Archive for IC


Leafsong hung over the edge of the first floor balcony railing, gazing down at Shyla as she finished tidying up after a mid-morning rush. Flora gurgled quietly on her mother’s hip, thumb in mouth as she eyed a stray spider warily.

“Shyla,” said Leafsong, after a moment’s pause, dropping her orange skin on the floor for Analith to snatch up and put his his mouth. Shyla, looking somewhat harassed as she balanced a tray of dirty glass vials, tilted her face up towards her green haired cousin.


Leafsong pointed to the orange skin, which was being partially ingested by the baby.

“I was feelin’ really lazy this morning, so I didn’t get up till ten. And then it was much too late for breakfast. But it were too early for lunch. But I was still really ‘ungry. So I had this orange. And several grapes. It was a BRUNCH. I ‘ad a brunch!”

Shyla stared up at her cousin for a moment, her jaw dropping.

“No offense, Twigs, but that was probably the most boring thing you’ve ever said. You really need to get out of the house more.”

Leafsong scowled and turned her back on her cousin, plopping Flora on the bed beside Loredar. She sat beside the twins, resting her foot gently on Mirae’s stomach as the baby lay on the rug, clutching her mirror. After a moment, she opened  the bedside drawer and rummaged through it, taking out a small sheet of parchment and one of Aphel’s quills.

About thirty minutes later, she stamped the seal shut and handed it to one of the military unit’s runners; who had turned up to the GHE at top speed, and was most displeased to learn that the ‘urgent’ business was just a tiny, folded note.

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Leafsong’s Diary 6.8

Some days, I honestly think that it would have been a lot easier if I had stuck to my (and my pa’s) initial plan, and not allowed myself to become attached to my mate. My mate, our saber with gold fur, or as the humans call it – our ‘cash cow’. I can still recall my father’s exact words as he rolled together my pack in preparation for my leaving with the new, strange teacher – get as much from him as you can, even let him get a child on you, as long as he pays; but don’t, for Elune’s sake, succumb to any foolish feminine feeling you might mistakenly develop! Regardless of the negative impact on your business productivity, he and you are as the saber and the owl – incompatible.

I listened obediently as always (those were the days when I was his ‘dutiful daughter’, rather than the ‘wayward ingrate’), but it didn’t do much good. Look at me now, two and a half years after I left Darnassus in his company: the mother of four children, my usefulness to the family business diminishing daily, tied to a foreign city, druidic study abandoned.

The most galling thing is, that this would have been enough for me! I admit it, I never had any particularly lofty ambitions for myself. I never wanted to be the courageous Sentinel, the  noble Priestess – or even (if I’m honest) – the wise Druid. I wanted to have a vault full of gold, and enough food, always. Now I have those things, and my concern is ensuring that my children have vaults of gold, and more food than they could ever eat. It’s why I always stuff them beyond their satiety, why all four of my babies are plump.

I think that, in time, I could even get over the fact that I am now more of a burden than an asset to the GHE; and that I don’t really have a place in the family business anymore.

This, this, is the difference between my mate and I! This is what my father was referring to, when he said that we were fundamentally incompatible. I thought that he was talking about the age difference, the social disparity between us; but it was something far less obvious. I am a simple girl: I am happy when my husband is home, when my babies are playing, when I have cash heavy in my pocket. These tangible things are enough for me. My husband is a different beast, he has ideologies, theoretical aspirations, faith-based rational doctrines- complicated terms which aren’t just the titles of papers he authors, but real tenets by which he lives his life. His actions in the now are based on possible future outcomes, he is always plotting, planning, theorising. The future of the Kaldorei, the place of Elune in a unified world, the subjugation of the Horde – these are all daily concerns for him. I have known him to wake up, sweating, tortured almost, in the middle of the night – because of some incomprehensible, obscure point of doctrine. He’ll shut himself in the study, the light of the candle flickering beneath the door till the small hours of the morning, burying himself in ancient texts and tomes in an attempt to solve these nagging problems that won’t wait.

There’s no question that he loves our little family. When he dies and they open him up, I am confident that they will find our names – Leafsong, Analith, Mirae, Loredar and Flora- inscribed on his heart. But he is willing to risk everything in the pursuit of his damned ambition! The other day, he almost got both of us killed in a foolish expedition for this evil, magical pendant that he wished to use for his strange purpose.  He nearly made our children orphans, for some worthless trinket!

