from my fitful sleep, and beat me until they realized I was not fighting back. Perhaps I disgusted or frightened them so that they lost all semblance of reason at first. I do not know. I heard the word Man'ari pass their lips. It was spat with such disdain. I must find out what this word means; I do not recognize it.

I certainly should have felt something more than this inexplicable shame when they retreated. I was beaten up despite my compliance, simply for sleeping alone in a clearing. But the blame must be upon me, and not my kin. I look like a weak target... I am a weak target.

Finally having met, face to face--face to ribs, in all honesty, with the height they had on me--living confirmation of my own race, only to have them... The details. They are not important.

Is this what is known as irony?

Welcome home, Kei Lun...

Tsun... I miss you, old bear.

A hunter can survive a long time without even basic necessities, longer, perhaps, than others might.

I may need to put this to the test, for I have run out of my meager rations, and there is little forest game here that remains uncorrupted.

So close to so many of them--I have not had the ability or the settled stomach to approach any of at their 'Crash Site.' The headaches are blinding the moment I step out of this clearing toward any of the survivors.

Them? I... I have to start thinking like they are my people. They are, are they not? Draenei; I... I am one of the Draenei. I am a draenei... yet aside from superficial similarities...

No one looks like me. I am a freak, an outsider, even amongst this race I am to belong to.

Naaru have mercy upon me, I have no courage. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will try again.

::The next several entries are un-dated and so much beer and seawater has stained them that the ink has bled into a solid mass of watery-grey scratches. There are few left that are not missing or that are still legible.::

I have been dumped. I know that is not the intention, but I feel like I was a prized pet and then I got bigger, and there was not room for me any longer. Travel was arranged days ago--something I never expected, for one like myself, who is not a native, can ever sees this place and leave.

Yet they have allowed it, and I have done it. I have set hoof on land that those not of Pandaren blood can ever hope to see, and still I was given permission for safe passage to what they call Kalimdor!

I was told that there would be

::This sentence trails off, and the entry never resumed.::

Why do I feel so bitter? I have been informed that there are more out there like me. At last, the village realizes I am not a one-of-a-kind. I am no mythical beast nor a gift sent to teach them and gift them in turn. Nonetheless, they have not changed their attitudes toward me. So why have I?

I possess the skill to ask you now, Tsun... Yet my words wither in my throat and your gentle smile is, as ever, exasperating. Smug old bear.

News just reached us, though I set out immediately, with a trembling dawn that can barely be coined morning following at my back. The loremaster arrived in one of the nearby cities, for the first time in years. Upon hearing rumors about me, he requested audience.

I am far less excited than I thought I would be.

I have already mastered fishing as much as I am able. The great fish further out are too much for my meager strength--I leave this to my bigger, brawnier 'cousins' to handle.

I have even learned how to forage, should I somehow find myself alone for too long--getting lost on islands is a laughable idea, but I am embarrassed to say that it has happened to me on many occasions. The thick forests are so different at night; like they are split in personality between moon and sun. I can soothe the beasts of this land, too. I have surpassed my teacher now, and it is I who is called upon to talk with the animals before their transports across the Veiled Sea.

I care little for the resurrected whispers of how I am living up to my name. Gritting my teeth and ignoring their murmurs is about all that can be done. Ignoring Tsun's knowing eyes on me is more difficult.

Besides, animals are far easier to deal with than people. Simpler is not quite the right term, but they are... less complicated... in their needs. They do not hurt as much to speak with, and the headaches vanish, especially the further inland I venture. The further I am from Tsun and his people, the less agony there is. Their needs, their hopes and their aspirations, are so palpable. The closer I am to another sentient being, the more my head feels too full, like a clay pitcher about to burst at each crack, unable to contain anymore water.

I have realized I should not possess this kind of knowledge of my adopted brethren, and the increasing pain that lances through my head each day is unnecessary for pointing this out.

I will not tell Tsun about these things, nor this strange, latent... talent... I seem to have developed, or regained, or... whatever the case may be. He probably knows, anyway. No matter; he will never say a word. After all, I have seen enough of his silence to last me three lifetimes as is. I someday hope that my silence will be as frustrating to another as his is to me.

At any rate, I can provide for myself, and for the village, and I am useful at last. A purpose, however small, is something I am going to keep clinging to. I need this.

:Many of the following entries have been ripped clean away, or scratched out so brutally that the words are indecipherable. The next readable entry is more than a year later.::

I keep wondering where the memories went. They did not vanish, but after residual traces fled from me, I do not have the energy or inclination to chase them. It was rash of me, I suppose, to ruin so much of my journal, but perhaps it is for the best that I never recall what I was.

They call me Kei Lun. I used to rage against this name, but now, I find it sadly fitting. The Horned Beast.

The sheer ineptitude I display for magic and healing was accepted, in the end. I am... content to be left alone at last, to nurture the small plot of land Tsun owns, to work in his gardens and to care for his meager stable.

In my spare time, I have since begun to learn the ways of one of the locals here, although he, like myself, is not truly local. He calls himself a Beast Master... Perhaps this will allow me to be of further use to the people who shelter me.

Whatever I was before, any healing I might have been capable of is non-existant now. The Prophet be damned--I do not fit your stories, Tsun! A fragment. A muttered spell I know is somehow a gift, but even this is paltry. Not enough! How can they all look to me for the girl's health? You have your own healers; look to them for the answers I do not have!

...A cripple she'll remain. I cannot. I am not...

Call a Clefthoof what it is, a Clefthoof. Ugly, stupid, useless save to eat. Nothing holy about it at all. Perfect example of what I am.

...What is a Clefthoof? Who is the Prophet? Why do I know these things? There is nothing here that...

