Journal Entries of the Forests of Lordaeron

As part of Adventure of an Unlifetime, we want to include as many people as possible in the overall narrative, and to let people know exactly what we're doing with our characters, and with the story itself. To this end, we're going to try and include as many journal entries as possible. These will probably be rambling, and not all coherent. Through them, you should be able to get to know our characters better, and see what kind of things we're getting up to! So, without further ado...
(Oh, and check back here for further updates!) 
== First Entry of the Gatesman ==
I spent a lot of time on the road, when I lived. Roads were the means of getting from A to B, and venue to venue. As an artist, I could not help seeing those roads, and thinking about similarities to life. I was never much of a believer in Fate (Fate would have to have been very imaginative, to see then who I turned out to be now!), but those roads, to me, represented our lives. 
I am not as clever as I was (my last few scripts prove that...), and my brain has no chance now to grow, but from what I recall, it went like this: With a road, you can see what is ahead of you. You look behind you, and you see things fading away. You can go back to those places, but not whilst being in a new place. You cannot be in two places at the same time. 
I think, perhaps, that this metaphor does not apply to what I mean. I am so cold, and tired, and so very exhausted. And the others are, too. Sherwood from hysteria. I think Frank has a headache. When we arrived in the Sepulcher's Crypt, he slept right away. It's his sight, most likely. I bet it's getting to him. I still can't believe he can see again. Whatever that bullwoman did, it had to be some strong magic... because no more does he have holes where his eyes should be. He has eyes now, eyes just like us. And if it's taking me some getting used to, for him it must be... 
Well, you'd think it would amaze people, that. You'd think they'd be in awe. But no. Ishild passed it by. Venima made a vile comment. Sherwood is still unbelieving. It's hard, very hard, to get any enthusiasm out of them. It is dragging me down. We rescued a Deathstalker tonight, our first real accomplishment! He was hiding in a house, scared that he would be eaten by the worgs outside, should he leave his temporary sanctuary. What a strange thing it was to help a Deathstalker. As I suspected, he didn't speak a lot once we moved away from the worgs. I think he was embarrassed. I wonder if he knew who we were. In any case, we showed him the way back to his comrades. A good deed done. 
Except you wouldn't think it. Sherwood didn't even want to approach the house at all. He said there might have been a deadly curse upon it. Or worse. And the rest acted as if it a pointless gesture. We saved a life, and it was a pointless gesture. How very noble of them. I would hate for them to meet the heroes of the productions we have spent so many years performing. Imagine if they took these downtrodden views and introduced them to our legends, now gone! Imagine how Lothar would react. 
But why am I even skirting around the issue? The indifference to this grand adventure (and I admit, some of my charisma was "put on", as it were. Perhaps if I could smell the forest's breath, and feel it upon my skin, I would carry myself with a little more vigour) is copper compared to what I made myself do tonight. I will not go into it. It pains me to even speak of it. But yes, tonight, in a fit of "inspiration", I shed myself of the one record which told of my successes. It has never been out of my possession since the day I received it. Oh, it pains me to speak of this! I don't know why I am even writing about it. I certainly don't intend to read about the loss of my priceless diamond-tipped cane again. Do I just write to hurt myself? Or is this what it has amounted to? Needing to write? Do I need to validate my misery by taking a quill and scribbling about it? 
I need to act, too. Perhaps not as much as Sherwood, for he was the one that provoked it, but when he, Venima and I acted the first scene of The Little Naga, it felt like a relief. We had no audience except a Deathstalker on night-duty, and he wasn't paying attention. Venima managed to fluff up a few lines, but that's to be expected. What there was, I was enthralled by. As I watched the Little Naga and the King of the Sea converse, and speak of issues such as the dangers of the unknown, loyalty to parents, and the callousness of royalty... yes. It was good. No orcs to jeer us. No stages to arrange. No stress of rehearsal. Just pure acting. 
