10-17-2010, 04:51 PM
Day 1:
The cold in this place is numbing to the mind and body. I am scarcely able to gather my thoughts into a coherent structure of sentences as I do now. The wind outside my tent howls like a great ethereal wolf and steals away what warmth might gather within it's thin flaps. Thus robbing me of any comfort this shelter may have afforded. My brain screams for relief from this torture. Never in Dalaran was I subjected to such a relentless blizzard. The altitude here atop Khaz Modan has crippled me. I find myself tired and woozy upon even the slightest physical exertion. Nose bleeds plague me hourly and the pure white hankerchief I had purchased before this trek is now a bright scarlet shade. I can not but help but feel pity for my guide, a stout dwarven fellow from Loch Modan, for I am undoubtedly a great burden upon him. He earns the gold I am paying without question.
He snores besides me now in his sleeping bag, and though I am thankful for his help, I can not refrain from entertaining the thought of smothering him with my pillow. Perhaps, were it not for his cacophony, I would be able to ignore the discomforts of this hostile environment and slip into blissful slumber. For now I vow to write until sleep takes hold of me. I look forward towards tomorrow for, should the weather allow it, then I shall began what I came here to do.
The Ice Trolls here practice a primitive and dark form of the arcane. Based on superstition their magic is crude and undeveloped. Yet, for all they lack in scientific thinking, they have a knack for potent spells of shadow and ice. At least according to the accounts of travelers unlucky enough to encounter their mystics, yet blessed enough to survive. In order to complete my thesis upon primitive magicks I intend to study these brutes from a distance. My guide ensures me of my safety during this expedition but even had he not I still would have been called out this way. It is daring which sets apart the bright from the brilliant and I intend to be the greater of those two.
Sleep, I feel, is finally calling to me. Tomorrow we rise early and make for Anvilmar.
The cold in this place is numbing to the mind and body. I am scarcely able to gather my thoughts into a coherent structure of sentences as I do now. The wind outside my tent howls like a great ethereal wolf and steals away what warmth might gather within it's thin flaps. Thus robbing me of any comfort this shelter may have afforded. My brain screams for relief from this torture. Never in Dalaran was I subjected to such a relentless blizzard. The altitude here atop Khaz Modan has crippled me. I find myself tired and woozy upon even the slightest physical exertion. Nose bleeds plague me hourly and the pure white hankerchief I had purchased before this trek is now a bright scarlet shade. I can not but help but feel pity for my guide, a stout dwarven fellow from Loch Modan, for I am undoubtedly a great burden upon him. He earns the gold I am paying without question.
He snores besides me now in his sleeping bag, and though I am thankful for his help, I can not refrain from entertaining the thought of smothering him with my pillow. Perhaps, were it not for his cacophony, I would be able to ignore the discomforts of this hostile environment and slip into blissful slumber. For now I vow to write until sleep takes hold of me. I look forward towards tomorrow for, should the weather allow it, then I shall began what I came here to do.
The Ice Trolls here practice a primitive and dark form of the arcane. Based on superstition their magic is crude and undeveloped. Yet, for all they lack in scientific thinking, they have a knack for potent spells of shadow and ice. At least according to the accounts of travelers unlucky enough to encounter their mystics, yet blessed enough to survive. In order to complete my thesis upon primitive magicks I intend to study these brutes from a distance. My guide ensures me of my safety during this expedition but even had he not I still would have been called out this way. It is daring which sets apart the bright from the brilliant and I intend to be the greater of those two.
Sleep, I feel, is finally calling to me. Tomorrow we rise early and make for Anvilmar.
-Graff Seekspell