The Azeroth Portrayer

3. At the Velients'

The Velients’ house, a two storey mansion with half-timbered façade and lattice windows, sits on a small clearing in Elwynn forest, in a place that locals call Heskett. 
Kalistra dismounts and leaves her mare to the care of a stable boy. She looks at the building for a moment, carelessly tapping with her fingers on a loose canvas bag hanging from her side, and then she knocks at the door.

A girl opens and curtseys to the visitor, who greets and introduces herself.
“I am Kalistra O’ Brandin, and I would like to see Sir Balen Velient, if possible.”
The maid lets Kalistra inside, and leads her to a secluded antechamber.
“I will inform Sir Velient, could you wait here for a moment, please?” She disappears in the next room.

Dark furniture stands against the white walls cluttered by paintings: portraits and landscapes, an eclectic mixture of idyllic scenes – like the pastel-hued ‘View of Southshore at dusk’- and more sinister subjects, among which some works painted by Termanus Hyndra in his ‘maudit’ period spent in and out the Darkshire asylum.

In a large fireplace logs are burning with cheerful, crackling noises. Some perfumed resin must have been thrown on the fire as well, and a pleasant wintery scent lingers in the air.
Kalistra peers at the woodwork. Small decorations have been carved all around the window and door frames. At a closer look they resemble more like arcane symbols, however, possibly wards or little formulas to keep evil influences away.

The warlock sighs. This sight is just a reminder of main reason for her visit. She turns around impatiently. “A little mental poke,” she thinks “indiscreet as it may be, I need to see if he can hear me.”
She sits on a mahogany chair, lying against the high back, and closes her eyes letting her thoughts wander around, seeking trails of similar auras. As she relaxes and reaches out with her mind noises from the household greet her - muffled sounds – perhaps the maid doing the dishes in the kitchen, or the rustle of a sweeping broom in some other room.
Kalistra’s whisper echoes through invisible, psychic spaces: “Balen? Balen, are you here?”
No reply. A hungering silence has suddenly crawled into her perception range, perfect blankness filling the mental spaces better than any sound.
She startles when a whisper creeps in, not the familiar voice she had expected, but more like a female and a male voices entwined together, indistinct words, disturbing yet gentle as a twisted smile…

… and a hollow smile welcomes Kalistra back as she flashes her eyes open.
In front of the warlock stands another woman, in a simple white dress.
Her figure is not tall or imposing in any way, yet some of her features make her presence remarkable nonetheless. Maybe the contrast between her very young traits and the silver hair, or the eyes of an unusual shade of indigo, staring now at Kalistra with a rather unreadable expression. The woman’s lips pout slightly while she gently blows a loose strand of hair off her face.

“Laria!” Kalistra says, springing up from her seat in a way that she hopes will suggest eagerness rather than fright for the sudden apparition. “What a pleasure! Congratulations for the birth of your daughters! You and Balen must be…”
“Shhh” Laria Velient, Balen’s wife, puts a finger to her pale lips “I finally got them to sleep.”
“Sure, I am sorry… what names have you chosen for them by the way?”
“We have yet to hold the naming ceremony, waiting for their father being well enough to attend…but Faelynn and Laina are the names we chose.” The woman’s face brightens for some moment in a warmer expression, although no colour reaches the unblemished paleness of her face.
“Oh by the way, before I forget…” Kalistra takes out the bag a bunch of white roses. “This is for you, Laria!”
The other woman tilts her head and looks at the flowers with a vague smile. “Oh... I should… put these in water.”
“I hope that you like them, just a little thought. Anyway… tell me, how is Balen?”
Laria looks directly into Kalistra’s eyes for a moment, then she turns to the small table and starts arranging the flowers in an empty vase.
“Many people were concerned about your husband, you know? Also, while I am here, I really would like to have a word with him…”
Laria takes her time to put the vase perfectly in the centre of the table.
“Yes, of course, many were concerned. I still am, Kalistra.”

Kalistra glances around, a bit disconcerted. She feels as if a gentle, immaterial breeze went through the room, carrying a whisper just out of hearing range... or perhaps it is just her imagination? The warlock hands instinctively move to the golden talisman at her neck.
“Please, it is quite important to me, Laria. Is he in the other room?” She hesitantly moves towards the door the maid went through before. “I will be brief…”
Laria shakes her head. “I am afraid that you have come... at a bad time, Kalistra. He cannot receive you now.”
Kalistra puts her hand on the knob. “A bad time?”
Laria doesn’t raise her eyes from the flowers she is arranging: “Feel free to look inside if it pleases you.”
“No, I won’t.” Kalistra sighs and walks back from the door. “But, as I said, I am not here for social reasons or mundane gossip. It is a relevant matter… I might be in trouble…”

“Tell me what is going on if you will… maybe I can help you?” Laria’s smile has become softer, although her tone remains quite absent-minded. She gestures to a chair.
“I would but... I was told to seek Balen, and no one else. What is still wrong with him anyway? Is he unconscious?” Kalistra peers at the other woman intently.
“He’s not well at this time, despite his claims. He says: ‘I’m fine’ only to drop to the floor the very second after…” Balen’s wife looks down, with a sad expression. “But he has his better moments, more frequent now ... so I hope he will be alright soon enough.”
“Good. How unfortunate I came in one of the bad ones... Well, Laria, I don’t want to look selfish or intrusive. Could you give him this letter, though?” She takes out of the bag an envelope with a red seal. “You can open it if you wish. Its contents will just confirm what I told you.” Kalistra cannot help smirking a little.

The other woman nods receiving the letter. “If you are in danger, Kalistra… we have a small annexe for guests here. You can stay there, it is a safe place.”
“I hadn’t considered that, Laria... still, thank you. If things get worse I might even accept. I need to leave now. I just recommend to you… the letter.”
“Of course. Take care Kalistra, be careful.” Laria Velient turns to the maid, who just returned. “Amy, please, will you show miss O´Brandin to the door?

