A grumpy journal through the eyes of a grumpy warlock

Topic/Postby Shevron » 15 Sep 2010, 14:06


“Solitude. Nothing like it.”

It’s what Shevron thought as he was coming down from his tavern bed. The air smelled of freshly baked bread, mixed with that of stale ale and pipe smoke. Although weird, it’s a smell that he actually liked, and after three months of living there, he had grown fond of it.

Pipmir was still there crouched in the corner staring back as Shevron, grinning like an idiot. It’s all he seemed to do all day when not hurling fire bolts at squirrels and eating half of his master’s papers and parchments. Staring and grinning. Shevron often thought of sending the good-for-nothing imp back to the nether it had come from, however having the imp bound to him since he was thirteen years old, he had somehow grown attached to it, and he was scared that he might actually miss him if gone, so he kept him around. At least nobody could sneak up and rob him in his sleep. Pipmir was always awake and watching. Staring and grinning.

Waving off the imp, and tightening his waist chord around his robe, Shevron stretched his arms and yawned, and walked lazily to the balcony which had already its door ajar. He opened the door, and walked outside, carefully closing it behind him not to let the heat of the inside escape. He looked around, and inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils, taking in all the smells of the morning air.

The Howling Fjord. He loved the place, especially the inn at Valgarde Keep in Daggercap bay. It was the morning smell that had him hooked to that place. The mixed fragrances of pine trees, the sea, the smells of the tavern mixed with the morning misty cold air. It was a far cry from the city’s pungent smell of horse dung, sweaty armours and the general bad smell that lingered wherever humans lived in close quarters. Should the scourge wars ever be truly over, he would build a home there, and retire in peace away from everyone and everything, enjoying the quiet life; but not yet.

He scanned the modest balcony, giving only half a thought at the half frozen morning dew that had already started to melt, forming a small puddle underneath it. All sorts of insects had already gathered around it having their morning whatever-they-did-in-water. His eyes then fell on his journal, still closed and neatly placed on the small table. It had been months, maybe years, since he last jotted down anything in it. The happenings in the past year had left him deeply saddened, even for someone as grumpy as himself; perhaps even angry. Whatever is was that caused it, his inspiration was non-existent. This morning however something was pushing him to grab his pen, and jot some words down, so with a low sigh of surrender, he opened a new page on his black leather-bound journal, and was about to start writing, when Pipmir hopped onto the balcony, pushing the door wide open, and leaving it so, while taking a seat on the balcony railing, and started starting at Shevron. Staring and grinning.

“Would you mind closing the damn door behind you ... you … you good-for-nothing idiot? I’d like the inside of my room to stay warm for once!”.

The imp gave Shevron back an inquisitive look, like he had no idea what he was talking about, even though they both knew that it was not the case. Being too tired to even start a one-way fight with the imp that would lead to nowhere, Shevron grumbled something nasty under his breath, walked to the door, closed it, and went back on his chair.

“I swear I’m going to feed you to a gryphon someday. Then I would have gotten rid of you, given the gryphon a free meal, and I’ll be able to exist in peace without you cloud-head excuse for a demon ruining my days!”

Pipmir just stared and grinned. Rolling his eyes to the sky, Shevron just grabbed his pen again, and started writing.

It’s been almost a year since I wrote anything down on these pages. The world h..s ch…`.d a…….``.. .. ..

“Oh what now?!”

The pen had stopped writing. The tip was all rusted and dirty after months of not being used, and after a couple of writing strokes, it just refused to go on. Wondering what else might come up that morning to test his very limited patience, Shevron cursed under his breath while removing the rusted tip, and screwing on a new one from the small box of random odds and ends picked up along the years, that he kept in his bag. While chucking the old tip casually over the balcony, he gave the pen a few good shakes, and hoped the ink would start to flow without him having to give the nib the dreaded lick.

Oh how he hated licking the pen. It tasted just horrible, gave him black teeth, and he had no clue where the snob scribes got the ink from before selling it to him, so he was always weary of putting it in his mouth. Besides, it was cold out there, and there was a good chance that the tip might get frozen stuck to his tongue, something that he really wanted to avoid. His eyes suddenly fell on Pipmir, and gave the imp the stupidest grin that he could muster.

“Come here Pip. Look what I have for you!”

The imp, being ever hungry even after having eaten three whole squirrels for breakfast, was always on the lookout for the odd, and very rare treat from his master. So the moment Shevron called him to come near him, the imp was happy to hop to his master, and giving him a toothier grin than usual.

“Lick the pen!” Shevron said to the imp, while shoving the pen to the imp’s nose. Pipmir gave it a good look, and raised an eyebrow, clearly intending not to follow orders.

“LICK IT I SAID!”, this time with a much more commanding tone than before. The imp still stared and grinned back, whipping its pointy tail in the process, still not intending to do anything of what he was being told.

