The Regiment is hosting a Winter Veil gift exchange. I can rejoice for others, but for myself I feel conflicted on two points: one, that I likely have more wealth already than my "secret greatfather", and two, that I am a sergeant and likely outrank him or her. I have no qualms about giving, but many about receiving.
But on the other hand, it were arrogant of me to deny them the opportunity to do something for me. A man who gives unilaterally begins to look like he's condescending.
So, when pressed, I listed "socks" as my interests. My hobbies are expensive and my interests esoteric; and I do enjoy a good pair of socks, after an adolescence full of bad ones. I only hope they can understand.
I have spent several days, recently, at Whitestone. It is peaceful and quiet; the Hallowells are keeping it well for me. All about the house is a blanket of snow, sparkling in the sunlight, casting back the moons at night as if it were trying to compete.
But there are no people here, no work to do. I live in a far corner of a sparsely populated county, and that already ably governed by Third Company. I have no tenants, nor can I, for my lands are small.
Already I am doomed to be idle, cultivating luxury foods that will never make more than a curiosity on a distant market, required to beg permission through endless paperwork to do anything with that which is mine.
And I grow restless. I am only twenty-four, and I still itch to something. I have sworn myself to the service of mankind--as a paladin, as a soldier, as a nobleman--but I feel as if I were already old. Duty can be ennobling and motivating, it is true; but in its worst and most wrong forms, can also drag upon one like chains of iron, holding him fast and making him a prisoner, a slave.
It is hard to explain. I do not feel that I am for greatness, that I am owed some sort of glory that I am being denied. Rather, I feel as though I am to do something great, or else I have failed.
It is all so frustrating. Perhaps I will feel better after I go for a run.
Only after spending time away do I realize how city life is. On the mountain slopes, the snow lies crisp and pure, a fine white mantle under which the world slumbers in peace. But in the city, it's scraped away from the cobblestones, along with the dirt and soot and filth, and pushed to stand in soggy piles--a blemish rather than a blessing.
But here I must abide, for now, because Whitestone Hall's glory is still only a dream.
Why am I here? I have dwelt for six years in Stormwind City, the years of my adulthood, and nothing has changed. What fragile peace we enjoyed with the Horde is gone with the king who made it. We fought off the wrath of the elements, the servants of Deathwing, the aberrations of the Sha, defeated the Horde, and pursued and did justice upon Garrosh Hellscream--and now, again, we face the Burning Legion, with Light-only-knows what evils they will raise against us in the coming days.
And here I sit, in the window of my narrow flat, idly watching the sooty snow dawdle its way down to land on the stones, where in a few short hours it will be shoved aside and crushed into another mass of unwanted, indistinct sludge.
I am to write another book, like , but this one about the enemy races that dwell in the territories of Stormwind.
This one is a special command, from the King himself. Well, delivered through one of his councillors; I did not see King Anduin himself when I answered the summons to the Keep. Lord Phineas informs me that King Anduin read and "enjoyed" my book on demons. I don't quite believe that--after all, I was being flattered for and with a similar task, and political fictions are the primary currency in a royal court--but I do know that I have been noticed by those with influence.
To what end, I do not know. I caught a whiff of intrigue in motion, as if this new charge of mine would somehow fit into someone's machinations, but I cannot yet fathom what devious political purposes a humble book might serve. Perhaps I am simply too suspicious, or perhaps I am too simple.
Time will tell, for I shall write this book, and I shall write it with all my skill and effort.
I regret that I could not attend the party last night, but the summons and conversation came far too late for me to join the others of First Company. It is a shame, for I have missed them these last days; I have spent most of my time leading late patrols with Second Company, practicing combat with the other Cavaliers, and trying to decipher the state of my business affairs. (With Riyaa preparing for her marriage, I must shoulder more of this myself--at least until I can find another agent. I wish her all the joy love brings.)
The new year approaches. I suppose I should come up with some resolutions, though how often do we follow through? A year is a long time, and to the human mind, the longer a deadline is, the more he can rationalize procrastination.
I wonder, would it be more effective to set quarterly goals?
Speaking of near goals that will not brook procrastination, this task of mine seems to be pointless. In the Royal Library, there are countless books on the selfsame subject, written by wiser and more experienced people than I. What possible use could another one serve, penned by me?
But it is not for me to question. I am sworn to serve, and this is the service I was assigned. I shall write it, to the best of my ability.
Tonight is a ball, open to the public. I have an appointment with my tailor today; I hope he has something excellent for me.
Last night's party was a tremendous success. I saw some familiar faces, and made new acquaintances. I didn't get the opportunity to dance, but perhaps it's for the best; the conversations were much more fascinating.
Lord Phineas approached me at the party and emphasized that I must complete this book with all haste, hinting that there were things to come of it. I cannot fathom what, but despite my worry on the matter, I must redouble my efforts.
And tomorrow is a new year. It is no different in reality from the passing of any other day into the next, but we attach symbolic significance to it. I suppose that is the way of people, and it is not necessarily a bad way; the sense of a new beginning can motivate and inspire.
So, what shall I choose to be inspired and motivated to do?
The book comes along. It's still a great mass of chicken-scratched notes, but I see the pattern developing and I believe, once the structure comes together, the rest will follow swiftly.
Curious item about murlocs: Many have managed to adapt from saltwater to freshwater habitats within a single generation. This seems to stretch biology beyond its limits. I wonder what might be at play to cause this to be possible.
The men behind this project seem urgent about it; daily, I receive queries about how it comes along. I have had to ask Suuria--Riyaa's sister--to intercept them at the door and deflect; Riyaa is far too busy with her own life. Suuria is proving to be an excellent gatekeeper, in that regard.
I had hoped to go back to Whitehall again, but the book makes it impossible. I must finish, and all else must wait--save my duties as a sergeant; the recruits and other enlisted need a sergeant at least as much as the Royal Library needs another book.
Seek out an officer in-game! When applications are approved a list of everybody who can interview you will be listed along with their in-game names. Using /who and typing the guild name also works as well!
Hello. i was just wondering how i can contact someone for my in-character interview.