Granted, I could have perhaps thought of a more diplomatic way to communicate my anger than having our marital bed dragged onto the front porch, then setting fire to it. I thought that it made a powerful statement, but in reality, it just means that I have to sleep in the old armchair with the alarming protruding springs. Hmph.

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Leafsong’s Diary 3.8

Three years in a row, I’ve caught the summer sickness; and this bout has finally convinced me (just) to go along to the human apothecary and have the dreaded’ vaccination’. My mate is delighted, as he’d been nagging me to take advantage of this Eastern philosophy since we began living in Stormwind, but I always held back – partly because my Kaldorei heritage recoils at artificial enhancement to the body’s natural defenses, and partly because I hate needles.

Aah! Little bits of metal poking into your skin, penetrating to your very BLOOD. Like being stabbed! Exactly like being stabbed! Aah!

But I can’t keep on avoiding it, if not for me, for my babies. This is the third year where my husband has been saddled with the responsibility of looking after increasing numbers of infants, and it’s not fair. He has his military – stuff – to handle, and though he had help from my cousin and my grandmother, it’s still a lot of work. And my mate, though I know he loves his offspring more than anything, he’s not the most infant-aware person. His idea of responding to one of the twin’s plaintive wails is asking them in a terse voice: “What? What?? Stop this nonsense. IMMEDIATELY.” His attempts at reasoning with three month year old babies is rarely successful.

I mean, it’s not because he is a bad father. He is a very good father. If I was an illustrious Shan’do, I’d give him top marks for parenting. I think it’s just the age difference. It’s like an ancient oak trying to relate to a couple of acorns. The tree knows that once, millenia ago, it too was just a seed – but it’s almost inconceivable.  Hence the: “What? What??”

What else has happened this past two weeks? Not much, for me. I’ve been in bed, Shyla has taken over so much of the GHE business that I’ve been push– almost all that I do now is do the occasional stock entry and a delivery or two when I’ve been out. I know that she means (mostly) well, that I can’t do everything that I used to do, since I spend nearly all day with the babies. I am certain that my father relies more heavily on her than on me. It is a bit galling, especially since it was him and ma, me and my brothers who built up the GHE. From nothing! We worked so hard to make it a success. It was me who froze my toes off picking herbs in Hyjal so that my pa would have something to sell.

It was me who got the funding for the first store

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I think that I’m just feeling a little resentful of my husband today. Though his stupid military campaigns have been in existence less than a year, and the GHE has been around for more than a decade; it was me who had to give up that part of my life. There was no question of him becoming a full-time father. And I have to watch as ambitious relatives steal- no, stop complaining, wench.

It’s so weird seeing the babies grow up, it’s like they are actual little people. I mean, I know that they are- but for so long, Analith was just this little fleshy blob who cried and dribbled and made messes. And now he is this little walking thing who is starting to put together sentences (“Bad Mama” was his first one. I’m so proud!!”), and has his own likes and dislikes (food and bedtime respectively). Even Mirae is beginning to come into her own, with a little routine she has to adhere to (otherwise there are tantrums). It’s a little intimidating, actually. I’m glad that Flo and Lo are still young enough to be malleable.

Aahh! AAHH! I’ve become one of those mothers who can’t talk about anything but their children. Nightmare. Nightmare.

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You’re awful brave,”

Leafsong remarked this archly, glancing around the dimly lit clearing with some trepidation. The last rays of evening sun flickered through the tightly-packed trunks, the sounds of distant Goldshire just barely audible. Giving the shadowed glade one last cursory inspection, she turned back to her husband as he divested the last of his clothing. At her comment he focused his impassive amber stare on her, one greying eyebrow rising.

I didn’t realise that the standards of bravery had lowered themselves to the point where merely taking a bath is heroic.”

No, I mean, for bathing out in the wild so near to the ‘uman city. People have been arrested for this.”

She shot him a scowl, trailing her tattered jumper along the grass behind as she came to sit on the riverbank, bringing her knees up to her chin. Keeping one eye on the trees surrounding them, she watched her mate as he waded waist-deep into the river with a grimace.

It’s f-cking freezing.”