2. Teatime in Darkshire.

Tic-toc tic-toc, the pendulum clock whispers unhurriedly. Time flees away everywhere in Azeroth and it is only here in Duskwood that the fast-paced run of seconds slows to something like the heartbeat of a sleeping man.
In the dining room of the Eva Mansion two women are sitting opposite each other at a table.

“Some more Goldthorn tea, Kalistra? Hmmm, no? I’ll have some then. And you say that the Demon tried to lead you outside the room?”
Madame Eva, Darkshire’s resident medium, is listening to Kalistra’s story about her recent encounter with the demon.
“Yes, so it went, Adele. He did something to the door though – I am not sure what… when it opened on the other side there was silence. And darkness.”
It is not the first time that the warlock comes to Madame Eva for advice, and the familiarity between the two women is proved by Kalistra addressing the medium by her first name, which not so many know.

“Hmmm… your cup is still full, Kalistra. Drink more.”
“I am fine, thank you…”
“Drink your tea. And tell me what you see on the bottom of the cup.”
Kalistra does as requested. She peers at the delicate patterns the tea leaves form, swirling in the liquid.
“A crescent; a scythe maybe.”
The medium looks into her own cup and slowly shakes her head. “It should match mine, and it doesn’t yet... Look more closely.”
Kalistra nods: “An arch shape, a… gate.”
Madame Eva blinks. “Here we are. I have the same now. A Gate. Yes, this was the Demons’ message, and this my Sight confirms.  Kalistra, I bet that if you had walked with ‘your father’ through that door you wouldn’t have found the inn… or the rest of Azeroth, for what matter. You would probably have found yourself in the Nether instead. It seems that you’re loved in that place, as sad as that may sound.
Now, the gate that particular demon opened that night vanished with him. Still I am afraid that, if They are after you, more ‘invitations’ might come, in a variety of different guises.”

The warlock rattles her spoon on the saucer nervously. The tone of her reply betrays some apprehension: “What do you mean? Such passages do not open randomly, nor can someone be forced to pass through them against their own will – especially not a person with some mental training.
Please, just give me one of your magic protections, Adele, I’m sure it will be enough. Something to divert their attention elsewhere…” Kalistra points at a golden filigree object she is wearing as a pendant: “You could enchant this for me, maybe? Cast a Ward on it? I know you can make powerful ones…”

“I can do that, Kalistra. Yet: ‘The door has opened’, so said the demon, didn’t he? This suggests something more permanent than a random attempt to catch your soul. I just hope that he didn’t mean… Oh well, never mind.” Madame Eva clears her throat.

“Listen, I don’t want to add to your worries, but I have to tell you that… things may turn out to be rather more complicated than you would expect.  There are many kinds of gate spells, and, as it always happens with channelling spells…”
“… the power is proportional to the willingness of the spell recipient.” Kalistra interrupts brusquely, finishing the sentence. “I am a channeller myself, Adele, I know the lesson by heart. And I can tell you for sure: I am not a willing recipient for Their spells. I have no wish to join the merry dances of the Underworld.
They came close to me, though, I admit it… It does scare me.”

Madame Eva raises an eyebrow. “It’s when you get out of balance that such things happen, and you know that. Those in your profession should keep their internal balance as sharp a swordsman keeps his blade.
Look Kalistra, I’ll do what I can with my tomes, although I confess I am not an expert in Nether metaphysics - I’d suggest that you seek advice from the Slaughtered Lamb enclave, if I didn’t consider all of them… pretentious buffoons.
But you will have to try and stay serene, until this matter becomes clearer. A bit of travelling? Spend time with your friends maybe, talk to them?” The elderly woman gently pushes her teacup aside, smiling at her friend.
“Oh, how is life in the capital nowadays, by the way? I should make an appearance there… it has been such a long time…”

“The capital? Always the same, Adele, a bubbling cauldron of faces, plots and events waiting to be made into chronicles. Yes, I have good friends there. Many of them, however, do have troubles on their own. Some are away, exiled or lost - the Gods know where. Others are enjoying some peace after a troubled period or busy with other matters. I might talk to them, still I cannot pester people with my troubles…”

“I thank the Mother Earth that old age prevents me from performing on the social stage, Kalistra.” The medium waves her hand dismissively. Her voice sounds careless yet her gaze remains purposeful.
“Oh, and tell me, what about the aristocratic match you always stated you wanted to get for yourself? Found any Prince or Duke yet?”
“Actually I am waiting for the young King Anduin to reach the age of consent.”
“Oh, come on Kalistra! Don’t hide behind trivial jokes! I won’t tell anyone, I promise… not even my spirit guide. Who is that?”
“Well, in fact the worst case of summoning sickness I have ever seen.” The warlock’s expression brightens. “Yet…”

The door slams suddenly open, and two children rush in, a girl and a boy chasing each other. They giggle running around the table, the boy quickly nods at Madame Eva  - ‘hey, granny!’- before they fling themselves up the stairs. Shrieks, taunts and the noise of falling objects follow in a rapid sequence.
“Alyssa! Lohan! Stop it!” Madame Eva cries out. She snorts slightly: “Those two… lovely children, yet I don’t know how to keep them at bay anymore. They are restless, and fear nothing! Darkshire kids are difficult to spook… and what should I tell them? ‘If you misbehave the Witch will come and take you away’? Their grandmother -is- the resident witch, Kalistra…” The medium sighs. “But forgive me, you were saying?”

