World of Warcraft®

There was something weighing heavily on Arothand's mind. These past few months, he had been working with the Crusade. He had dropped the Ebon Blade tabard, dropped his runic power, dropped the heavy armor all together to retrain with them. It, for the most part, was good work. It felt like ages since he had worked alongside a large group of Paladins.

Something, however, seemed suspiciously... devious. Lopsided. Unfair, even. Alliance groups, several of them, had launched attacks -from- Hearthglen. Afterwards, they retreated to the safety of the Argent guard, presumably not telling the neutral group what exactly they were doing. The Presidium, the Reclamation, Worgen of the Night. Wasn't right.

That Forsaken mage, Tyrexus, even claimed to have been kidnapped by a group, and held hostage there, presumably without the knowledge of the Crusade.

As a man of honor, and someone who worked for the Crusade, he felt it was his duty to inform them. Of course, no one could march upstairs and simply demand an audience with Fordring himself. Lightsworn had never even seen the man, much less spoken to him.

There was a chain of command for these things.

And so, he wrote a letter to his superior, asking for it to be put in with one of the commanders, to be considered for the Highlord.

"Commander, or Highlord, whoever this might reach.

Something troubles my mind. For months now, I've worked alongside the Crusade, as one of your members. For two years before that, I worked side by side with you in Icecrown, as a member of the Ebon Blade. However, my allegiances do not end there. I support the Crusade's peaceful goals, but at the moment, peace ain't always a possibility.

Were it come to a choice between the Alliance, or my friends, and family, my choice would be easy. So I defend my lands, as I believe any husband would.
As of late, I've come to defend them quite a bit, due to increased Alliance aggression. I know, could you do anything about this, you would.

What I ask is far simpler. Do not give the Alliance a staging point, a way to attack our homeland. Under Wrynn's rule, and the groups that currently take shelter in the Hearthglen, were they to have their way, the Forsaken might be wiped from this world, along with all free Knights and undead.

I don't ask you to break your pact of neutrality. I only wish to inform you, so that you can keep it.

Sincerely, and with the utmost honor and respect,

Arothand Lightsworn,
Argent Crusader."

The normally quiet town hall of Hearthglen held a number of people gathered around two tables pushed together to create a conference space. A casual meeting, those present sat or stood in varying states of boredom and relaxation.

Xenarr leaned back in a chair, precariously balancing it on its back two legs, one of his feet kicked up against the edge of the table before him. Across from him sat a dour looking Kal'dorei who rested uncomfortably in silver armor, writing into a logbook spread on the table. The night elf propped aside on one elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, then asked in smooth Orcish without looking up, "So why is your order more trustworthy and worth our time rather than any other?"

"Has anyone else even cared about the Crusade's own interests?" To the troll's right, sitting a comfortably safe distance away at the next table over, a young Sin'dorei woman in violets toyed with a ring on her right hand. Erosielle Sunforge bore a ribbon sigil of the Argent Crusade, herself, a mark of one working with the Vanguard in Northrend. She glanced downwards, then back to the recruit, sighing quietly. "It is not fair to either faction."

A disdained snort came from the doorway behind the Kal'dorei. "Y'know. Like lettin' groups out of Stormwind and Gilneas stage attacks from here on th' nearest major city." Arothand Lightsworn leaned his shoulders back against the wooden archway, arms folded across his chest.

"We cannot control the actions of those who use use our facilities once they are off the grounds." The Kal'dorei, a younger man, flicked his ears in mild agitation, glancing between the Horde in his line of sight. Beside the blue troll, all of the others present were Thalassian elves.

What an awful job to be put on.

It was no comfort that each of the Horde present well outranked him as members of the Argent Crusade in some form. He imagined it an intentional slight perpetuated by his commanding officer that they be forced to deal with hashing out ideas towards a recruit whose standing order was merely to organize their thoughts and report on.

At least two Sin'dorei remained largely silent, each only occasionally offering into the conversation when it seemed their words would hold the most weight. One was a man with swept back, reddish brown hair, leaning back in his chair next to the troll. Jaceron Dawnveil. He wore the full regalia of a Crusader, silvered plate edged in gold that clicked and creaked with every slow rock of his chair. His head tipped against the back of his chair, he stared blankly up at the ceiling.

Eventually Erosielle craned her head to look up as well. There seemed to be nothing up in the rafters.

The other silent elf leaned forward as if paying intent attention to the back and forth wandering of the conversation, though a grey hat covered most of his face and thus his expression was unreadable. Like Jaceron, his build suggested that he should also be in heavy armor, but instead dressed casually. Olarius Spellsong possessed a great propensity to ramble. It was likely a blessing that he was more interested in listening than contributing.

