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The archives of The Royal Library were rather a mixed lot, and dusty to boot. Arjah, mindful as ever of her lungs, explored them over the course of several days, turning up an utterly mixed lot of old journals, treatises, letters, and records, some so obscure that even she could not place their origin.

Arjah set aside a carefully curated collection of oddments and took to her writing desk with a satisfied smile. She would start with the Library's best foot forward...and if it were a slightly quirky foot, well, they were librarians, after all. Surely she wasn't the only person left on Azeroth who enjoyed old books for their own sake.

The Royal Library Presents: Open Archives

Browse the fabled archives of Silvermoon's Royal Library! Acting Head Librarian Arjah presents selected materials from the Library's permanent (non-lending) collection, available to the public this evening only.

WHEN: Wednesday 17 December, 5:30 PM
WHERE: Royal Library Portico (Southeast Corner, Farstriders' Square, Silvermoon City)

DESCRIPTION: Materials from around the world have found their way into the care of The Royal Library. Some, too precious to lend out publicly, are tended in the private vaults of the Library's permanent collection. Now, in a rare opportunity for the public, Acting Head Librarian Arjah will display selections from the vaults on the Royal Library's west portico, accessible from the southeast corner of Farstriders' Square in Silvermoon City.

Come explore curiosities, many of them fragmented and unexplained: the journals of spies, the rantings of madmen, and the strategies of great generals, all on display together at the Royal Library! Due to the fragile nature of some of these volumes and the need for careful preservation, refreshments will not be served. Dress-casual attire is requested.

A small event, Arjah thought as she politely-but-firmly shooed the last few goblins off her Library's portico. Modest. Tasteful.

They were odd thoughts from which to take satisfaction. Arjah's life had not been one marked by a great deal of modesty. Taste was more arguable -- but an argument, to be sure. Even a few short years back, she would not have been satisfied with the cheerful, casual gathering of strangers and friends that had come to peer through the Library's collection.

Still, it was best not to take on too much at once. She was fragile, damn it. The years of running military campaigns with one hand while writing sonnets with the other were over, not that they had even been much more than a carefully cultivated myth to begin with.

Now even that cultivation seemed beyond her. Arjah had been many things in her life, but at the Library, it seemed, she would finally have to be simply herself. Not much, but it was what she had to work with.

And a great many books, the whispering "shlumpf!" sound of too many manuscripts sliding from a teetering pile into a shapeless puddle on the floor reminded her. Many, many books.

Strangely, she rather fancied it would be enough.

((I lament not making this on one of my hordies. I look forward to the next one. :D ))

Mormel was still humming to herself happily as she walked through the door of her house in Booty Bay. While she had failed to find a copy of the elusive The Sword of Oarwind: Taming the South Seas she did read something that would be useful to her business. The nice, old troll lady had shown her a mint condition book that was overflowing with information on things zombi-er... the Undercity demographic love to buy.

Finally after so many failed attempts Mormel had at least an idea of what to try selling the UC dem. She gleefully pulled out her sketching paper and quickly began whipping up some crudely drawn stick figures with skeleton heads wearing a variety of smexy dresses. She still was unsure if the dress made out of live roaches would be more popular than the dress made out of dead ones but she was positive the wooden coffin dress would sell like hot cakes.

"Nyah! I just can't wait 'till the next store sale!"

Yet that was not the only dress inspiration Mormel had from the Royal Library. She noticed the troll lady was wearing a smexy dress that showed some skin despite her age. Zurom explained afterwards to her this was not unusual for jungle trolls. Already Mormel had the idea for a whole line of smexy, revealing dresses catering specifically to older troll women. She was thinking of calling it "grandma's mojo."

12/19/2014 08:14 AMPosted by Mormel

Yet that was not the only dress inspiration Mormel had from the Royal Library. She noticed the troll lady was wearing a smexy dress that showed some skin despite her age. Zurom explained afterwards to her this was not unusual for jungle trolls. Already Mormel had the idea for a whole line of smexy, revealing dresses catering specifically to older troll women. She was thinking of calling it "grandma's mojo."