“I was saying that I will try to talk with my friends, sure. But I don’t want to put anyone in danger. Also not all of them know… what my profession really is. Actually not many in Stormwind are aware of that. There have been rumours lately, though… during a ball recently some mad man accused publicly me of meddling with the Nether powers. As if the real threat weren’t enough…” Kalistra sighs. “I really need some help with this.”
“Darling, you can have my advice and some Ward. I can make further researches with my books. But I am an old woman, and I have other people to take care of.” She nods upwards. “I cannot walk this road with you.”
Kalistra nods. “I understand that of course. But please… show me another way then. Use the Deck for me.”

Madame Eva stares at Kalistra for a moment. Without saying a word she goes towards a cupboard and comes back carrying a small lacquered box with mother pearl inlays. Inside there is an old and worn deck of tarot cards.
“It was this that you wanted all along, isn’t it? I can see it now. This is going to cause me a big headache, Kalistra. And I’ll need a long sleep afterwards. But I’ll do as you ask.”
She takes off the lace gloves she is wearing – so thin that one could hardly notice them. Her bare hands look wrinkled and deformed by the arthritis, and make a strange contrast with the rest of her neat and quaint appearance. Kalistra’s eyes follow the medium’s gnarled fingers caressing and tapping the cards with long nails.
When she looks up she meets, not without some embarrassment, Madame Eva’s gaze.
“Yes – my hands really keep faith to my fame, hm? Well, they turned the pages in books that should have better stay closed or touched objects, like this Deck, which passed through the hands of other owners, hardly human. It takes a toll on you, you know? Sad how the acquisition of metaphysical knowledge is still based on the cheap bargain rule that everything comes for a price. Bah, it could have been worse, far worse…”

Whilst the Medium starts to shuffle the cards, she continues speaking: “This world, our world, will change soon. A new epoch will be born. The cards can feel it: I can feel them stir in my hands. Another Portal will open soon not far from here, and that will have crucial and far reaching consequences for these lands. Far more important consequences than the fate of but a single warlock…” Madame Eva’s light brown eyes are open, yet their expression distant in many ways.
“But now, I’ll ask the Cards to shift from the large picture to the small one, and give you an answer to your request of help. Blow on them, darling. From a distance.”
Kalistra obeys and the medium spreads the deck of the table, in front of her.
“Pick one, just point it out to me but don’t touch it.”

The warlock gesture to one of the cards and the medium flips it over. The picture is of a human figure in a dark robe and hood – lifting a rod over a table where arcane symbols lie, a goblet, a sword, and some large coins.

“The Magician.” Madame Eva says “A person, possibly a man, who dabbles with the arcane. Analytical, detached attitude, a craving for knowledge, an acquisitive nature and little personal involvement. I don’t know who that is, but you do or the cards wouldn’t have give you this response. Find the Magician, and you will find some help”.

1. The Door opens.

“The Nether: an abyss. The human spirit: a rope cast between the two ends of the precipice. Like acrobats, we Warlocks walk on that rope, and throw a glance to the knowledge beneath. But may our mind be serene, and our eyes steady and clear… since if our will falters, They will sense it, and prey on us, and drag us down, to never return.”  Morvan Kargris – “Aphorisms from the Nether”

*****

Three o’clock in the morning, the hour that mystics and occult experts call ‘the midnight of the soul’. In her bed at the inn Kalistra opens her eyes. What has woken her up is unclear, maybe some noise from the mage district streets, maybe the rustling sounds her Siamese cat is making, chasing in the small dark ghosts that only he can see.

The room remains pitch black for a few seconds, then the familiar objects return in Kalistra’s vision slowly, still half-sunken in the shadows. A thin blade of light on the wall, where the moon managed to cut its way through the heavy curtains, a bronze framed mirror, the vase with some lilies, a pile of dark clothes folded on a chest, the chair… and the figure sitting on it.

The woman’s eyes widen in panic noticing the intruder. She is not the kind of person to sleep with a dagger under her pillow, and since the chair and its mysterious occupant are on her way to the door, the only thing she can do is to move slowly, as if still in a slumber… and then suddenly jump out of the bed and pull the curtains open.

At the same time she starts the formula for the most rapid and lethal in her array of spells, the one resoundingly called ‘Venomous Curtain of Dread’, but most commonly known as Death Coil. The first and the last resort of a warlock in danger, Kalistra has personally seen men struck by the spell in closed places spasm with agony and fear, bumping against the walls as birds imprisoned in too small a cage.

Yet, as the moonlight tears apart the darkness and reveals the face of the stranger, all words die at once on the woman’s lips. A man in his mid fifties is sitting with his legs crossed, hands joined in front of his face, as if in praying.

He looks up at her with the unruffled, slightly amused expression that Kalistra knows so well.

“Father?” She murmurs, in an incredulous whisper.

“So it appears that I have eventually found you...” Marquis Hector Salmacis smiles at his daughter and gestures her to come closer.

“But… you… how… can you be here? Is this… just an illusion, Father?” She gazes at him, still and wary.

“Do you believe so? ” the man stands up, and moves slowly towards her, his gait a mixture of grace and dignity, qualities that Kalistra has admired in other people, yet never found combined so exquisitely in the same person.

“You… how did you find me?” Kalistra takes a step forward, hesitant. The watchful look on her face, however, is making way to a smile – not her usual polite social smile – but the smile you can see blossoming on people’s faces when bliss reaches them. The Siamese has jumped on the bed, and now is watching the scene placidly, flailing the sheets with his tail.

“Words are for later, Daughter. Come here and greet me properly.”

All hesitations are broken. Kalistra has recognized the voice, the strong yet loving tone, the accent of the city she grew up in, lost in her memory after all this time. She rushes and kneels in front of the man, taking his hand. “Father…”

“Rise, come to my arms.” The two share a long embrace.

“I cannot believe it…” Kalistra murmurs “I thought I would never see you again. How is Mother? And aunt Margot? Is the Iron Council still troubling our House? Walsingham… was he deposed? I want to know… I have felt lost without you and missed you all the way to this day.”

