The Journal of Craer Naharev

[Zarquon]

The Journal of Craer Naharev

I write this as an introspective reflection of my character’s journey in the Conquest of the Horde. From his point of view, Craer Naharev, techno-mage, scion of his house, and steward of House Blackstone, comes a tale that bespoke naught of knowledge and power; but rather, explores a theme of austere simplicity: what it means to be human. Scribing his journey, the journey, to live, to seek, to learn, to love, and yes, to die; I hope to put into this inadequate canvas of words a conjured soul. I end my preamble with my thanks to you who bother to read it, and my gratitude to those who assisted me in developing my character.

As one of the first and currently, only, project of writing that I had ever undertaken within these forums, I beg your forgiveness for any errors and mistakes that I might make.

I would strive to make a minimum of an update per week, though I seek the understanding of the few whom might follow this.

And finally, I look intently forward to any criticisms, feedback and suggestions; should one prefer to contact me privately, you may find me on 'Craer' in-game.

Content:

---

Innocence Lost (No Link, First Post)
Sanity Lost
Interlude: Aendron
Fel Hath No Fury
The Hunt
Sojourn

The First Entry: Innocence Lost

Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower
This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the fall

†

I think that there are few things more lonesome and silent than the hollow ringing of the sonorous chimes that echo through the castle. The deserted hallways that stretched boundlessly in its cavernous emptiness, hallways that I had tread for years, responds only with the pregnant expectation of an old friend that had endured wordlessly the same old drivel. All is barren, and all is bare, with naught but the whistling and ephemeral winds to provide any sort of conversation. As I walked down the length of these halls, I could not help but imagine it as I had dreamt; words and laughter traveling down, coy footsteps accompanied by mirthful giggling, and delectable scents of mouth-watering fares.

I would see the kitchen boy scampering down the hallway, reeling in sight of me, before grinning from ear-to-ear as I brush his hair lightly with my hand. A flicked coin playfully caught, a mischievous look, a giggle and on his way he runs. The mind’s eyes, it is said, works magic beyond the most skilled of mages.

This desolation cries a different truth; for all that I might seek otherwise. The walking dead, rather than the innocent child, walks these halls. The only laughter is that of malice and the only words is that of cruelty. Tavren seeks to arm these dead, and so I shall abide; the treasury trickles in few coins these days, and I speak dark words to fill it. A prisoner, two, cowers in the dungeons, cowers to my words, and I only ponder if the House could profit from them. The stench of innocence lost permeates the estate as the product of my deeds.

I pen these words with a troubled mind, my quill weighted in my hand. It is a chink in the armour that I sought for myself, a glimpse into what I fear to mouth. Yet for my life I write, for my sanity demands no less, and my hubris wonders so. What would my name be in a hundred years? What would the world say of me – or would it even? A diligent steward, perhaps, a successful one, I hope, or maybe – and this is a thought that lingers perpetually in the back of my mind – the fool responsible for the House’s demise. Or perhaps, I might be branded a monster, a vile abomination of avarice and apathy. It is an irony, then, that the greatest epithet that I might value, and pray for, with all my heart, might be the simplest one. Call me human.

. . .I write wearily.

Relevant, then, is that which haunts my dreams and mind. I would not trouble you with the foggy memory of me trudging through the muddy field, headed blindly for the ashen remains of a modest cottage. I still shy from piercing the smothering blackness that guards my memories to recount the hours that I crawled from corpses to corpses, cradling bloody remains in my arms, crying until my throat hoarsened and my voice cracked. I had picked through debris, scraped skin and bloody nails, seeking solace in the silent embrace of what had been, of what had lived. They still do; of course, in the depths of the palace of memories that I had so painstakingly forged to protect myself, my deceased parent's faint voices nary an unintelligible whisper that nonetheless still pricked my heart.