Leafsong snickered at him, picking at a scab on her ankle. “Don’t swear in front of the bab- oh.” She interrupted herself with surprise, glancing around at the grassy slopes. “Ooh, it’s weird being without any of my children.” She frowned for a moment, her head reflexively swivelling in the direction of the city to where all four infants were soundly sleeping under the care of Shyla; an odd pang throbbing in her gut.

Pass me the soap, please.”

Reeling herself in from that distant crib, she tugged her satchel into her lap and began to rummage inside it. Pulling a face as her hand came into contact with something slimy, she emerged with two different waxy bars.

Peacebloom Bloomer and Golden Glow. The choice is yours!”

He shot her a look while wringing his hair, lined hands incongruous with muscular arms tautened through years of manipulating the bow.

“The peacebloom one.”

She nodded, hooking it through the air towards him. He caught it with a hand (at which she applauded, and he smiled reluctantly), and began to rub it briskly. For a moment her face twisted, caught in an internal struggle of epic proportion. Resist….resist. Be mature. You are a mother. Finally, helplessly, she gave in.

Husband. Husband. Don’t…drop the soap.”

He shot her a look of pure hatred as she honked with laughter, her shoulders quivering. “Every time,” he said, his voice tight. “Every time.”

She shrugged, widening her eyes and gesturing vaguely over her shoulder.

Well, Goldshire is just five minutes that way. You can’t be too careful!”

As she collapsed into immature cackles once more, there was a flicker of movement in the shadows, a momentary change in the light of the clearing. Even as her head swivelled towards the disturbance, her mate launched herself from the water and landed with a grunt on the bank, while simultaneously grabbing for his gun. He positioned himself, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed the trees, his breathing halted. Every muscle was prepared for action at a moment’s notice, the corner of his lip curled slightly. A jungle cat would not have had held itself with more icy readiness.

This impressive figure was slightly undermined by his wife attempting to secure one of the powder blue baby blankets around his waist. He swatted her hands away furiously, nostrils flaring.

Wench! What are you doing?!” came the outraged hiss from between the teeth.

She looked at him indignantly, the blanket dangling from her hands.

I’m protectin’ your modesty. You are a military commander, after all!”

His hands slackened around the gun, almost as if they were preparing to relocate themselves to around her neck. Luckily for Leafsong, at that moment a doe darted out from between the trees, frightened eyes rolling this way and that, before it crashed back into the bracken and out of sight. Leafsong pursed her lips, folding the blanket back over her arm.

Well, luckily for you, your dignity remains intac-”

She was cut off with a squeal as her husband took advantage of her rare non-pregnant state to physically tackle her.

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Leafsong’s Diary 9.7

I have a plan to escape the domestic prison! It’s actually something which I concieved a few weeks ago, but I’ve only just had the time to begin actively planning now. I, Leafsong Gla Shalah’aman, want to learn how to use a weapon.

Hear me out!

I know that I have never wielded anything more dangerous than my two-inch long herb-cutter. The only experience I have with weapons is when I’ve been fiddling with my husband’s weapon rack (and even then, he usually yowls at me to put whatever it is back before I break it, or myself). But I can’t escape the fact that everyone in Stormwind seems to be carrying a weapon now. Even the milkman, when he was dropping the milk round earlier, had a very suspicious bulge.

(No, not that kind of suspicious bulge. Believe me, the sighting of an early morning Leafsong in baby-vomit stained nightgown is enough to kill any amorous thoughts)

You know, come to think of it, I’ve even seen priestesses wielding at least a spiked or sparking mace! Human priestesses, who I had formerly believed to be the most passive creatures in Stormwind, are more well equipped to deal with a mugger or sexual deviant than I am. I think that I always neglected my own self-defence, believing that when I excelled at my druidic study (ha!) ,I wouldn’t need to wield a weapon. I would be a weapon. And look how that turned out! Even Analith has a more vicious bite than me, with all of his seven baby teeth. I don’t have claw-like nails, due to my tendency to gnaw on them. Bearing in mind that being robbed – being deprived of precious gold – is the worst possible scenario I could imagine involving myself in this city; I should immediately begin to formulate some defences.