"Course." Arothand rolled his eyes behind the Kal'dorei's back. "Gettin' used for safe haven by combatants."

Tipping his chair back far enough that he had to hook his foot beneath the table to lever himself back into a decent angle before completely falling over, Xenarr cleared his throat quietly. "Ahem, eh. Y'gotta admit, s'favorin' th'Liance. Use'a buildin's, repair work after breakin' weapons on our bloody faces. R'n'R a bowshot from 'Saken territory. Flights, smithy, mill, alla that."

"Pardon, what did he say?" Glancing up from the logbook, the night elf casually pushed a stray lock of green hair behind one long, violet ear. He did not look at the troll directly, but rather across the elves to either side of the table before back down again.

Jaceron's gaze dropped from the ceiling to instead regard the Kal'dorei. "Favoring the Alliance. Letting them use your resources to kill Horde. That sort of thing."

"Ah," was the only reply from the recruit, nodding as he continued writing. After lowering the quill back, he shrugged. "I can't imagine we will be turning our backs on those who follow the Light. Matters of Andorhol and the former eastern reaches of Lordaeron, we stay out of, except to combat lingering remnants of Scourge and to research and cleanse the long-term effects of the Plague."

It was a rehearsed answer. He knew it. They all knew it.

Arothand spit near the doorway in the noisiest, rudest manner he could manage, earning a look from both Erosielle and Olarius.

"Honestly..." Rosie murmured in a chiding tone.

"Gross, but I have to agree with Lightsworn." Olarius snickered quietly, lifting one arm from the table to adjust the brim of his hat.

Jaceron's brow creased and he stared at the grey hat the other male Sin'dorei at the table wore, one ear flicking slightly. After a moment the thoughtful look faded and he shrugged. His attention turned to the Kal'dorei, but he never once looked past him to the man who spit. "We're supposed to be neutral."

Xenarr let his chair slowly fall forward until all four of its feet were solidly on the ground. "S'about civvies an' double effin' standards, s'what it's 'bout. Look, kid. Kid, getcher commander in here. Let th'six of us talk t'im."

"Six?" One eyebrow slowly raising, the Kal'dorei looked back over his shoulder, then across the tables. For a moment, he forgot to feign offense at that awful accent. "But there are only..."

"Six." The blue troll repeated.

After two frustrating hours of bantering back and forth with the most racist dwarf to ever bear the silver, gold, and white of the Argent Crusade, Xenarr rubbed the palm of one hand against the side of his face. "Stubborn asa kodo, that'n."

"We should contact a more Horde-friendly ambassador." Erosielle suggested as she picked through the pages of a book on the table.

Arothand growled from the chair he had taken at some point during the meeting. "Or jus' storm up into th' Keep and talk to a-"

"Nah, none of that." Xenarr shook his head, making a gesture with one hand. "We ain't causin' no trouble for th'Crusade, no more'n what we're already up to, pointin' these problems out, yeah?"

"Yeah." Arothand answered in a mutter. "Look. Why not jus' call in Ra and have him do th' talkin'."

Xenarr shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, ain't a bad idea, that. Archmage might go an' have better luck."

Olarius leaned back in his own chair, slouching, both arms folded behind his head. "He does have a certain way with words."

"Oh, Light, no. You expect anything out of that crazy bastard?" Jaceron pushed his chair back and stood, shaking his head. "It's late. I'm out. Night."

Arothand snorted quietly, but otherwise refrained comment. Instead, he offhandedly said, "Gonna head home, m'self."

Erosielle also stood, stretching before dusting herself off. "I should go, as well. Long flight back, for me."

As the three elves filed out of the room, each in some state of discontent, Olarius more slowly picked himself up from his chair. He took a moment to neatly replace the disarrayed furniture back into place, then tipped a half-hearted salute before turning to exit.

At the doorway, however, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Boss? Or sirs, if there is indeed another still listening?"

"Yeah?" Xenarr looked up, his face had still been in his hands through everyone abruptly heading out. Poor end to a poor night.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned earlier, but all of this was fun to watch. There is a better orator and negotiator likely available than any of us, or even the Archmagus, I should think. I imagine he would utterly adore the challenge of it. You ought wait another hour or two before trying to contact him, however." Olarius tipped the brim of his hat down, shrugged, and then started humming some hymnal tune beneath his breath as he took his leave.

Xenarr sat back in his chair, head tilting back and mouth tugging down against his tusks in a frown. What?

Oh.

Oh, for the Loa's sake.

He started laughing, and then banged one fist against the table top.

That would have saved some bloody trouble.