“Lick the damned pen, or I will chuck you back in jar and keep you there for a month!”

The magic word “jar” seemed to hit home. The imp despised when his master locked him into that glass jar for days on end after having done something he was not supposed to. Last time he got locked up in there, he had burned a letter that his master had been writing all night, planning to drop it in the nearest mailbox in the morning. Being too tired to even consider that the imp was around, his master had left the envelope on the table. Pipmir being very fond of paper, had found the letter, and after gnawing half of it off, he turned the other half to a pile of ash. The fit of rage the Shev had that morning upon the discovery, is still talked about in that tavern, as they heard fire storms and shadow bolts cracking all over the room while he tried to burn the imp to a crisp. He was not successful, so the imp was awarded with two weeks in the jar, vigorously shaken every six hours or so just to keep him fresh. So in one swift movement, Pipmir licked the pen, gave Shevron a very toothy growl, and hopped back inside as far away as possible from his master and his despicable jar.

Satisfied with the flowing ink once again, Shevron tore off the page that he had started from the journal, crumbled it into a ball, tossed that over the balcony too, and started writing again.

It’s been almost a year since I wrote anything down on these pages. The world has changed much, and I fear that so have I. My retirement from battle is a double edged sword that I’m starting to have second doubts about.

On one hand I love the freedom that I have acquired. I do not have to worry about the next scourge or demonic ambush that might surprise me in battle and possibly leave me dead and bleeding. Although I have nobody now to go back to, so my return makes no difference whatsoever to anyone, I still hated that lingering doubt whether the next adventure would have me return back “home”, or not at all.

On the other hand, I miss the action. I miss the rush of fel magic going through my veins when at the height of battle. I feel like my powers have been growing weaker by the day. The less I use them, the weaker they grow. Nowadays my magical powers add to nothing more than lighting a camp fire when my flint and tinder refuse to catch a spark.

I am changing. Last time I was in the city to buy supplies, I bumped into a Rhymer, and commented how soft and vulnerable I appeared to have become, and deep inside I know she was right.

Maybe it’s time to pick up my staff, and head into the heat of battle again. Word has reached the tavern that the Lich King has been defeated in Icecrown, although nobody has confirmed the rumour yet. Even if he was gone, the scourge is still running loose over most places which need to be kept in check. Not to mention the Horde. Those despicable savages are still ravaging most of the places they touch, while trying to take over our cities and outposts. Somebody has to stop them.

Yet I’m all doubtful whether I still have what it takes to survive out there. I have seen travellers pass from Valgarde, and they all have an aura much more powerful than my dwindling one, not to mention younger.

I am getting older, and the age is started to show, and be felt. Someone once told me that I carry my thirties well, however inside I know that I’m not getting any younger. It pisses me off to think that something as useless as gnomes can live for hundreds of years without any worries, while someone as noble and honourable as a human, expires by the time he’s in his sixties.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Return to Stormwind City and get rid of the gnomes. Give them out Dark Runed cookies, and watch them curl up and die! Then tie them to a stake and set them ablaze, and laugh as I see them shrivelling and turned to dust. Maybe I should go back to my golden years, where I was the bane of Goldshire, and the living terror of the lol-cultists, raining Infernals on their heads, while I watched from a distance as they got flattened to pancakes against walls and thrown over the treetops.

I miss those days. I miss the power. I miss the darkness. I miss the ……….

Shevron suddenly stopped writing, and looked down to his belly as it emitted a deep gurgle, and thought to himself:

“I guess I should eat something. Maybe the innkeeper can arrange for a juicy shoveltusk steak. I should stop living on cheese and bread, and do something more substantial. One does not exterminate gnomes on an empty stomach.”

He closed his journal, planning to finish it off after done eating, and headed inside while wrapping himself tighter in his cape as he shivered slightly, while thinking aloud:

“Good time to move back to Azeroth too. Winter is coming in the north, and it’s not going to be a pretty one.”

He started going down the stairs with a steady pace, his faith renewed, and disappeared into the dark kitchen looking for the cook.

Pipmir followed him downstairs while keeping a safe distance. Grinning.
"Whomsoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit."
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Topic/Postby Sarawr » 15 Sep 2010, 15:02

One word:
Absolutely brilliant!
Traest wrote:RP is like farting. If you have to force it, it's probably shit.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.
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Topic/Postby zerkesh » 15 Sep 2010, 18:34

I applaud you Shev, masterfully written and it does indicate that a few changes are incomming~
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Topic/Postby Shevron » 16 Sep 2010, 09:18

Thanks for the nice comments :D

I plan moar
"Whomsoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit."
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Topic/Postby Tiermaya » 16 Sep 2010, 11:39

Shevron wrote:I plan moar

I look forward to it.
Serendipity wrote:****ing Royal Mail! They're about as much use as a condom made of tissue paper.
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