I was initially attracted to the idea of wielding a staff, but have slightly gone off that idea after my husband pointed out that a staff was basically just a wooden stick, and was pretty rubbish at defending against anything more substantial than- well, another staff. If I was to come up against anyone wielding any kind of metallic or bladed weapon, or Elune forbid, magic, I would be pretty much screwed. So it’s back to the sketching board. I may visit some weapon purveyors tonight, after the children have been settled. I look forward to embarking on this new adventure!

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Leafsong’s Diary 7.7

It has been an extraordinarily busy few days, but I still feel guilty for not paying any attention to my poor neglected diary and quill!

Ha! Who am I trying to fool? My diary and I are well aware of the circumstances of our relationship. I do not write in him for pleasure (yes, my diary is a he), I write in him in an attempt to improve my writing and reading comprehension. And I am on the whole less slow than I used to be, when perusing paragraphs, so I suppose that it must be somewhat effective.

Anyway! I have been away for the past few days, at the Steamwheedle Trade Convention in Booty Bay. Usually one of my elder brothers or my father would attend as the representative of the GHE (I am sadly lacking in the gravitas which a business ambassador should possess in abundance); but their schedules would not allow a four day hiatus in the Eastern Kingdoms. I, on the other hand, jumped at the chance to escape the GHE: SW for a few days. (Is that awful? You know I love my family more than anything, but being a mother is so tiring sometimes. My husband is so busy with his military concerns, that sometimes I would pay actual cash-gold to have a conversation with someone that did not go stop hammering your sister with the rattle, Annie. Mummy will smack! Mummy will smack! I remarked in an earlier post that I was feeling slightly stifled and unfulfilled in my new role as full-time carer and “housewife”.

Actually, when I mentioned this to my mate, he suggested that I get myself out of the house by taking a cookery course. I refrained from savagely beating him around the head when he said this, and explained calmly that it was exactly that sort of mundane domesticity which I was trying to escape. Anyway. I think he understood (maybe).

So the Trade Convention was a welcome break! I picked up some good tips from our goblin friends. I sometimes think that I was born in the wrong body – I was made to be a goblin. If they weren’t so devious and prone to embezzlement, I would hire a goblin financial advisor in a heartbeat. I didn’t buy my husband a present, but I did bring him some fascinating leaflets (with titles such as Maximising Your Margins, and Marketing Strategies for a New Azeroth). I fully expect that he will enjoy and appreciate this lovely, thoughtful gift.

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Protected: Mature story – pt. 2

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Mature Story – pt 1.

(( So it’s been over a year since I started writing this blog, and I thought that it was about time to try my hand at a…..!! MATURE!! story! I didn’t even know if I was a good enough writer yet to pull it off without sounding either laughable or desperately corny. I also thought that the lack of sex-related material in the Treehaus was a tad odd, seeing as how Leafsong and Aphel have four children, and we are also probably some of the most notorious ERPers on Moon Guard xD. So I decided to see whether my extensive  “experience” could translate into a half-decent sounding story. Or at least, one that didn’t sound like a cheap, sub-standard Mills & Boon. Since I want to avoid people accidentally reading it at work, and also any random kiddies who might stumble across it (I know that one Google search is more than enough to ruin your innocence on the internet, but I want to protect my own little corner of it!); I’m going to stick a password on the second part of the story (the bit with the ‘mature’ tag, or the part that most will probably skip to =P). To get the password, just message Aphel or myself in game, or send me a letter. I am on UK time, so I’m on at weird hours. Part one is below, part two is in the post above!))


Leafsong, wedged beneath her husband’s arm as they leant back against the headboard, obediently reached out to turn the page of the heavy tome propped upon her stomach. Aphel bowed his head and resumed his furious annotation, oblivious to the spots of ink splattering over the blanket. She rested her head against his shoulder, twisting a strand of hair around her finger and watching the tip turn red, then purple. Releasing the curl, she shifted sideways and spread her fingers over the bare chest of her husband, thoughtfully. He shot her a fleeting glance, then returned to the text. Leaning up on her elbow, she ran her finger over a pale, curving scar tracing from his collarbone to above his heart.

“What’s this from?”

He paused, underlining a sentence and adding a derisive comment in the margin, before following her finger.

“A gash from a Silithid talon, sustained during the second assault of the southern hive complex. It was a commander, third officer of General Vejax.”