"M-Magister Spell-s-song!" Magistrix Alira Graystorm stammered out, pressed up against the book-laden wall of her private study. The sudden appearance of a grim, masked visage, clad in all white and gold, unnerved her completely. This was the safe sanctum of her residency, protected from portals, warded from scrying, even physically barred against entry while she worked. She dared not risk a glance at the door to see if the lock had been forced from the outside.

It took several moments too long to regain her composure, picking herself up and smoothing out her robes in a habitual motion. She dressed formally even in the space of her own home, the attire of one who easily considered themselves nobility. Crushed velvet and the sparkle of gems both caught the relatively dim lighting of the room. To some, the honey-haired woman was a very definition of alluring. Her voice flattened into a disarming and friendly tone, rather than the startled one used just moments prior. "However did you happen to get in here, my most esteemed associate? Talked my guards down with that silver tongue?"

No noise came from the masked figure standing before her. It was as if the tall figure was a statue. Behind that mask, he did not even breathe. No shifting of shoulders, nor rise and fall of his chest. Even no hint of of the Sin'dorei's eyes showed through, only sheer black where green should be. No hint of reaction, mood, or expression, anything that could give her a means to relate. There was nothing there.

Silence fell between them.

To her, it dragged on for an uncomfortable eternity.

Eventually, he deigned necessary to speak without taking any apparent breath. His tone was perfectly calm. Too calm for one who was breaking an entering into her property on the outskirts of the Eversong forest. Far too calm for a man who had just slaughtered his way through her guards, picking them off one by one as if playing some game of cat and mouse. Disturbingly, unnervingly calm for one who had stalked and trapped her in the most heavily protected place within a quarter of a day's ride.

"Do not play coy with me, Magistrix. You know as well as I that you've several alarms and excessive warding systems, both on the guard themselves as well as across your grounds. You also know I've drained nearly all of them, Sin'dorei or spell. Rather foolish of you to put so much untapped -energy- out there. Wretched could drink their way through your estate unharmed, Graystorm." Finally. Emotion. The man seemed to be enjoying himself, a slow, melodic chuckle coming from that lifeless mask.

Suddenly, she found herself wishing for silence, and that seemed to be all she could produce. Not dignifying those observations with an answer, she drew herself up and narrowed her eyes to glare at him.

"Whatever did you think an experienced Magister would do with your toys?" Spellsong took a step forward, and she felt herself flattening against the bookshelf once more, concern for appearing noble dissipating. "You realize, of course, it was your own garish displays of power which allowed me to cut down your guard like so much chaff, yes?" He flexed a hand and his palm flashed brightly, wildly, with the unrestrained energy he had stolen, though it had been absolutely indiscernable beforehand. The arcane power created swirling patterns up to the wrist and forearm of his glove, eerie reflections gleaming from the gold edges of his robe and the lower half of his mask. It only lasted a bare moment, the light cutting out as if snuffed, and suddenly the man's presence was as dark as the room again.

The Magistrix spit out a hissing and mildly confused, "You're just some... some neutrality obsessed, incumbent pundit! A relic from an age long lost! Who are you to even be capable of this? Why?!" Anger flooded her expression, hurt betrayal bled into her voice, echoed by her fingers twitching into fists at her side. Power flashed around her, a brief wave of warmth indicative of the defensive magic woven with it.

Sparks lit the space around her as she flushed with energy, blue-white flames flickering between her fingers. The moment she moved her arm, that power drained away, ripped both from herself and the very air. The Magister facing her did not make a move physically, but she gasped raggedly as if she had been slapped and doused in cold water. Sudden, unexpected arcane torrents could be painful.

Another chuckle emanated from the man, this time emotionless instead of amused, entirely calm once more.

"You need ask, Magistrix? I could spend hours listing your flaws." Outspoken. Power hungry. Devious. These were not necessarily detractions, and could lead her to being a powerful contender in the political ring of Silvermoon. Her views, on the other hand, were impractically thoughtless, brash, even outlandishly absurd at times, but she was developing a cult of personality. Such views and popularity made her one who simply could not be allowed to live. Behind his golden mask, the Magister smirked. "Unfortunately, ah. You no longer have the time for such trifling matters."

Finding her voice, she coughed and then snarled at him, "Y-you can't do this! You can't get away with-"

Rather than explain, in small words, exactly he had already gotten away with this to the young woman, the Magister lifted a hand, uttering a single word to cut her short. Speaking was simply one of the most naive manners in which to be caught off guard, especially after she had attempted attacking him.

"Tremble."