What struck a chord, however, were the contrapuntal feelings that had assailed me. On one hand, an obstinate and stubborn refusal to leave – I was not prepared to accept it, and leaving would have meant capitulation - , and an abject terror that screamed at me to flee lest the murderers return! It took a while, hours like I had said, but the latter won out eventually. The vagaries of fate, I railed, and rail, for in my timorous flight I borne upon me naught but the terror that my parent’s killers still lingered around. Imagine then, my undiluted horror when I had heard the rustling of the leaves, the wet smack of bare feet upon mud approaching, growing louder, growing closer. In my hand held the kitchen knife that she – my mother – had shoved hastily into my hands.

Imagine then, first my perplexity, then my growing alarm, at the distressed shriek that shattered the numbness of my thoughts. It was buried to the hilt, my hand drenched in crimson, the arterial fountain gushing against my chest. Her heart-shaped face was frozen in a mask of pain, nothing a child, her simple dress stained with blood. The piteous scream continues to resonate in the chasmal cavity of my mind.

So it was that when I eavesdropped upon Damielle's words – and through fairly abominable means! - , I found its tonality laced by an echo of the scream. It was an innocent cry, an accusing cry, one that woke in me equal measures of disgust and trepidation, measures that are hardly even alleviated by the hundreds of evil deeds that had littered my life. It was as if having something blinding shoved into my face that in marring my vision made me see the folly of my actions. How laughable, how condemnable, was it that I could see in my possessive attempts to extend my control over on her to be anything but evil. It was purely semantics and folly that I could think that this method of protection would bear any fruits that would not be rotten to the core.

And so I in growing dismay heard her words, words of condemnation, pleading words, words that sought freedom and liberty to live her life as her life was meant to be lived. It was a depiction of desperation that Damielle had begged for Amanda’s - my own secretary against myself? - aid, but there was no mirth in that for me, only a hollow perturbation. But what was even more striking, I think, was the latter’s defence of me. I dare say that I smiled genuinely, though it was a smile blemished by guilt, for the first time in quite a long, long time.

I think, as I write these words, that it might very well have been the latter rather than the former that had made me do what I did.

Freeing Damielle was perhaps one of the most satisfactory acts of vindication that I had ever done, and it was a triumph of trust in another’s inalienable right to live his or her life over whatever imagined responsibility that I might have held. A persisting thought continued to breed in my thoughts, even till now, of course, that it might have been an act of great folly and weakness that runs counterpoint to what had kept me alive all these years, but I suppose that after three decades it is time to pay my dues to the cloistered iota of decency in my soul.

I do not know. And I might never know till the day of my death.

. . .

You know how the priests of the Light pray for the absolution of sins? Theirs is of boundless forgiveness, of the benediction of the soul, warming and soothing. I had oft found serene solace in the silence of the chapel.

. . .

Why. Why is it that nobody has the humane decency to pray for the great sinners. I wonder, amongst the hundreds of priests that pray for the common folks, whether even a single one had prayed for the forgiveness of boundless evil.

After all, who else would need forgiveness more?

. . .

Weep, for we live in a world of slaughtered lambs.

[Zarquon]

The Second Entry: Sanity Lost

Contrary to popular beliefs, I think that happiness is a pretty quantifiable subject. All else considered equal, it is merely the deduction of what’s obtained from what’s expected to be obtained; thus, the poorest of beggar would find immense happiness from the procurement of a loaf of bread, while the richest of noble might find even obtaining a gemstone as a matter of disappointment; why not two? I suppose then, if this holds true, that when I went to the cottage with the intention of cleaning it out for my new workshop, the discrepancy between what I expected and what I obtained should be enough to send me into crippling despair. For one, there isn’t much of a cottage anymore.

For two, I am cheating. I am not writing; I am speaking. Heidi’s doing the writing for me, because some freak chance now has my right wrist end in a stump. I suppose I should thank Heidi for deleting the string of obscenities in that last sentence.

I am not even particularly certain as to how I should begin this, nor do I think my mind sound enough to provide any sort of clarity as to what is a situation that pretty much demands clarity. Parts of it remains blurred to me, while other parts assail my mind with such stark clarity that even remembering it causes the hammer of my heart to beat against the anvil of my chest. I would try my best, however, in which to begin from the beginning.