His reply was abrupt; clearly he did not wish to recall the incident in more detail. Returning his eyes to the print, he nevertheless reached his hand up to cup the back of his wife’s head, pressing his thumb against the fragility of her skull. She retracted her fingers for a moment, then pushed them gently into the faint dent below his cheekbone; the remnant of an old injury healed through magic , rather than by physical means. He lowered the book, predicting her question.

“The same war. I was impaled through the side of my face; penetrating to the mouth cavity.”

She grimaced in sympathy, settling back down against his shoulder.

“Ergh. Like, right through t-to the teeth?”

He turned to her, smiling fully for the first time that evening.

“Right through. It was unpleasant.”

She pulled a face at him, as the hand cradling the back of her skull crept down to caress her neck, the stroking of his fingers light but persistent. The book lay on the blanket between them, half-resting against her hip, and he lifted it with a grunted protest at the weight.

“Seven hundred pages of mundane banality. What a waste of parchment, not to say my time.”

Before the arrival of the children he would have hurled the book to the floor, gleaning more satisfaction from the thud than he had from the text itself. Newly considerate of the four sleeping infants in the next room, he merely dangled it between his fingers contemptuously before lowering it to the threadbare rug. Turning his back on it, he felt an unwelcome twinge from his left knee as his body shifted. As usual, the pain was swiftly accompanied by the usual gloomy portents; the fact that his knee was unlikely to ever be the same, that he should expect more aches and pains as the years went by, and that he would now be classed even by his peers as a man past his prime. An old man, even.

These thoughts were familiar territory to him, and he exorcised them in the usual manner: by taking his young mate into his arms and embracing her, as if youth could be transferred through proximity. One of his arms encircled her back, quickly moving past the knobs of her spine and resting instead on the soft, fleshy mound of her hip. Although she complained bitterly that each pregnancy had added an extra inch to her waist; he enjoyed the new plumpness of her hips and rear, finding it a pleasant contrast to the gauntness of her arms and legs, remnants of a childhood dogged by malnutrition.

In addition, he felt an absurd sense of pride as his fingers slipped deftly beneath her (his, actually) cotton shirt, feeling the yielding curve of her back. It was a plumpness that had resulted from her carrying his children, not once, but three separate times in a space of two and a half years. It was the same selfish pride he felt when she had been swollen and irritable with pregnancy; and he had seen every stretchmark on her youthful flesh as a badge of his own virility. See, Ashamal Shalah’aman is not fading in his twilight years. He has fathered four healthy children in quick succession.

Shaking his head to banish these distracting thoughts, he smiled down at his mate with the tenderness he displayed only within the privacy of the home. Stroking a strand of stray hair away from her solemn face, the pale oval standing out against the navy blue pillows, he pressed his lips against her cheek. It had taken a long time for them to get to the point where they could embrace each other with affection, he noted wryly, and even longer for the residual suspicion to fade from her eyes. It was the Gladefall inheritance, this persistent mistrust; which served them well in business, but was not so conducive to developing a successful relationship.

Trying to force the thoughts from his head (difficult, for one who spent many of his free hours in contemplation); he lowered his face into the cloudy mass of green hair which lay in tangles against the pillow, and inhaled her distinctive scent of pungent chemical, herb, and cheap fragrance. It was the same nasty stuff as the Goldshire whores sprayed themselves liberally with, but for some reason she was perversely attracted to it; rejecting any other perfume. He felt her fingers combing through his hair, and momentarily thanked Elune that he had not begun to shed it, as many older men did. Raising his head, he kissed her softly on the mouth once more, and began to unbutton her shirt.

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Noo, rabbit.”

“Rabbit” said the human in the rabbit costume, in a surprisingly deep voice for a rabbit. Mirae stared at the ‘rabbit’ for a moment, then looked up at her mother for reassurance. Leafsong reached down and picked her up, hoisting the baby onto her hip and shrugging apologetically at the costumed man.

“Sorry. I thought perhaps – she learn new word. But no.” Leafsong mumbled in her heavily accented Common, turning away from the rabbit and his proffered flyers for Perrin’s Westfall Vegetables – Carrot Sale This Week! Mirae frowned up at her mother, clutching at the worn neck of Leafsong’s tunic.

Come on Mirae. Next thing on the list.”