The Magistrix answered with a strangled shriek, cowering against the wall. The walls of her room melted away in fire, revealing unspoken terrors that writhed in the living darkness. Lashing and ripping away at the very fabric of her being, the moving shadows tore away hunks of flesh as she watched her very body be torn apart. Despite the horror, nausea, and reeling pain, she dragged her eyes upwards to glare at her assailant. The Magister was gone. Standing in his place was some monstrous incarnation of death itself, golden mask spattered in blood, crown turned to horns, and his once-white robes instead crimson and dripping blood. From his back sprouted massive, blackened wings, and in his right hand a gleaming scythe appeared.

That demonic figure descend upon her with a slash of his weapon, flames trailing in its wake.

Some minutes later, as the Magister knelt over the incinerated corpse of Alira Graystorm, a growling voice followed a soft chime over his Razortalons communicator. Someone was trying to get his attention specifically, with poor timing.

"'Ey Vany, y'awake out there?"

He knew the voice well. It was Xenarr Razortalon, an affiliate of his. The Razortalons were quite useful in many of the man's more shady dealings, and the resources they appointed to him for research were... hefty, to say the least. In that far too calm tone, he replied. "I am listening, Xenarr. Do go on."

There came a hesitant, quiet few seconds, before the Troll cleared his throat as if unnerved. He had heard that robotic quality in the Magister's voice once or twice before. "...Woah, man, busy? Ain't meanin' t'interrupt, just needja for some negotiation bull. Usual deals ain't workin' with th'high-an'-mighty Crusade type, neither're appeals 'bout fair play, or time we've spent workin' with 'em."
Sighing into the comm with a mild hiss of static, the Troll's tone fell apologetic. "Could really use yer help on this'n over in Hearthglen, Vany. Uh, iffen you're free, anyway. I'll letcha at m'library asa bonus?"

A light smirk. He did love negotiating for the Razortalons. They had money, resources, and the sort of sly personality one needed for smuggling and underhanded agreements, but they hardly possessed experience dealing with Humans, especially of the stubborn ex-Silver Hand breed. One had to make certain Crusaders felt as though they did the unquestionably right thing.

"Just a social gathering with several friends from out of town, actually. It's been years since we've seen each other." He paused for a moment before adding in a solemn, mournful tone. "In the morning, I'll be informed of the tragic death of a fellow Magister, however. It seems that her rampant use of power attracted a pack of Wretched that have been harassing travellers lately. Ah... truly tragic. I'll be sending flowers to the ceremony, but due to my rather busy schedule, I'm afraid I won't be able to attend."

"Fel, Vany. Remind me again t'not get on your bleedin' bad side, eh?" Xenarr's trepid attitude melted off into one almost approvingly entertained.

"If only others would keep that in mind. I shall arrive in Hearthglen in a few hours to handle matters." He tucked the device away, cutting off its power source so that it would not lead to any further distractions, and turned his attention back to the remains of the Magistrix. He still possessed matters of his own to finish handling, first.

A note is posted on boards related to Argent business in all territories, reading as such:

Fellow members of the Horde,

There has been a crucial flaw discovered in the neutrality laws of the Argent Crusade by the ever-stalwart defenders of peace and Horde interests, the Razortalons. It would seem that rather unwittingly, the Crusade was granting far more resources and territory to the Alliance than they were the Horde. Through negotiations with the Crusade, the Razortalons have made certain that the neutrality laws remain intact, and the Crusade offers equal support to both the Horde and Alliance.

Of course, these resources stand open to the Horde and Alliance both as a whole, as the Argent Crusade does have a staunch policy of neutrality. However, as the Pia Presidium has a permanent presence in Hearthglen, to which they have been using for means far from neutral, and several other Alliance groups have used Hearthglen as a staging point, in keeping the neutrality they've given the Razortalons Acquistions and Research Institution a presence equally as permanent in the local research tower and housing.

With these resources naturally comes the set of rules that any member of any faction must follow upon setting foot in Hearthglen:

No plague.

No blight.

Fel magic is only to be practiced with considerable caution and restraint.

No fighting within the Keep.

Scuffles within Argent territory are frowned upon.

Hunters will keep their pets, specfically spiders, on tight leashes. Specifically when about the drudges.

Please, no littering nor uncontrolled fires.

Those who are to make use of the stables are to take proper care of their companions. This extends to unliving steeds.

No polymorphing of the recruits into turtles only to make hard-headed puns.

No polymorphing of the recruits into rabbits because 'it is adorable'.

No polymorphing of the recruits in general.

No polymorphing.

No firing the ballistas inside of Hearthglen walls.

No strapping of any living being to a ballista, much less to be fired off.

Death Knights will keep their ghouls in check.

No dangling of any smaller races over fires, or fireplaces.

No dangling of any smaller races over forges.

There will be absolutely no hanging of anyone from the ramparts or towers or statues, by any article of clothing.