If there’s anything that a steward loathes with all his heart it is to have the sanctity of his home rudely shattered by others. So when Aroes decided to launch an attack on the castle with his motley retinue of mercenaries and Shadow Priests, I found myself caught in a dilemma of difficult decisions. Thankfully, however, Aroes’s attack was met by Tavren’s own little band of cronies, saving me from the necessity of involving myself in the matter. Yet it does call up the question of how safe would be my research projects if they remain nestled in the castle, not to mention my absolute dread at the thought of them falling into the hands of either of the two brothers. And so with all that, I made the decision to move my workshop.

It was an ostensibly simple procedure, routine even; once in a while, and often sped up by impending chaos or a nemesis or two delving too deeply into my operations, I would pack up and move. There is something so marvellously serene about a locale beside a waterfall, perched high upon a precipice that overlooks vast expanses of gushing rivers, verdant forests and lush plains, that my discovery of it was one coupled with immense joy. Buoyed by excitement in light of this enchanted place, it might be that I did not make as much preparation as I should, as Amanda quite correctly chided me later. Nonetheless, how the heck was I supposed to know that a cottage which I had only expected a farmer and his wife and kids to reveal a bloody Felhunter when I kicked its doors open.

The resulting chaos was a blur, but I distinctly remembered trying to coagulate from the mana gems studding my pauldrons the necessary energy in which to blink myself to safety. Next thing I know, I am floating around in Northrend following a. . .Ley-goat? Light knows I was probably delusional at that time. What was clear, however, was that I wasn’t anywhere near Stormwind anymore but stuck at the top of Gundrak. I am afraid, my dear Heidi, that the edges of my sanity were close to fraying by that time.

. . .accentuated, perhaps, by my next decision. Allow me to explain my rationale before you become judgmental! There was no way I could go to the north, where mountain ranges hinder me, or to the west or south, where armies of trolls stand before me. And that left, naturally, the east, which led to somewhere close to a two thousand feet drop to the ocean.

. . .

I maintain that my decision was majorly influenced and corrupted by the fraying of my sanity. It could also come from a mixture of exhilaration and confidence from my surviving of the mishandled teleportation spell, but whatever the case, there I went. A rush of the inexorable wind, the freezing air whipping against my bare skin, and the indescribable feeling when your heart gets stuck against the bottom of your throat on a free fall drop to what could only be a gory death.

Did I mention how thankful I was that one of the few things I purchased from Emma was enchanted cloth for a parachute? The adrenaline that possessed me than as I struggled to trigger it and tuck it to my back, while at the same time resisting the urge to flail around like a crazed man, was something I found with surprise as that which surpassed even my presence in Mount Hyjal with a horde of demons charging forward. When I had pulled the parachute open, the bellowing winds smashed into me with the equivalent of multiple sledgehammers. Nonetheless, I found my fall arrested, and with my stomach heaving, I drifted towards the ocean.

One must understand, as I soon did, that it seems that my sanity was not the only thing frayed that day; parts of my teleportation spell remained actively, and that iota of power remained to link the locale in which I first departed to my present location. It insofar only provided an explanation, and hardly an alleviation of my surprise as a blob of acidic flesh and blood reminisce of a pulped Felhunter comes flying down at me with Heidi trapped within it. One might imagine that it is entirely through the grace of the Light that the wind caught the grotesque missile in time to hurtle it beside me, while Heidi managed to extricate herself and leap to safety – one might argue that anywhere around me isn’t particularly safe, but that’s purely semantics.

What came after is perhaps something that is beyond my explanation, and my own memory, for the sharpest image I held of that time was a stinging whiteness flashing across my eyes. From my appraisal of the aftermath, all I can say was that it involved something akin to an inverted parachute and a goblin rocket, and a few dozen leagues through the lapping waves that left me drenched to the bone. My marvellous journey of engineering assistance came to an abrupt end, however, truncated by a violent collision with a jutting rock that protruded from the surface of the sea. If not for the same inverted parachute, I am afraid that I might have been crushed to dust and fine powder, but as it stood, I perchance stoned there for close to a few minutes while the ringing in my skeleton slowly faded.