“Look, it was a long journey, to come here. I will tell you everything. We need to find a safe place where to talk, though. We have to go out of that door, but in a… special way. I will put a ward on it. Trust me, everything will be fine.” Under her daughter’s perplexed gaze he walks towards the door and moves his fingers on it as if tracing invisible signs.

The door profile blurs for an instant, and then it opens slightly. On the other side, complete silence and darkness. The Siamese suddenly arches his back, hissing. He jumps down the bed, and disappears under it.

Hector Salmacis looks at the cat and frowns jestingly. “You are developing the very same passion for silly pets that your aunt has… Come, follow me!” He holds out his hand towards his daughter. “This world is not for those who wait, Kalistra.”

Kalistra looks at him and takes a deep breath. She then lets out a short, nervous chuckle. “Allow me at least to grab a cloak, Father. I cannot really go out wearing a night gown, you see…” She turns towards the chest where the cloths lie. Her expression has changed however, and, while she rummages in the pouch hidden under the garments, her lips tremble in panic.

She abruptly turns towards the man, and throws a handful of fine powder at him, murmuring syllables in a strange language. Hector Salmacis freezes, a baffled look on his face, a veil of shimmering dust surrounding him; as soon as the formula is completed, inside the light circle of the Banish spell there isn’t a man anymore, but a tall and pale creature, humanoid in shape and appearance although nothing is really human in his large black eyes. Three metal torques around its unnaturally long neck show the creature to be a member of the Psychic Caste, an intermediate rank of servants that Devils of higher status use mainly for reconnaissance.

Kalistra knows that she just has thirty seconds before the spell expires, releasing the demon. She fumbles with some objects in the pouch, and takes out a small clay doll and a long black string to perform a more definitive exorcism. “Kalistra is not the name my father chose for me,” she says aloud while laying the string in a circle all around the creature “he would never call me that. A mistake that will cost you much: your master down there, whoever he is, will not like this failure of yours.”

She puts the demonic figurine on the ground and stands up. “Now, back where you belong!” With her bare foot she stamps on the figurine, trying to shatter it, as the ritual requires. The first attempt though is in vain; the object is hard and compact enough to break her skin.

The creature’s limbs stir a bit, its eyes dart around following the warlock’s movements. The lipless mouth is frozen by the spell, but the demon doesn’t really need it in order to speak. A wave of words rises inside Kalistra’s mind with malevolent strength: “… you belong where I belong I read your mind and used your memories your thoughts, it was easy and I bring a message the Door has opened you will pass through you will be with us because the Door has opened the Door has op…”

The spell suddenly expires and the demon springs into motion, trying to grab the warlock’s shoulders. Kalistra desperately stamps on the figurine once more. The clay breaks this time and the Nether being collapses to the floor and vanishes, as if it had never been there.

The woman looks around, shivering. Perfect, solitary quiet again. The door, still slightly ajar. She limps to it, and with hesitant fingers, opens it more. Outside it is just the inn corridor, the landing and, in the distance, someone snoring.

The cat meows, cautiously peeking out from under the bed. Kalistra closes the door behind her, and lowers her head. Nobody can listen to her, yet she whispers in the dark: “How can They be so close? How could They get so close to me?”

(PS: for this and other passages in this section I thank Hieronimo for providing precious English consultancy)

An Interview with Jelinda Gwynned

The child, awake until a few minutes ago, has now fallen asleep in his mother’s arms. I watch his tiny hands, and the face half hidden by the shawl: a forelock of dark hair and almond shaped eyes so similar to his father’s, even though they will probably become the same deep blue colour of the mother’s. She is now looking at me, rocking the baby, and, although she is taller than I am, her glance comes somehow demure as if cast from below. She smiles.

I smile back. Jelinda Gwynned, priestess of The Shield of Light, is here in Theramore Isle today, as my next guest for the T.A.P. series of interviews.
She came to the meeting escorted by a former member of her order, sir Hellgar Cadohan. He peers around, imposing in his golden plate armour. The fortress on this little peninsula is not a crowded place: few people, mostly guards, with uniform’s colours curiously similar to the ones of the Shield itself.

The air is fresh but not chilly and the place conveys a feeling of quiet and secluded safety. “In this inn the baby was born – Ms Gwynned explains to me – I travelled to Theramore to hide. There was this lady that wanted to kill me and my unborn baby. Thomas brought me here and here I stayed for about six weeks to give birth to our child. It was all very secret and I didn't meet anyone but Thomas those days.” Thomas is, in case some of my readers don’t know, Sir Thomas Kerengar, the leader and founder of the Shield of Light, recently deceased.

A story, the one about this child, which stirred perplexity and many gossips in Stormwind, when it was clear that Ms Gwynned was expecting, and the father was – by his own admission – the Lord Protector himself.
Candidly, and let me add, rather unnecessarily, Ms Gwynned has pointed out that ‘she will not talk about how the baby was conceived, since everybody knows how babies are born’ – and of course I reassured her about my publication being quality press and not some sordid sort of tabloid or scandal column.

After Sir Cadohan carries away baby Thomas (named after his father) to the nurse, Ms Gwynned and I head towards the bastions, up to a small terrace flanked by square merlons.
It is early afternoon and a late autumnal sun shines over the landscape, which stretches out before me like a painting – the white-rimmed waves in the bay nearly still in the distance, a few boats, the pastel-colored sand and the surrounding marshes.
I look at my guest while she sits down straightening her white dress. She is part of the painting as well, blonde hair like a swaying halo, framing a face which still retains hints of childish stubbornness and wide-eyed fragility.
“I used to come up here to watch the boats go by. But the swamps look a bit scary.” Jelinda smiles nervously and fingers a lock of her hair that reaches down over her shoulders.
The impression of innocence may be real or just conjured by her soft and regular traits or her recurrent biting on her lips, but in any case the illusion - if illusion is - is perfect.
I start with my questions.