No collecting of Gnome corpses for consumption at a later date.

It is considered proper for rogues and those of particularly sneaky disposition to announce their presence during meetings or negotiations, rather than simply be vaguely referred to by other parties in a matter that may or may not suggest they are there.

No collecting of any corpses for consumption at any time.

The various casters must keep debates over which form, kingdom, style, source of magic, and lineage of magic is superior entirely civil. No shouting matches, and abstain from using fear, polymorph, and other spells that make one 'shut up' so that the other 'wins the debate'.

Please, do not water the druids, no matter how much they look like trees or flowers. Some may not appreciate it.

Cannibalization is considered quite rude.

(( Forgive the deleted posts, OCD over forgetting to swap characters there. ))

((I'm not really sure Pia uses Hearthglen as a staging point per se. We live there. We usually gather in Stormwind for attacks. We kept Tyrexus there because of game mechanics. Normally, we send our horde prisoners to The Tenth Legion to hold.

Regardless, interesting post. The writing, as always, is delicious.))

((Love this. Also want to note that reading the rules with beverage in hand is hazardous to one's health ... or at least one's keyboard.))

Suni set the stack of invitations to the Lover's Day Ball on a table in Mardenholde Keep and turned to find a dozen Argent soldiers, recruits, and general snoops pressing in to see what she'd brought for them. With a gentle laugh, she stepped aside, and waved a hand.

"Well go on, then. It's my understand--" Suni snapped her fingers and spun about as the instant teleport spell deposited her dainty frame on the opposite side of the hall. The table was a swarm of activity, pink parchment flitting from hand to hand, surrounded by the buzz of laughter and bantering, as the population of the keep -- perhaps in its entirety -- elbowed in to claim an invitation.

"Be sure to bring a date," Suni muttered from the back of the crowd as she settled her hands on her hips.

"Apparently you people don't get out much," she added as an afterthought, glancing around. A fresh parchment on the wall near the entrance of the hall drew her curiosity ... mostly because it was posted half a foot above her eye-level. And Suni was, if nothing else, forever curious.

Smoothing her skirt she slipped through the crowd to the end of the hall and paused, flicking her wand to the ready. With the essence of the arcane, she sketched the outline of a small wooden crate, tapped it once with the tip of her wand and watched as it solidified. Scooting the box closer to the wall, she gathered her skirt primly, and stepped up on the crate to read the listing.

"No polymorphing?!"

An armor-clad hand balanced her as Suni reeled backwards indignantly. She paused to flash the soldier a gracious smile and thank him. Gathering her skirts, she hopped from the box, and bent to pick it up. It collapsed between her hands and she began folding it carefully into pristine quarters, folding it over and over until she was able to tuck it into the small lacy hip-pouch she wore on her belt. Dusting her hands together, she gave another huff, lifted her head, set her jaw, and marched up the stairs.

She had a few choice words to share with High Lord Fordring.

A note, before I get into writing this, perhaps I should explain what exactly it is. As I often find myself a historian and record keeper in various situations and events, I've taken it upon myself to chronicle the Razortalon's stay here. Outside matters will not be recorded.
Vanyris Spellsong


Day one in Hearthglen,

I, myself, spent most of the day observing the tower, much the same as most any Razortalon. Zharikov has a few good ideas regarding warding of the tower. Erosielle seems largely concerned with the books, unsurprisingly, as does Olarius. I tend to think the latter would do a better job of preserving and organizing, although I admit a heavy bias likely due to being married to the man, however his choice of work remains to be seen. Merimu and Xenarr seem to be doing what Trolls do best - that is to say, perching on things and making numerous snarky comments and observations rather than doing anything productive, as is their racial trademark. That said, these two at least have some wisdom to their sarcastic remarks, and as such I am more fond of them than I am any others of their kind.

Xenarr has been quite helpful over time, and Rowanne vouches for Merimu, though often for reasons I find myself struggling not to scoff at.

I find myself getting off topic, however. All in all, the day was largely uneventful. It seems Merimu and Xenarr have placed me in a position of dealing with the Argents in whatever paperwork or politics may come of this, however, as of now things seem to be quite calm.


Day two of our first week in Hearthglen,

It would seem that Zharikov and myself have both claimed the same desk at the top of the tower. I suppose, as two of the higher ranking casters within the Razortalons and our own people, that it is only proper that he or I lay claim to such positions. I imagine, so long as he does not try to bring any of his Kirin Tor equipment to replace any of the higher quality Silvermoon-standard supplies I've placed order for, that there will be no issue.