Still, it'd win no awards. 
We should be out of the forest soon. We'll pick up the pace. Sherwood can't handle it. To he, we are surrounded by monsters and curses. He's right, of course. But where we disagree is when he says he wishes to turn back, and forget about all of this. 
Ah, the purpose of the metaphor has come back to me. 
We cannot be in two places at once. 
- Martillius Straight, The Gatesman. 
== First Entry of the Splendorous ==
Dear Oh Wonderful Self, 
When it comes down to it, death was never too bad; especially the degree of movement and - may I say broken? - free will that crawled in afterward like an earthworm fresh from the rainy season. I remember touching my own crypt wall, those many days ago! The stone was not cold - nay! - my own rotted fingers were; but I tell you this: the array of ideas that buried that mind with goodness and plentiful creativity! Death opened my imagination, and - lo! - I still looked fantastically, magnificently stunning. 
It could be said that I no longer had to worry about functions that were seemingly so important back in life. No longer do I have to keeping the tick of my heart running; no longer do I have to burden myself with starvation - I have more time to myself to practice what I have always practiced: entertainment, acting, magic. 
Acting! Oh, the joy it beholds! The swell of bountiful pride that is gifted by the roll of applause as I bow to the audience; the way they admire my splendor! It is extraordinary, I must say; and the acting itself is beauty in itself. A tip of the hat, a change in the mood, one word of the script; the stage becomes the castle. Martillius - that old bean - has always claimed we were never that good; in fact, he has had spouts of extreme pessimism that irritates me to no end. Too mainstream, he says; too common and pointless! I'd say comedy gives it that spark of life, something anybody can relate to! Our latest telling of Macboth sparked that flair; the perfect balance between edge-of-your-seat drama and laugh-out-loud comedy. It was perfect. So perfect, it attracted a spot of attention... whether that attention and its - or should I say her aftereffects were good or bad, I haven't fully decided yet. 
Because of her, we're trekking through the haunted forest of Silverpine and beyond, as far south as south goes. The journeys we tell on stage have always been fictitious, and always will be: but this time, we act outside the stage. The fire and ice I can bring forth by the fingertips? The beasts I can mold into muttering sheep with a mere incantation? The arcane I control? What form of stage props are these that allow me a path towards power and greatness? It is much more than what I once knew, pulling rabbits from hats to the homeless and wonder-eyed beggars of Stormwind who never have seen the magic of those in a wizard's tower. As Martillius said, my own former "street magic" is and was an ignorant truth. 
I write this under the cover of night of a rickety farmhouse, hidden behind the eternal trees of Silverpine, with only a dying candle to follow my quill-hand. I have noticed that Martillius has also chosen to write his own thoughts, though he has locked himself away after the terrible, terrible mistake he made with his own personal possessions. As for Venima... oh, Venima - she is beautiful; death has not ruined her, and it comforts me greatly to know that she travels with us, and as I know that she will continue, she surely keeps me from turning back and returning to the safety of the Undercity. She still does not wish to confess her love to me, but she will. She will. 
As for the forest, it is a cruel place. The eldritch secrets of its trees and decrepit farms haunt my thoughts, and this very house we rest in reminds me of an old script Martillius wrote; one he threw to the garbage: there are rats in the walls, I can hear them. Hundreds, tapping their horrid feet across the creaking wood. We are corpses, and as corpses we are scavenged meat; we must be careful as the rats watch us, or we may never wake again. 
We hope to move again soon, for I will be glad to leave this tainted place. However, what of those portable coffins we purchased? Will they ever be of use? Frank may find them of use regularly, considering how much he sleeps; but the frequency of which we locate inns and turned crypts will minimize any use for such "sleeping bags". However, considering that Martillius has used his diamond-tipped cane as currency, I doubt he'd easily get rid of them. It would be a waste. Perhaps we should find a horse to pull the cart. 
- Sherwood, the Splendorous
Category:Story