T.A.P.: “Thank you for coming today, Ms Gwynned! First off, tell us something about where you are from, and your family… basically, your origins.”
Jelinda: “I was born in a cottage outside Lakeshire. We grew up ducks. A duck farm. My brother Jerome still works with the farm after my father was killed while in the army. Some orcs killed him in Stromgarde Keep. I went to try and help him, he was still alive when I got there, but I couldn't save him.”
Jelinda looks gloomily at the ocean for a moment, brushing away some hair from her face. I nod – words about this fact had already reached me – and write down. She snaps out of the sad look turning to me and smiling slightly. “Anyway, I had a very happy upbringing really, at the farm everyone was happy and all.”

T.A.P.: “It sounds like a peaceful but somehow unchallenging environment. How did you decide to become a healer? I mean… not a country veterinary – although we know that you love small animals, especially kittens - but a real healer for people, a priestess. And quite a good one, as fame goes.”
Jelinda’s reply comes in a lively, quite assertive tone: “Oh, yeah. Well, I started out to heal animals. Mainly ducks. We have a lot of ducks and they tend to bite each other and all. Silly ducks. And I have always been interested in herbs and making potions…”
My expression must betray some perplexity at this stream of consciousness, because Ms Gwynned adds promptly: “Yes, ducks behaviour may be puzzling, but they are the smartest animals ever, really. Oh, right... that priest, Holden, taught me about the light. My family have always lived with the Light's philosophy in our hearts, so he taught me the deeper knowledge.”

T.A.P.: “Can you tell us about your healing training, and how you formally became a priestess in the selective ranks of the Shield of Light?”
Jelinda: “Well, I went to the city. I wanted to see it and think about my life some and all. And while I was there I met two paladins: Thomas Kerengar and Kaleseth Lionheart. I spent some time with them, they helped me out and then one day Kaleseth came and brought me to a meeting. And so I was brought into the order. I... got a crush on Kaleseth... I can admit that now.” Jelinda blushes a bit.
“Well. You soon switched the target of your affection though, apparently” I object.
“Uuh… yes. I got a crush on Thomas instead... It was all very... Well, I got a bit dizzy of all the new things.”
“Sure, a bit confused… so many different targets and goals! Professionally speaking, I mean. But you got quite a name there, as a healer.”
“I was healing people; I had learnt how to use herbs already and knew much about the Light, so it wasn't too hard to go over to heal people. I learnt very much quickly. And I learned how to read too... Now I love to read.” I nod slowly, and jot down my guest’s words.

T.A.P.: “After the tragic death of Thomas Kerengar and a brief take-over by sir Cadohan, I was told that a new structure has been given to the Order, with a new leadership, directly ‘sponsored’ by the Archbishop and his clergymen. Is it correct to state that now the Shield of Light is ruled by an enclave of priestesses? Who is the leader? You, maybe?”
Jelinda shifts a bit: “We haven't cleared the whole leadership out yet. I was asked to become such… But I'm no leader. I will never be a leader.”

Jelinda looks at me and takes a deep breath. My professional gut feeling suggests that some major disclosure is coming. Jelinda continues with a hesitant tone: “Kalistra.... I'm not sure the Shield of Light will continue to exist for much longer.”
I nearly drop my quill in disbelief: “What?!”
“I'm not sure of course, but the Church isn't too happy about how things have evolved after Thomas’ death. They are talking about disbanding the order. And I'm not sure it's the right place for me to stay either. I think we all got a big... hit in the face when Thomas died and I don’t know if we have the strength to get things together.”
Jelinda bites her lip again, and fingers her sleeves. This was a worrying scoop indeed, but I prefer to leave the topic aside, since it would drag us into endless digressions.

T.A.P.: “Regarding Lord Kerengar’s death, did you find out who are the responsible? Apparently his ashes were brought back by some Scarlet crusaders, who blamed the Undead for the killing… Did you find his last will, by the way?”
Jelinda: “As far as I know it was a group of undead that killed him. There was a lot of tension towards the Scarlets because they cremated his body and brought it to the capital. But it seems that they only respected his last wishes. He had told his brother that he wanted to be cremated. I don't know if he left an actual will, we haven't found any yet, I think.”

T.A.P.: “Do you know personally the Archbishop Benedictus? What sort of man he is, under his apparent bonhomie? Is it true that he is a ‘bon vivant’ and once per month he leaves Stormwind on a gourmand trip around the lands?”
Jelinda: “Hmmm.. uhm... Well, he has a thing for mushrooms. I bring him mushrooms from Lakeshire when I'm there to visit my brother. He really likes them, with butter and cinnamon.”

T.A.P.: “Also I heard that during a formal visit to the Cathedral, king Magni Bronzebeard took a look at the archbishop’s pastoral ring (a star ruby called The Eye of Sargeras) and grumbled to his retinue that ‘he suddenly felt like a poor man’. Have you ever seen such relic yourself?”
Jelinda gives me a perplexed glance: “Only from a distance.”

T.A.P.: “It’s a fact that the Cathedral’s treasure has been recently pillaged by an unknown band of sacrilegious thieves. As far as you know, are there developments on the enquiries about this callous crime?”
Jelinda: “Well, I handed a list of the things that were stolen. Some of them were returned after I wrote a public letter to Stormwind. We also got a check for 300 gold pieces, donated to the church. I think the robbers feel guilty. They should.
I heard a rumour that Duckular was involved, but he is such a nice person, I can't believe that.” Jelinda shakes her head and starts fiddling with her hair again.
“Yes, that’s utterly unbelievable.” I agree.