On the floor below us, Erosielle has already begun sorting the shelves, though in what matter I am both unsure and uncaring. I see very little point in organizing what must be replaced. My husband - excuse me, I should keep a more straightforward point of view should any others read this, Olarius seems to agree. As such, he seems to be going behind Erosielle, carting out books to the keep and town hall to replace with more proper titles. If she noticed, she might be dismayed, but as usual seems both distracted and happy for the distraction of work, merely working around in circles.

On that note, some of the books seem to be mysteriously disappearing between the keep and our tower, as if someone is taking them. Were they of greater value, I might investigate or take preventative measures, but frankly from the dismal state of the library and it's selection I have a hard time bringing myself to care. There are far more important things to focus on, and relatively little time - but I will not get into personal matters in this journal, this is strictly to cover the going-ons of Hearthglen.

Outside, and on the ground floors, I must admit to paying much less attention. I am told one of the Razortalon's bruisers, some sort of Monk with the crusade, has taken up residence in the small camp outside the blacksmith. On passing, I noticed him working on some sort of engineering whilst using the broken cart near the fire as seating. Not quite where I would choose to work, however, personal opinions aside, he seemed to be productive.

Olarius has begun surveying the blacksmith, and making inquiries about upgrading it. It seems the Argents have been using a rather dull, simple forge, rather than one of the Arcane sort that Silvermoon and Dalaran houses. Such a mundane construction can only be used to forge weapons of equally mundane quality, and as such should likely be remedied as soon as possible.

The hour grows late, however, and Zharikov comes bearing yet another box of engineering toys of some sort up to the desk. I must attempt to prevent him from cluttering our workspace further.

Day three,

Zharikov's clutter seems to have grown exponentially overnight. Hardly surprising, but it seems to be confined to his side of the desk. That clash of his Kirin Tor purple is a bit of an eyesore in comparison to my Silvermoon decor. However, I have taken advantage of his going outside - which I will describe in detail as to what he's been doing later - to organize the desk, despite how shortly lived the organization may be.

As to what exactly Raoul has been doing, well. It's hardly a surprise. As a socialite, once his side of the desk was complete - I say complete, as I would hardly say 'organized', Zharikov apparently works under incredibly chaotic circumstances - he took to the outdoors, making himself rather familiar with the members of the Argent Crusade. Particularly the female, Elven members.

Zharikov is a terrible, terrible flirt.

Erosielle, on the other hand, seems to be blissfully unaware that we are slowly carting out the books she has been for some inexplicable reason been organizing. She's made a few comments that I believe were meant to be a joke questioning the number of bookcases on the level of the tower she has been working on.

I do not believe she realizes what exactly is going on, or perhaps she does, and simply is happy for some form of work or purpose around other people, and is content not to speak up, for fear of not having anything else to do.

A few more books have gone missing, unsurprisingly.

The opening of the tower has attracted readers of all variety, Razortalons or otherwise. All the better to improve and revise the selection of the tower, and reason to work at doing so faster.

My own free moments have gone to work on a project or two for Xenarr. He sent me a poison of an interesting variety, a variant of the Wretched-inducing poison that the researcher discovered in the Thousand Needles. It is interesting, if dangerous work. Suffice it to say that danger has never stopped my studies, only provided reason for greater caution.

For concerns of safety, I've sent Olarius off to continue his work at the blacksmith. He seems to be glad of the close proximity to the resident Knight-turned-Monk, Lightsworn. I'm told they share an affinity for all things Dwarven, and fine weaponry. Gladly do I leave them to such matters whilst I conduct further experimentation. Olarius seems to be working on converting the forge, or at least the plans for such, whilst Lightsworn carries on with his normal Crusade duties - which may have been altered to include engineering rather than patrols in the Eastern Plaguelands, given the change in position.

Merimu, as so often is the case, remains unseen. On occasion, the slight shuffling of footsteps can be heard, but my work remains uninterrupted and as such I have no urge to locate the man. Xenarr, on the other hand, I have caught perusing the bookshelves. It is rather amusing to watch him drop everything and act disinterested at the random recruit of either organization wandering upstairs. Trolls are an odd people, to believe that reading or higher learning might make one command less respect, or perhaps be less feared by their underlings. An odd conclusion, given that a learned man can strike far greater fear than that of the dull berserker.

I've also caught sight of the two Dawnveil brothers lurking about. Both seem rather out of place, the paladin moreso than the other, surprisingly. That may be because the hunter, however, seems to follow in Zharikov's footsteps, with perhaps broader tastes. Often times the Paladin seems bored with his companions and surroundings, and I were I in a postion to care, I might wonder why he chose such a line of work. I believe a battlefield might suit him better.

However, I am expecting a shipment soon. As it is somewhat late in the evening, I highly doubt anything of consequence is going to occur, and believe I can continue on in the morning.