[ THIS IS THE BEST. Also, I'm a moron and got the dates mixed up. Arjah, can we please be btag pals, please? ]

12/19/2014 08:42 AMPosted by Khromie

[ THIS IS THE BEST. Also, I'm a moron and got the dates mixed up. Arjah, can we please be btag pals, please? ]

((I gueesssssss...but you've got to promise not to bother any of the other characters on it! I promised a friend this account for the expac, and I'm just coattailing along on Arjah now and then when it's not in use. So most of the people showing up as the "Arjah" battletag probably aren't.

Also, Arjah's gonna smack a goblin silly if she hears any of this "older women" talk.))

[ THIS IS THE BEST.]

:D

12/19/2014 10:30 AMPosted by Arjah

Also, Arjah's gonna smack a goblin silly if she hears any of this "older women" talk.))

((It's a compliment! Honest! ;3 ))

Hate was a mask, in those days. I couldn't live without it, I knew I couldn't live within it. I think, in the end, I just wanted her back. I wanted her back as badly as he did. I had to hate, to smother the wound her death left in my heart with good old blind rage. But you can't bury your head forever.

I killed her. I did.

Me.

That -creature- poured itself into my head and I grabbed the spear and I pinned her to the !@#$ing ground.

And it ain't like those stories, where they lay there a while, telling you they love you while a single tear dries its last on their cheek. No, Amberley Bloodwing left the world terrified and sobbing and bloody and hurt.

I did that.

Me.

And after that, after the unthinkable, I pushed the blame on him. The -creature-, it must've chained up my memory, because all I could remember was seeing him pull the weapon from her chest. The creak of ribs hooked by a jagged barb. Her last heaving cries, leaking her life all over his arms. What have you done, I screamed at him.

I blamed him, and I hated him. I wore that mask of hate because I needed it. There was nothing left to me but that lie.

And it worked, for a while. It did! Hell, I could have gone on like that forever. Inventing new ways to torment him. I took his smile, and he broke my thumbs. He raised an army of dead, and I brainwashed me some cultists. Good old fashioned WAR %^-*.

And I think that's what scares me, now. It was in me, to go on like -that-. But he knew better. He saw through the whole bit. Came for me, raised his hand and swallowed my hate in his shadow. He did that head-trick of his and showed me the whole damn scene.

You can't outrun the truth. !@#$ don't play fair. Comes at you crooked, gets you from behind. And that little house of lies you've been living in comes crashing on down.

And did it crash.

I didn't know what the hell do think. I didn't know what the hell to do. I'd gone a bad way, all over a lie I made just to live with myself. The things I told myself to make it right.

My eyes told me Liore Bloodwing killed his bride, so I ripped 'em out.

Bit dramatic I guess, but hey. Elf, right?

So why am I telling you all this? Shut up we're getting to that.

Apparently blood loss did its thing and I was on my way to catching up with Amberley when I woke to a world of lights. It wasn't the darkness I had expected. Or yknow. The hellfire. I could pick out vague shapes at first, that turned into people. And then into FAT people.

Turns out my body washed up on the shore of some old, new continent where Panda-folk lived. The Pandaren nursed me back to health and reason. I put up a bit of a fuss, but the hospitality of a Pandaren is like no other. You will be EAT or you will be FED. Ask me how I know.

The village elder taught me all about the lights I was seeing, told me about chi, the life force that runs like electricity through every living creature. How it can be seen with enough focus, how it can be commanded and channeled with enough effort. He taught me a lot, actually. About masks, about wounds. About letting go.

It took a while, but I found myself again. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself, but I got my feet under me, which is the first step to taking a... first step.