T.A.P.: “It appears that recently you cured Freckles Snapwiggle, fallen into a comatose status after a trip to some exotic island. Without breaking the professional secret too much, can you explain what procedure you followed?”
Jelinda: “Oh, well... I peeked into her first, to see what was wrong. That is... I placed my hands on her and felt her soul with mine. I felt something dark in there, so I started poking it some. And finally, with the help of her sister Speckles and Duckular, I managed to get rid of the darkness. With love. They sent me their love for Freckles and that gave me strength to exchange the darkness with light.
“So for you Love is the light? And darkness just Hate?”
“Well, I see love as the strongest feeling we have. It can move mountains if it's true and clear. Darkness doesn't have to be hate; it can be a feeling of being lost, or not being good enough. We need to be true to ourselves and see the feelings we have for what they are, and deal with them.”

I notice that a sort of excited eloquence has suddenly sprouted on Ms Gwynned’s lips.
T.A.P.: “These are the principles of the Light philosophy, aren’t they? Explain about these virtues, I am always ready for some doctrine...”
This is partly true, due to my chronicler’s curiosity and duty. Yet, preparing myself to the catechism lesson incoming, I cannot but think of my aunt Margot, who used to go court balls with shoes one size smaller than her feet, to test her capacity to smile and dance notwithstanding the discomfort. “Sometimes we need to train our own patience, my dear” she would say. A great Lady, my aunt, mistress of self control and social graces. But I realize that my thoughts are drifting away, and I set the attention back to my guest.
“…and there are three virtues,” she is saying “respect, tenacity and compassion. We are all part of the same world and somehow work together… respect teaches us to see everyone around us with honest and respectful eyes. Tenacity teaches us to not give up, and compassion… I could never heal without it. Healing is about feeling, reaching out and understanding what is wrong. If I don't know what's wrong I can't help. I've written a paper on healing; I can send it to you if you want.” I smile and go on with my next question.

T.A.P.: “Apparently a good part of your successful healing practice consists in establishing a psychic link between you and the person needing help. I can testify it myself, from that occasion when you tried to heal me after a robbery attack. But maybe the most impressive display of your mental powers is what you did with Nath Shadoweyes. After his capture, you managed to enter the criminal’s mind and find some hints about his plans… can you tell us about this?”
Jelinda looks down a bit, apparently scared at the thought: “Oh… mhm... It was really very very creepy. All cold and... green inside. Mmm, I saw things in his mind. It didn't help much though, but we managed to find the vials hidden in the garden. I saw the garden in there. But maybe we would have found them anyway... Well, I tried, but I had to stop when he attacked me… and the baby.”

T.A.P.: “As a follower of the Light, and on a personal basis, how do you consider those magic users that, in the ranks of the Alliance, practice… well, what is sometimes called ‘dark magic’? In a word, the warlocks?”
I peer at my guest, and she returns back the gaze, biting her lip.
Jelinda: “I think it's scary and cold.” She looks down, as if she didn’t have anything to add, but I ask her to elaborate. “It's dangerous. And I don't think demons should be... used... like… that. Uhm.” She fidgets unconfortably.

T.A.P.: “Of course, the age-old debate about ‘control’… but, look, entering other people’s mind… don’t you think, Ms Gwynned, that it could be considered ‘creepy and scary’ as well? Psychic manipulation can be considered a form of mind control after all, or am I wrong?” Jelinda raises her head, back to her determined self: “If I do it without their agreement, yes.”

T.A.P.: “But do you always state that beforehand with your patients? You didn’t in my case, for example. Beside, the injured person can often be too weak or distressed to consider any ‘I consent to be mind scanned’ agreement...”
Some silence follows. Eventually Ms Gwynned produces her reply, and I think I can hear a note of irritation in her tone – although I may be wrong: “Well, it's not always about me entering the person. That's only if it's complicated. Creating a link can be about letting energy flow to the other person. I do it with a will of healing, helping. I could not do it if I were to harm the person, while that is dark teachings, Shadow magic.”

T.A.P.: “Sure, but if you bring this to a matter of intentions, ‘good will’, even the warlocks' intentions could be well meant then, uh?”
Jelinda: “Uhm…” Another pause. “I don't think working with demons can ever be a good thing.”

I release my clasp on the quill, and smile a little, turning page.
“All right... let us pass to something more practical... “
“Uh-uh”
“… and very interesting too. A bit private, and still connected to all this academic discussion about free will and such: the Kerengar's affair. But it requires some forewords…”
I start the most complicated and probably the most expected of all my questions. “It was a sort of renowned fact that you and Sir Kerengar shared a peculiar psychic link, established after a healing spell you had performed on him in order to save his life. Like… sharing part of each other’s soul, isn’t it?”
Jelinda nods slowly, peering at me.
“When it was brought to the public attention that you had conceived sir Kerengar’s son, there were rumours about you having taken advantage of that psychic link in order to … set the conceiving procedure into motion, so to speak. After all, in a recent open letter to your order, you admitted that you had been in love with him for a long time. There were people suggesting that you had planned all this in order to become Lady Kerengar…” Jelinda frowns and is about to reply, but I ask her to let me finish. In the back of my mind I wonder if the spirit of the Lord Protector is listening to us, from wherever he is now. A naïve idea, but I nearly look around, imagining Thomas’ incorporeal presence like a still, silent ghost beside us.

T.A.P.: “Well Ms Gwynned, honestly, one would be tempted to apply common sense and see no need for metaphysical tricks to explain natural events between a man and a woman who like each other. So I would have put aside all these rumours as ‘malevolent gossips’ if … well, I hadn’t heard the same reservations expressed from a person quite involved in the story, the other half of the couple, Sir Kerengar, that is. Would you care to explain and get rid of those allegations once for all?”
Jelinda looks straight at me: “We were both influenced by our link, Kalistra. None of us controlled the other. We felt each other’s feelings at times. One time I was almost killed, Thomas then felt that I was in pain and found me, for example. And I had some fuzzy feelings for him before the healing, and after it we both had warm feelings for each others in some way.
Yes, we were influenced, but not because someone wanted it. Sharing someone’s soul makes you positive to that person. Thomas wasn’t the victim of a spell. I healed him, and we got some part of each other. Without it he would be dead.”
Which, sadly, is the case right now, but I don’t feel like interrupting my guest with such an obvious statement.
“I reached out and gave my life to him, he took it because he would die if not. But when I reached back to myself I didn't get everything back. Our souls were mixed.”

