The metal work lamp occasionally creaks on its suspension wire, periodically the warehouse groans as it continues to settle in as all buildings do. In those not-so-frequent moments when a sharp gust of wind passes by, a loose sheet of metal rattles. The sound isn't as annoying as it may seem.
From any point inside the warehouse, I can close my eyes and listen beyond, to the outside. Bells toll for different reasons – the cathedral chimes in at each appointed hour, while in the harbor, ships talk to each other. Workers and merchants shout and sing, troops march, city guards patrol. Sometimes there is the sound of pursuit and someone being subdued. Gryphons, dragons, hippogryphs, turbocharged fliers and rockets screech and scream overhead. When the inevitable collision happens, there are shouts for help and angry yelling.
Outside of this sanctuary, Stormwind lives and breathes. Stormwind, my home, moreso than I think Gnomeregan ever was or could ever be.
Dear Stormwind, I don't think I can call you home much longer.
I walk your cobblestone streets and see memories pass by like ghosts. The Trade district fountain where I've sat with so many acquaintances. The canal bridge between Trade and Mage where I listened to stories of vague, far away places and secrets hidden beyond the Great Sea. The patio outside the Blue Recluse where I obsessively watched a tailor work his craft, hoping he'd say the one little thing we were both afraid to utter, all to no avail. I found death outside the Finest Thread in the form of a night elf who slaughtered his own. There was drunken companionship inside the Pig and Whistle. I discovered humiliation at the bottom of the Valley of Heroes. Upon the advice of a friend, I bought a warehouse in the Harbor district intending to convert it into a workshop, and instead it became a home.
And ... there is the other canal bridge, the one between Mage and what used to be the Park. The place where I opened my heart, the place that has given me the conviction to do what needs to be done today.
At this work table, I am surrounded by maps of the Eastern Kingdoms. Silverpine is marked with red circles labeled "Worgen" and symbols indicating Forsaken command. The area is hopeless. Hillsbrad is also here, a vivid red "X" drawn through Southshore. More red circles and positions of Forsaken presence noted, but perhaps not so hopeless. Tirisfal ... makes me sad. Worgen skirmishes and the presence of the Undercity itself, with pockets of Scourge and remnants of the old Scarlets. Out of the question, it seems. The Plaguelands ... these words never seemed possible before, but the Plaguelands hold out the best hope.
Stormwind, Stormwind, Stormwind ...
I have complained about you, I have threatened you, I took away from you. I spilled your blood and cursed you. I wished a fate far worse than what Deathwing wrought upon you. I hated you. And yet somewhere underneath it all, I always loved you.
You've changed, Stormwind, and continue to change. It goes far beyond what one insane dragon could render. More and more you feel foreign, alien. The streets are busy yet lifeless, and so cold. Beggars incessantly whine and mope in corners, starved for attention. Your people confuse want for need, demand things be served without so much as lifting a finger, have become the worst kind of bastard noblemen that mar your once proud name.
The rats aren't worth catching anymore. You are not worth my effort, Stormwind.
Several maps are laid out before me. Choices, but ones I can't make alone. Ones I don't want to make alone. The beautiful thing is, I don't have to. I may not know the location, but I know my direction, Stormwind. I know my happiness. It doesn't include you.
We have taken all that the other can give, Stormwind. Should welcoming faces grace your streets once again and warmer blood flow through your heart, perhaps I will be inclined to visit. But until that day ...
For bittersweet memories mixed with one true piece of happiness, I thank you, Stormwind.
Farewell.
N. Tappet
From any point inside the warehouse, I can close my eyes and listen beyond, to the outside. Bells toll for different reasons – the cathedral chimes in at each appointed hour, while in the harbor, ships talk to each other. Workers and merchants shout and sing, troops march, city guards patrol. Sometimes there is the sound of pursuit and someone being subdued. Gryphons, dragons, hippogryphs, turbocharged fliers and rockets screech and scream overhead. When the inevitable collision happens, there are shouts for help and angry yelling.
Outside of this sanctuary, Stormwind lives and breathes. Stormwind, my home, moreso than I think Gnomeregan ever was or could ever be.
Dear Stormwind, I don't think I can call you home much longer.
I walk your cobblestone streets and see memories pass by like ghosts. The Trade district fountain where I've sat with so many acquaintances. The canal bridge between Trade and Mage where I listened to stories of vague, far away places and secrets hidden beyond the Great Sea. The patio outside the Blue Recluse where I obsessively watched a tailor work his craft, hoping he'd say the one little thing we were both afraid to utter, all to no avail. I found death outside the Finest Thread in the form of a night elf who slaughtered his own. There was drunken companionship inside the Pig and Whistle. I discovered humiliation at the bottom of the Valley of Heroes. Upon the advice of a friend, I bought a warehouse in the Harbor district intending to convert it into a workshop, and instead it became a home.
And ... there is the other canal bridge, the one between Mage and what used to be the Park. The place where I opened my heart, the place that has given me the conviction to do what needs to be done today.
At this work table, I am surrounded by maps of the Eastern Kingdoms. Silverpine is marked with red circles labeled "Worgen" and symbols indicating Forsaken command. The area is hopeless. Hillsbrad is also here, a vivid red "X" drawn through Southshore. More red circles and positions of Forsaken presence noted, but perhaps not so hopeless. Tirisfal ... makes me sad. Worgen skirmishes and the presence of the Undercity itself, with pockets of Scourge and remnants of the old Scarlets. Out of the question, it seems. The Plaguelands ... these words never seemed possible before, but the Plaguelands hold out the best hope.
Stormwind, Stormwind, Stormwind ...
I have complained about you, I have threatened you, I took away from you. I spilled your blood and cursed you. I wished a fate far worse than what Deathwing wrought upon you. I hated you. And yet somewhere underneath it all, I always loved you.
You've changed, Stormwind, and continue to change. It goes far beyond what one insane dragon could render. More and more you feel foreign, alien. The streets are busy yet lifeless, and so cold. Beggars incessantly whine and mope in corners, starved for attention. Your people confuse want for need, demand things be served without so much as lifting a finger, have become the worst kind of bastard noblemen that mar your once proud name.
The rats aren't worth catching anymore. You are not worth my effort, Stormwind.
Several maps are laid out before me. Choices, but ones I can't make alone. Ones I don't want to make alone. The beautiful thing is, I don't have to. I may not know the location, but I know my direction, Stormwind. I know my happiness. It doesn't include you.
We have taken all that the other can give, Stormwind. Should welcoming faces grace your streets once again and warmer blood flow through your heart, perhaps I will be inclined to visit. But until that day ...
For bittersweet memories mixed with one true piece of happiness, I thank you, Stormwind.
Farewell.
N. Tappet