I wanted to train again, get back into shape. But broken thumbs can't hold a weapon, and blind eyes can't aim a bow. That was when I met Son-Lin. She got me a beer and I said something awful and she punched me through a wall. That was when I decided to learn the way of the Windwalker.

So naturally there were some adventures and mishaps. Something about a guy named Gary or whatever. I guess he was super into lifting and had a huge axe and was a total jerk I mean you guys.

That's got nothing to do with why I'm back in Silvermoon.

Son-Lin was unlike anybody I'd ever met. She was so... grounded. She knew where she was headed, because she knew where she'd been. I'm jealous of that clarity.

I've spent a lot of my life at war, moving from fight to fight. Inquisition, Silvermoon Ranged Forces, Horde Command Unit, just wind me up, point me at something and get the %^-* out of the way. There's a lot I've missed. A lot of history happened while I was happening someplace else. A lot of culture, a lot of life. I've got this deep sense of weightlessness in all I chase, and I think I just need to learn more about where I've come from. Maybe that'll tell me where I need to be.

Books. Books are the answer. Papyrus scrolls and ink. The weight of history on thin scraps of paper.

But books are utterly useless to me. What, you don't think ink has chi, do you? A writer might pour his soul into his work, or whatever, but when that !@#$ dries its as black to me as night. I'm going to need someone to read for me. To me. Pride be damned, I need this.

There's a Library, I guess. Weekly meetings. Live readings, excerpts of times long gone. I'll make my way to them, see (heh) what I can gather. Word is this Arjah lady's a looker.

Not that I can tell.

I stalk the midnight streets, hands in my pockets and bandages over my eyes. Nobody pays me any mind. Nobody would recognize me, if they even thought to try. Asimenios Dies'Irae was long dead. Inquisitor Bloodwing got him, haven't you heard.

Rest in peace, son of a %^-*!.

The raven haired elf sat at her desk, pensive musings cluttering up her usually well-organized mind. Meeting the troll – this Arjah – had been illuminating. Clearly the woman consorted with ne’er-do-wells and intended to introduce unacceptable readings into the Library’s coffers. Why, there had been chatter about zombie books and worse…smut magazines.

Kamdrin was livid.

This was the Royal Library. Not some two-bit convenience store with a rack of books in the back corner. An out of character huff blew a strand of hair out of place. Pushing her chair back, Kamdrin rose and began to pace as she considered what to do.

Arjah had offered her the prospect to be of assistance to the Library. This might be the perfect opportunity to get inside and find any dirt she could on the woman. Dirt that might be useful in cleansing the foul troll smell.

Smooth ruby lips tilted into a smile.

For all her protestations of trollish simplicity, Arjah rather liked Silvermoon.

Not the elves, or at least not their social interests. She couldn't keep the names straight, much less who was angry with whom for which slight, real or perceived, and the hyperbole drove her mad. Arcane guardians and tight controls on the mana flow prevented anyone from doing real, murderous harm in Silvermoon, much less the sort of city-leveling rage that some men (they were always men, she'd noticed) promised if you dared to disagree with them. It was all very silly.

No, the company of elves Arjah could take or leave. But the city -- the city, she liked.

Nowhere else could a troll of middle age and middling reputation sit in warm sunlight all afternoon, secure from anything more dangerous than a cat prowling around her ankles. Tea trays were not merely ubiquitous; they floated up to hand at need. The smell was always sweet and floral, provided one stayed away from the plauged scar along the city's eastern edge.

More wetness in the air would have pleased Arjah, but she could make do without for a while, so long as she was still visiting her jungle kin regularly and taking long, relaxing weekends in the humid Stranglethorn air.

Yes, it was all very pleasant. She could make a tidy little life for herself on the Library portico, and with not very much effort.

All Arjah had to do was justify the Library's continued existence. A few events, a quick recruiting drive, some new pages scurrying about, learning the ropes and venturing out into the world to find rare tomes for her...it couldn't be that hard, could it?

Still, she should really take an advert out. It was getting on toward time.