T.A.P.: “But did you become Lady Kerengar at last? I have heard rumours of a secret ceremony in Lakeshire…”
Jelinda shakes her head assertively: “I never intended to be Lady Kerengar. And I never intended to become pregnant. No marriage, no. I don't know where people got that rumour from. I had strong feelings for Thomas, but I got over him. After giving birth to the child and staying here, I told him that too.” Jelinda fingers with a lock of blond hair and gazes at the ocean once more.

“Away with this Kerengar’s matter. I imagine you are pretty annoyed to be targeted with the very same topic and this is not a Watch interrogation anyway! So, let’s pass to something else…”
T.A.P.: “For a certain period you seemed in quite good terms with Lord Kalius Drakemoor, the controversial leader of the Stormguard, later deposed as treacherous… what sort of person he really was? And on what grounds you two had met and become friends?”
Jelinda: “He... used magic. Controlled my feelings. It's all a bit dizzy... But he turned me against the order to start confusion amongst us. He even told me to do things, and I couldn't resist. I went to the Keep to live with him, in my own room, nothing else. He was a very polite man and had this façade on in Stormwind, but I don’t think he liked the city very much… I don’t know what his real plans were though.”

T.A.P.: “It seems that you were close also with another mysterious individual, the insurgent type I would say, named Shaevar or such. I remember you two in trade district one night, and you laughing and saying aloud to this man: ‘I taught my kitten how to smell Kerengar, maybe I could teach it to smell you too!’ I guess it was a friendship based on common interest in veterinary science?”
Jelinda: “Oh... Uh... Erm… It's like... I have a good hand with animals, and I taught my cat how to sniff out Kerengar. Like a hunting dog. Me and Thomas used to laugh about that. And well, to sniff out more people, that could come in handy. Shaevar always sneaks around.”

T.A.P.: “I hear that there might be a ball coming during the Winter Veil festivities. Will you attend that? And in case, with who, if I may ask?”
Jelinda starts: “Uh…” Yet, before she can say more, another person appears from the shadows under the walls. A man in leather armour, with blond hair and an athletic build. Jelinda glances towards him and blushes. “Uh... oh... hello...”
“Am I interrupting?” the newcomer asks “And pardon my battle gear...” He brushes some dust off his shoulderpads. Introductions follow and I learn his name, Néstor Feenix.
I smile: “Is this... the answer to my last question, Ms Gwynned?”
Jelinda raises her head: “I kind of sent him a letter, asking him to escort me here, but he seems to be late.” She replies with a smirk and an even deeper blush. He smiles at her in an apologetic way.

I have to refill my ink bottles, and move away from them for a little while. Seagulls are circling in the sky, their incessant cries somehow reminding me that hours have passed, and it is nearly time to return to the capital.
When I am back, my guest and her friend are sitting together, still talking. Jelinda looks at me a bit nervously and Néstor puts his hands on hers. I approach them, and, making an exception to the usual policy of my interviews – no third party present – I ask my last question:

T.A.P.: “Ms Gwynned, when you look at your son, I am sure you wish him the brightest future in a better world. What is your greatest wish for him?”
Jelinda replies assertively: “The most important thing would be that he is loved. I would want him to know who his father was. I am sure that he will grow up as a strong and beautiful man, and I will always protect him and let him feel loved.”
Néstor intervenes: “I don’t think your son should be pressured to be as his father was...”
Jelinda shakes her head: “Uh… Oh, no no… maybe he wants to become a duck farmer…”
Néstor and I laugh at these words, while the priestess looks at us, slightly confused. 
But time for me to take my leave.
“Thank you Ms Gwynned, this interview has been very interesting and quite relevant to me. Have a good day, both of you!”

I glance back, but just once, at the couple sitting on the wall. I can see and feel that the past is over - everywhere but in our memory - and that silent ghost, if it ever was there, has like faded away in the sweet afternoon haze.
It is a refreshing feeling, I think, while I go down the stone steps, on my way to the docks.

L.K.D.

Gang wars rampage in the capital!

A subterranean wave of gang wars and reprisals seems to have struck the city in these cold late autumn days – in a swirling sequence of disappearances, about-turns and official ‘reassuring’ declarations. They all come from that shady environment of semi legal businesses and organizations, mostly based in Old Town and run by Gnomish personnel.

It has been publicly confirmed that Duckular, Chairman of The Legitimate Business Club, has been kidnapped. Unofficial sources report him being kept somewhere in Tanaris, although it is not clear who the instigators of this crime could be.

Master Duckular had been recently questioned and then put under custody by the City Watch in connection with the Cathedral robbery. Although the enquiries were still on a preliminary phase, it was said that some ‘mate’ of the chairman had made allegations towards his own boss – basically ratting on him.

So, there are people suggesting that the disappearance of the Gnome Chairman might be nothing else but his attempt to avoid more serious charges and legal proceedings against his person.

Personally, I do not believe that this is the case. It is a renowned fact that The Legitimate Business Club has some undesirable overlaps of activities with other organizations, like for example the West Side Triad. All these groups seem to have the means, reasons and attitude to organize the ‘removal’ of a bothersome competitor.

In the meanwhile, we have read a public announcement from Master Sarges Tinks, stating that, with the permission and approval of his former boss Master Duckular, he is taking over the leadership of the Club. Far be it from me to suggest foul play, but the letter, notwithstanding its quiet and reassuring tone, looks like a thin cover to some opportunistic ‘coup’ on the part of a long-time overshadowed lieutenant.