Memories...

No. I do not want them. I do not want to know why I was condemned to die!

When I learn enough of your ways and your speech, I will ask them, myself, Tsun. Then what will you have to say, hmm? They will know I am false!

...Why does my heart drum inside so fast at such a possibility?

How strangely you and your people speak. When I did finally rouse from my fitful dreams and half-grasped memories, it was like waking with a song in my ears, a song of lilting syllables and buoyant cadences. It was not my mother tongue, that is a certainty.

As if I had doubts, knowing I look the way I do, and all of your kin so different from me. I do not even have fur! Yes, it is obvious I am not one of you, that is something that brooks all language barriers, and even exceeds my infuriating knack for amnesia.

I spoke differently upon waking, though I have no name for what it might be. I still speak it, yet I understand nothing of your words, and neither do your people understand anything of mine. I sit here and write this, and I know my privacy would be secure even lacking the peculiar politeness your kind has. Such respect for me and my ways. Fools, all of us. Why trust a criminal?

Whatever I was before--that evil word, again--I am different now, if only physically. I am small, almost delicate-appearing, with pitiful means I would barely venture to call strength. Ha! I barely come to your shoulder, yet I have the feeling I should tower over you, just like your stories. And I am so white, so white and cold, with blind eyes that still see; I refused your mirrors after the first time, but the puddles leftover from rain taunt and torment me anyway.

Despite these things, or perhaps because of them, I am venerated! Can they not see this stupidity for what it is? Can you not?

You say nothing to them, Tsun, nothing! And I lack the means to communicate this truth. Their smiles waver back and forth between estatic bliss of those that continually see a living marvel--I refuse to use the word 'miracle'--and that of those who are amused at a wayward son who is slightly off in the head. That is how I am rewarded for trying to tell them what you will not? A patient smile and quiet laughter for my attempts at your language?

Your kin travel from the furthest reaches of the islands, even from the marvelous cities I have glimpsed in some of your timeless illustrations. They travel, to see a fraud! Why? Until your people realize I am nothing but a mortal, and a broken one at that, there will be this... idiotic awe, and I cannot stand it! This... this reverence for myth made reality, it is maddening.

I have no knowledge to give to them, Tsun! My lament, such as it is, falls as if you are deaf to it, and I fear even this quill mocks me, for I have ruined it with my vicious jabbing at parchment again. I have no magic to share with you and your people, no benevolence or peace to pass on. You know this, Tsun, yet your silence burns me greater than the scars around my wrists and throat! I am not the White One, the Great Horned Beast! I am not this Kei Lun!

Why will you not tell them the truth? I am just a pitiful refuse without a real name, and without any purpose. I came to you and yours in chains, and yet I am lifted up like a god. When they come to their senses, what then, Tsun? Why are you setting me up to repeat my ungraceful fall?

Daily, you insist on perpetuating this travesty, this farce, even with the children of your village. Damn you, Tsun. I am a monster, not a god. Why hail me as He Who Is The Falling Star?--If you know enough of my words to tease me this way, then why do you not speak up!

You delight the children with foolish stories of my descent from the sky, when all I did was plummet from a portal meant to spit me out into a death trap. Where did this madness begin?

::The last sentence is underlined repeatedly, boxed and hedged in, even doodled around, as if these five words were pondered long after candles burnt out for the day, and lanterns were lit to greet the night.::

I do not think I will ever be mistaken for who I once was or how I once looked--why am I so convinced I was different before, compared to now?

Before. That is a cruel word for me, and it repeats so endlessly. Everything in memory is gone, shattered or blown away. Where? I know not; yet it is all gone, and I am left with wondering only this: Before, was I the terror my heart says I must have been? Why else was I so obviously condemned to die, albeit in such an unusual manner--chained and shackled, no less!--unless someone sought to punish me for some atrocious, unspeakable crime?

I will wear the resultant scars of my past sins for the remainder of my life. Will I ever know what I did to cause them?

Did it never cross anyone else's mind but my own to wonder just why I was found in broken chains? In shackles,for the Naaru's sakes! Shackles that bit deeply into each wrist and ankle, clasped my throat like some hideous necklace, and no one ever thought to question this?

Why did you tend to me and my wounds without complaint, Tsun? Why did you watch me toss and turn for many nights, if you had no guarantees that I would wake to thank you for your kindnesses? Where did your compassion for me start?

Was it when you witnessed the portal open and spew me out into the sea, making a mockery of a shooting star, one that had the audacity to plummet in the daytime? Or was it when you said nothing as your people reported discovering a great white beast? I am sure they expected to haul in a great many fish that day, but certainly not one such as I.

I lay there drowning in my mouthfuls of salt-water on the shore, unconscious and battered, and yet you never spoke up against me, knowing what I was.

Did it start when they elected you, the biggest and the strongest of them, to carry me back to your quaint little village? I can only imagine what it must have looked like; a sorry sight, indeed, to think of a great race such as yours deigning to carry the half-dead flotsam of another world. I wonder if my tail dragged and left a jagged line to break up the complacent, even pattern of your heavy pawprints in the sand.

Perhaps. These are all possibilities. Anything in this world is possible, I have learned. Even death does not stop life anymore. I certainly did not stop! Someone wanted to be rid of me, and Oh, did they do a decent job. Stuck here in the middle of uncharted waters, sand and sea, sand and sea, as far as the eye could care to spy. Frustrating to recall a snatch of verse, and not know where it came from.

Where did it begin? My hands tremble as I write, not with fear, but with a great feeling of futility. Where did all of this begin?

((Old content is posted to give a sense of continuity. Forgive the strain on your suspension of disbelief as far as post-dates go. ))