Only to be surrounded by sharks.

Frantic hours, I am afraid, is the most poignant impression I had of that time. A revolver that I had procured from the House of Arcane Contraptions remained thankfully in useable conditions, and so I was not entirely unarmed. My reaction when one of those black-finned creatures smashed against my makeshift flotation platform – or more accurately, an umbrella turned over and floating on the sea with a man clinging desperately to it for his life - , was something that on hindsight is a horrible idea, but one could hardly change the past. An overtly blasé flash of light, and one of the shark winked from existence-

-only to come spiralling down from the sky straight for me after a minute of silence. I am thankful for the fact that nobody had to witness the utter humiliation of I paddling furiously like a fool in an attempt to dodge the abominable projectile. Somewhere at this point, I have to cease my account, my dear diary. What happened thereafter can only be shown on a picture that I gratefully account to the ingenuity of the gnomes. . .

Spoiler:

. . .yes. That was where I intended my workshop to be. No, I did not intend the Ancient Protector nor the Northsea Frigate to be there. Yes, I am not certain of my sanity. No, I don't know what just happened.

[Zarquon]

Interlude: Koan

A King orders a prisoner killed. Who holds the most responsibility for the prisoner's death?

The King for giving the order?

The Soldier who captured the prisoner?

The Executioner who killed the prisoner?

The Prisoner for getting captured in the first place?

And the obvious statement: Aendron's death. . .really wasn't my fault, was it? I was the executioner, but who truly led him to his death?

[Zarquon]

The Third Entry: Fel Hath No Fury

Fate has a disturbing way of piling up troubles after troubles upon the weary shoulders of an already over-burdened man. I find myself increasingly confused as to why the power above, whomever he might be or whatever it could be, decided to even have such a bloody thing to dictate our lives. Or perhaps it's more of a result, wherein we ourselves gave it a name, but in truth it is something intangible.

Rambling aside,

She found me. She found me. And the most griping thing is that I myself removed the warding from the Castle; and now she has found me. She confronted me in the very castle itself.

And Nali's pregnant.

By the Light and my hopes of rebirth, the power above is a b***h! Might as well take a knife and stab it into my heart and twist it even as my the hammer of my heart pounds against the anvil of my chest for the first time in a long time. It's almost as if I am being punished for forgetting why I foreswore love, like a reminder that slaps me in the face. How by all the bloody stars in the world did they decide to align into something so perfect catastrophic and utterly devastating?

I fled with Nali. The Castle is not safe. I do not know who Ava might call for aid.

Would she call for aid? It had been years since we last met; her strength definitely had grown. Just as my net of contacts had expanded, I am certain that hers had as well. The only problem, however, was that mine was much diminished with the civil war in House Blackstone, notwithstanding the conflict with the patriarch of House Calethos.

Fight or flight? Flight, then, is the only option.

Booty Bay.

Nali made friend with some Marianna person, along with her retinue of weird personalities. Shouldn't be much of a problem; more focused and interested in putting up a warding around our next hideout. I am sure she can take care of herself.

. . .so why the heck am I still so worried and anxious?

She's just making friends, I am certain she's all right.

Going to head to Nagrand.

*There's a pause, and then further scribblings*

. . .my left eye is itching. How the feck does a mechanical eye twitch? It's like there's this shadow of a memory where that bloody. . .b***h, tore my eye out. I fled from her a decade past and she's still coming! Light. . .damn you.

[Zarquon]

The Forth Entry: The Hunt

And so it begins.

I received another three letters today. Two yesterday. One the day before. Dropped in numerous ones of my contact points with the first even arriving in my hideout. All addressed to me.

. . .this is starting to become creepy.

That b***h is eff-ing crazy!

I have decided to move my next hide-out to Nagrand. It is safer there, an entire world away from that crazy woman, I can spend some time recuperating and spend said time with Nali. Beautiful place. . .

. . .so why is it that I keep finding the urge to throw bloody pebbles at lakes and blasting these pebbles to dust?