Leafsong squinted at the crumpled shopping list, trying to decipher her mate’s erratic handwriting. “Does that say bullets? Ballast? …Bananas?” She snatched the paper from Mirae’s tiny, grasping fingers. “Let’s go for… bananas. Your an’da likes Tel’Abim bananas!”

As she wandered through the Trade District, weaving her way through the street stalls and fellow traders, she could not help noticing the eyes turning her way- the surreptitious peeks over a shoulder, the seemingly casual glances; although, she reasoned with herself, they were not directed at her so much, as they were the child in her arms. It was true that the year old baby shared the same characteristics as Leafsong herself; the fluff atop her head was the same ivory shade, and her eyes grey.

However, the baby’s features lacked the awkwardness of her mother’s; making her face appear almost a refined version of Leafsong’s own. The crooked teeth and long nose had been redressed by small, neat (and perfectly straight) replacements. Leafsong’s own tangled, wavy hair (now only displaying her natural shade at the roots) was the doormat to Mirae’s fine, silken rug. The grey pupils which appeared clouded and often sulky on Leafsong, were transformed into lustrous silver on her daughter. The combination proved effective; and Mirae, at a meagre one year, was already drawing glances.

Leafsong, who was thoroughly used to being passed over even before she began carrying around this attractive accessory, snorted to herself and ducked into a quieter alleyway. Sitting on the edge of an upturned barrel, Mirae on her lap, she pulled out a corn husk from her satchel and handed it to the baby. Mirae grasped it, and began to gnaw on a corner delicately. Leafsong rocked her back and forth while she ate, snickering immaturely.

“I don’t know where you got your good looks from, baby. Sure as anything, I ain’t beautiful. And your an’da weren’t a stunner even when ‘e was young.”

Mirae blinked up at her mother solemnly, clutching the rusk in her sticky fingers. Leafsong blew a kiss down to her, then cackled quietly to herself.

“Perhaps you got the looks, but no brain. That’d explain why you can’t speak yet. Ha!”

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Leafsong’s Diary 25.6

Query: Can you get into trouble for trading goods which are then used in illegal activites? Surely not – if so, the blacksmith would be liable for any dagger-wielding highwayman, the arcane reagent dealer responsible for every harmful spellcast. As a Gladefall of the GHE, I am wholly aware that our products (the alchemical ones, rather than the herbal remedies) are often used for nefarious purposes. In fact, our third-largest contract is the Steamwheedle Cartel. However, I generally prefer there to be some distance between my person and the crime being committed. Let me explain further:

I was in the Cathedral yesterday, resting on one of the stone benches beneath a cloister after some ‘light activity’ in the main hall (loot count: three jars of wax from the candles, a vial of perfumed oil, and a small silver candlestick from a side chapel). A human man, who smelt more country than city, sat down beside me with a grunt and closed his eyes. Of course I could not just let him sit there in peace, so I launched into my sales spiel. He halted me halfway through, and asked if I had anything to numb living flesh. I had, as it happens (extract of frozen Wintersbite, mixed with ethanol), and he went on to ask me whether it could be used in syringe format. It was not the first time I had heard this question, so – through habit – I lowered my voice, glanced about to check that noone was in earshot, and assured him that it was wholly suitable for use in syringe format. He seemed pleased at this, and gave me twenty silver for a single pot of the mixture.

My mate came to find me then, sauntering in with the expression of faint derision he reserves especially for places of Light-worship. I rose to accompany him home, as it was time for the twins to feed, when there came the sound of a scuffle in the shadowed corner of the vestry. My husband drew me away quickly (he has been involved in so many altercations at the Cathedral, that he has been warned with banishment if he involves himself in any more), but I was able to see from the corner of my eye that it was that same human man, brandishing a syringe loaded with the distinctive pale blue Wintersbite tonic, in the face of another rapidly slumping male. It was most disconcerting. I couldn’t wait to distance myself after that, and challenged my husband to a footrace through the streets of Stormwind back to the GHE. He won (how? How? He is ancient), but I was so grateful to be away from the scene of the crime, that I neglected to give him the beating he deserved.

(I have realised one thing about myself: that although I am perfectly happy to supply the reagents needed for nefarious activity, being in the presence of the actual activity itself alarms and unnerves me.)

Well, even if the Guard do trace the syringe back to the GHE, I can always claim innocence. I don’t think anyone recognised me at the Cathedral, I have a forgettable face.

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