Day four,

People seem to be more or less settling into a routine, which is both to be expected and rather pleasant.

Were they not, I imagine it would be due to some form of disaster, something we certainly wish to avoid whilst adapting to our new surroundings.

However, on a more pleasant note, one hardly in the routine, today the supplies I ordered for the pseudo-kitchen in the housing arrived. As such, I called in the assistance of a good friend, Rowanne, to help me organize and prepare meals. Despite the stark contrast she supplies to my polite mannerisms, I have to admit a certain fondness for her brash behaviour, so long as it does not effect myself, or herself, in a manner that's negative. It is amusing, to say the least, and it is nice to have one to confide such things in. Personal matters, however, are hardly the point of this journal. As such, I shall note that Rowanne's expertise and experience in baking proved quite useful, and she helped prepare several days worth of meals in advance - at least as far as organizing the supplies and materials.

She's also offered to help take care of any paperwork that arises. Should any, I believe I will be tempted to take her up on that offer, as I find myself busy with far more pressing matters for the most part.

I also spotted Ryeal perusing the shelves of the tower today. Were I not wrist-deep in potentially dangerous toxins, I would've made certain to make idle chit-chat with my sister. It is always amusing to do so, but unfortunately work takes precedent over socialization.

Precedent unless one is Zharikov, does not sleep, and spends everyone else's waking hours flirting with every female Sin'dorei in sight. He must work whilst everyone else is asleep.

The ever-stubborn Orcess, Krinda, has taken up residence near the training dummies when present, which comes to me as hardly surprising. Leave it to an Orc to find the only thing to fight in a neutral territory.

On that note, Tagorth made an appearance today. I made certain to steer clear, however, I am told he proceeded to do things... well, that an Orc of his intelligence might be expected to do. At the same time, there exist strangely conflicting stories of him, that sometimes his poor diction and worse manners are a charade. His actions relayed today, however, hardly support such claims.

I've also spotted a woman not in our ranks, nor that of the Argent, whom I believe to be Lightsworn's betrothed, from the way they carry themselves about one another. She appears polite, if terribly quiet, from the very little I have observed from a distance. Olarius has mentioned her wanting to meet me at some point for some sort of discussion of painting, a meeting I look forward to.

However, the rest of the day was relatively routine. Now that such a routine has formed, I will only take note of the very important, or out of the ordinary, in this journal. We shall see what qualifies as such in the future, I imagine.

Tagorth had been around Hearthglen for days; but hardly anyone had seen him-- the life of a Razortalons Executive Officer was a hard, lonely life indeed. Most days he sat, stuck behind a desk; intently scrawling his name, initials, and a large amount of checks or X's on whatever form he happened to be working on.

Typically in triplicate.

Unbeknownst to outsiders, and even some lower ranking in the corporation; Tagorth handled everything from admissions to supply requisitions, loans to patents, shipments to payroll-- Tagorth did it all.

He pour over a recent income report. All the figures looked great of course. The marketing strategy Eslyn and Raoul had come up with the Draoulgun was excellent indeed. How better to sell the defense contraption that to put on a little skit about how Raoul had saved countless lives, as a powerless human, with the weapon. Testimonals went a long way with the more removed settliments. Eslyn, on the other hand, was a respected Shaman, holding the title of "Sage." Most Horde settlers took whatever he said as the truth, without even questioning it. The further from Orgrimmar, the easier the Draoulgun sold. Profit margins, however, were even higher on the ammunition, which could only be purchased through the Razortalons Arms Manufacturing wing.

Tagorth scrawled his "signature" at the bottom of the income report. So much paper work. Next was a supply request from Vanyris. That warlock always just HAD to have the "latest and greatest" from Silvermoon, of course. Tagorth was hesitant to sign the form. "Warlock like demon. Tagorth no like demon... mebbe not sign?"... but he signed it anyhow. Anyone in Razortalons was intitled to spend their research and developement budgets however they wished, provided there were tangable results at the end.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Tagorth looked up, and made a few grunting sounds. At that, the door openned, and a young Tauren recruit pushed in a cart full of book.

"Tagorth, sir, I have the books you requested."

"Good, good. Tagorth look at them, see if need. Books from yesterday over there."

Tagorth pointed to the right side of the room. There was a pile of what looked like discarded books thrown into a heap on the ground.

"Tagorth read, not find book good. Can write better book self. Tagorth writer know? Good writer. Write better books."

"I... yes... of course sir. I'll take them out."

"Tanks. Tagorth come with."

"Of course sir."