And now Nali's angry at me. But how could I have not said what I did say? Fel addiction! Faint, maybe, but I sure as Fel would never put that adjective in anything related to demons or warlockery. As matters stand, I am all the more worried now because of her particular conditions, and I have no idea what such an addiction would do to her- to them.

Thank the Light, then, that the demon hunter I accompanied the group to rescue days ago in Hellfire Peninsula turned out to be. . .a friend, I suppose. I do not know whether one of their kind could ever be counted as such, but as matters stand, Go'ren and Annabelle remains my best hope to prepare myself in Nagrand in preparation for Ava. I have been detached for long enough, anyway, and I believe that Tavren should have returned to the Castle; perhaps it is time to send a letter, and finish the matter with darker methods. How absolutely distasteful, that I would have to condone, no, that I would have to initiate such a deed.

Is it a point of no return, then? For all of Annabelle's words, is there truly no way to keep even a modicum, an iota, of good in a world of smothering darkness?

Maybe she's strong enough.

But I don't think I am.

I am trying to convince Go'ren to teach Nali. Maybe, just maybe, that would give her a fighting chance. Maybe she would rip out Ava's throat like she said she would.

The path before me is shrouded in darkness, and my light flickers just when I need a torch. . .

A torch of Fel, a torch of Light, or a torch of something else altogether?

[Zarquon]

The Fifth Entry: Sojourn

He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He don't play for respect
He deals the cards to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden law of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance. . .

†

So much has happened in so little time.

And that would be thematic focus, I suppose, of my idle little journey throughout the path of life. No man should ever have to bear so much, and so perhaps the time has come for a rest. The serenity of life can only be assailed by so much; and then again, I presume that life was meant to have any serenity whatsoever. Hold that thought, then, as I pursue my peace.

I suppose that Annabelle was right, then, but in a way that she might not have particularly expected. I supposed she truly hoped to somehow redeem me, as if she imagined there was a way in which the spot specifically reserved for me in the depths of hell could be given up for another - and maybe it could - but heck if I know. I am not omniscient. And that was indeed what I garnered from her words. She, in all this smothering darkness, maintained nothing more than a beacon of light. A twinkling star, to fade, to shine, to be marred, and to be reborn with the movement of the astral seas and the velvet night.

I cannot do much more myself.

The responsibilities I bear, then, are truly not mine to bear. By what right do I have to take responsibility for others, when I myself cannot control my life? And so I have decided; it is time to detach. To separate myself.

It is utmost irony, and a message from the fates then, that my decision was ultimately a correct one. In all my arrogance about whatever prodigious intellect I might assume to possess, not a single iota of it predicted that I would ever be placed in such a position, with such an opportunity. I do not think I did good. But perhaps I did right.

I rescued Ava.

From Tavren! Irony of ironies, the world reels in horror and I stand dumbfounded and flabbergasted for an eon or two while I recover my sanity. Why did I bother? Why did I care? I do not know. It simply felt right. . .

. . .was it influenced by her declaration that she would leave me alone?

Maybe.

Did she mean it? I think so, because I have thought the worst of people for too long, that I feel it's time I think the best. Pay my dues. Patch my debts. So to speak.

I ramble enough. I now transcript this letter within this journal, so that sometime in the future I would read back and predicate my actions, obtain the affirmation I require, just in case I ever have second thoughts. And if I do ever in the future overcome these second thoughts, then I too would know that I never forgot, but remembered, and truly overcame it by meeting the past:

Tavren:

I hereby tender my resignation as the steward of House Blackstone and bid thee farewell. Your claim as the Lord of House Blackstone had been consolidated with Aroes's defeat. I now cite personal reasons in my departure, and wish you the best of luck in your future ventures. All my involvement in the various operations of House Blackstone had been delegated to my lieutenants, through Amanda or otherwise. It seems that recent events have demanded my attention, more-so than I could execute my duties, and thus I must leave. I know not the length, but seek your understanding in the matter.

Sincerely yours,
Craer Naharev

I seem to have arrived at a crossroad. Only time will tell what fate has in store for me.