The young Tauren dumped the new cart of books onto the floor to the left of Tagorth's desk, then proceeded over to the second pile, loading them into the cart. As the Tauren worked, Tagorth got up and made his way to the new pile of books. He picked up one "The Secret History of Karazahn: A Photographic Journey Through the Ages!" It looked boring. Tagorth thumbed through a few pages before tossing it over his shoulder, and into the pile that the Tauren was still trying to clean up.

"Pictures bad. Tagorth better drawer."

He reached down and picked up a second book "The Dark Portal and the Fall of Stormwind" This one he didn't even bother to read; he just tossed it in the pile.

"Hummie books never good."

By this time the young Tauren had finished filling the cart with yesterday's books, and was about to wheel them outside. Tagorth grabbed one more book, "The Founding of Quel'Thalas", leafing through it as he followed the Tauren out of his office. A small, common looking wooden crate wobbled back and forth behind him. After a brief walk through the Razortalons Headquarters: Hearthglen building, he and the Tauren stepped outside.

"Elfie book no good either. Why many bad book? Tagorth write better book for elfie read."

The two followed a well worn path toward the backside of the Razortalon's compound-- behind the main tower towards the outer defensive wall. They stopped in front of a large pit full of charred remains.

"Siegfried, lite please."

The little, common looking wooden crate wobbled over to the pit, edging itself down about half way in before bleching out a noxious looking green smoke. As the smoke began to fill the pit, it bleched a small flame which proceeded to ignite the charred material at the bottom, and the green smoke that now filled the pit. 'Siegfried' then wobbled it's way back to Tagorth.

"Good job!"

Tagorth reached inside his chest plate, pulling out what looked like a pink scrap of flesh, and tossed it to the crate. The crate's lid lifted, and a tongue shot out; picking the flesh out of the air like a frog with a fly. It gurgled "happily" as it munched on the snack. Tagorth made sure he always had a little human or gnome flesh to give Siegfried. Have to feed your pets, you know. It was, however, getting more difficult to get ahold of the stuff here in Hearthglen. A number of rules had been posted to keep things "civil", one of which preventing him from collecting gnomes to eat later. Such a pain.

"Okay! Time for fun!"

Tagorth reached into the cart full of books, picking out an armful. Then, without even a second glance, he tossed the entire load into the fire pit; giggling with the glee of a child as the books erupted. A thick smoke would start to rise from behind the tower as Tagorth continued to toss more books into the fire.

All in a day's work for a Razortalon's Executive.

Gentyl had met with Xennar and they had discussed the rogue's repeated attacks on her and Merral. Was she sure it was an attack? Was she sure it was a Razortalon or were they just getting the wrap because they were in the area?

She finally told him she would let him speak to Merral to verify her story.

He sent a messenger out who returned a short while later and whispered something in his ear. He described a goblin rogue.

"Yes, that was her."

He leaned back in his chair, supremely satisfied.

Her drumming fingers drummed out a steady tattoo on the table. She was getting very tired of everyone assuming she was lying.

They would try not to attack anyone in Pia if they weren't attacked. It was a start. She walked outside into the sunlight. This had become their home. Faithe had planted new flower and herb gardens. The vegetable garden was almost ready to re-plow. They were still digging potatoes out of the mounds scattered around the area.

The cart pony was missing. Gentyl hoped he had just wandered out an open gate and not into a Razortalon cooking pit.

They were everywhere, like ants in an upset hill. Fortunately, the Pia tower proper was invisible to anyone but Pia people. They wouldn't be going in there. However, they seemed to be claiming everything else.

Surely they would leave the animals in the stables alone. What was Traveller doing out?

She walked over to the mage tower. That was where they held officer meetings. It was also where Fallenrose and Faruzia studied. Their possessions and books were there. She found her possessions that had been in the desk in a box on the floor. She pulled some of Rose's and Faruzia's books off the shelves and filled the box. She got the more ancient and valuable ones, but all of them were rare. How did you choose? She'd come back later and get the rest of them.

Cripes. Now someone was trying to get into Taelanas' house.

It was going to be a long day.

Merimu barely had free time anymore since [REDACTED]. As such, he'd only managed to visit Hearthglen once or twice since their recent acquisition, usually to make sure no-one was causing too much trouble - He never joined the Crusade but he was always quite fond of the Dawn before they started absorbing this group and that organization and adding all sorts of embellishments to their symbols. The troll was never one to hang around and chat with most, much less volunteer up his location or presence unless there was something that he could use to shore up the airy, aloof presence. Besides things that generally piqued his interest, little of which had been found on the few occasions he'd found time to sneak around.

Still, it was nice seeing what the Argents had done with the once-fortress city, even if he had to resist the urge to attack anything dressed in red from the months spent skirmishing and picking off Scarlet patrols years back. The only thing really of note for his visits being [REDACTED].