 

Things will hopefully become clearer in the following days. The latest I have heard is that a rescue mission to Tanaris is being organized with the participation of other clans, like The Gnomish Rescue Squad, but I cannot securely vouch for this piece of information.

I have also heard that a Watch Officer with SI:7 contacts, the inconspicuous but always alerted Dugald Macranald has been closely following this case.

To make things even more complicated there is a whirl of rumours about some past influential figure – again gnomes - making a comeback on the shadiest part of Stormwind’s social scene, namely Dwoozle Kaboozle and Yikyik.

Dear readers, please do keep in mind that I am only relating rumours – finding reliable sources or people who want openly talk about such matters is nearly impossible – and therefore they may prove false and unfounded; yet I deemed them worthy being reported to the public attention.

***

On a side note, considering that all the above mentioned facts mostly involve Gnomes, I am seriously worried about the surge of ‘racial hatred’ that they might cause in our city.

I have personally heard nasty comments about ‘that thuggish gnome scum to be better exiled from the capital’ or even people suggesting that the doors of Gnomeregan should be opened again for a massive Gnomish convention from all around Azeroth, and then, after all the participants have arrived, closed again and sealed forever.

I do agree that some individuals and their actions in the past did not contribute to form a positive image of the Gnomish folk in the public opinion (the orphanage fire being the most remarkable incident to come to my mind), but I cannot really forget that among the Gnomeregan exiles I have close friends and know people I have much consideration for; so in this case – as in many others – it would be very short sighted and unfair to lump everyone together.

Your chronicler,

L.K.D.

An Interview with Thomas Kerengar

I still remember the first time I met the Lord Protector: more than one year ago, at the Gilded Rose Inn, where I had just hearthed back after an unsuccessful trip to Booty Bay. I had some sort of pet with me, whose an utterly annoying trait is the attraction towards shiny objects – a bit as it happens with magpies.

So, while the world around me was still taking shape after the spatial transfer – wooden walls and tables, and all the noises from the buzzing trade district - I noticed that, to my great embarrassment, my small intrusive companion had perched on the polished helmet of a knight in armour who was sitting, back towards me, on a chair of the inn, surrounded by a group of similarly plate-clad soldiers.

I stepped in to apologise: the knight looked up and glanced at me for a moment, making some quick comment on the pet, which I had by then prudently dismissed; then he went back reading some letters. In spite of the very brief exchange of words, I was rather impressed by the aura of charisma surrounding that person and even more so when I met him again days later and learnt his name: Thomas Kerengar from Lordaeron.

My sixth sense told me that I had just met one of the future leaders of the Stormwind Alliance forces; I think that many initiatives he promoted or contributed to afterwards – the measures taken towards the plague epidemic, the counterattack against Kel’thuzad’s invasion, the recent offensive towards Andorhal in the Western Plaguelands – definitely proved that I was not wrong.

Anyway, back to one year ago, I thought that it would be interesting to interview the leader of an organization, the Shield of Light, which had by then gained good notoriety in the capital.

I admit that I had to insist in order to convince him, and, as a little related anecdote, I will mention that when sir Kerengar first read the list of the topics I wanted to treat during the interview – especially the last bit about private life – he was not entirely pleased, to the point that in fact he tore off the parchment and threw it into the canals: a mild act of disrespect towards our streets’ cleanliness, this one, which however contributes to show that even the Lord Protector was human after all.

Eventually, the White Knight capitulated – and accepted being interviewed. The horse riding through the forests of Hillsbrad Foothills following him to the location chosen for the interview remains one of the most thrilling moments in my career and that T.A.P. issue itself was, to a certain extent, a bestseller, at least according to the number of comments and reactions I received.

I was pleased by most of them, and slightly puzzled by others – like the fact that, after my article, I heard irreverent yet imaginative individuals nickname sir Kerengar ‘Sir Borengar’ or ‘Mr Karunga’ – this last one evidently an undeserved comparison between the Lord Protector and the impressive, if slightly obtuse, leaders of the ape communities in Un’Goro.

What can I say? As my Father used to repeat, misunderstandings and ungratefulness are only few uneven tiles on great men’s road to glory.

It is a fact that Thomas Kerengar was loved by many and respected by most, and the strong emotional wave running through the Kingdom at the news of his tragic demise was in fact yet another sign of the consideration the people regarded this emblematic paladin with.

Unfortunately I could not attend the memorial held for him at the Cathedral. So, as an inconspicuous token of my esteem towards sir Kerengar’s public figure, I thought that I would add a brief funerary poem written in those days.

Down by the river of that eternal reign,
Limbo suspended in grey joyless dawn,
Will you be one among the trembling crowd,
Treading those banks in silence and in pain?
Not like with others, when you pass the Gate,
The winged statues and their ash-like gaze,
Drawn by the wind through hollow lips of stone,
Even their voice will mourn aloud your fate:
“Oh, how he lived! and how he shone!
But how soon the Light was gone.”*

L.K.D.
(* OOC: for those who wonder how comes that the last two verses sound better than the rest: they aren’t mine, but some lyrics from the musical ‘Evita’ by Tim Rice)

*************************************************************

An Interview with Thomas Kerengar

The night speaks many languages, and tonight it is the thundering sound of two horses galloping through the grassy paths of Alterac Mountains, and the restless murmur of the wind, which is accompanying, or maybe drawing like an eerie call, me and my guest while we move north.

I guess that to a traveller flying on a gryphon back under this bright night firmament, we would look like two small figures appearing and disappearing among the black shapes of pine trees, one leading the way and glinting under the moon like a metal splinter, the other following, barely noticeable in her dark attire.

Having spent plenty of time in Stormwind as of late, I have been impressed by the importance of the Cult of the Light in our capital, and the influence exerted by its followers, mainly priests and paladins, on the law abiding circles of the public opinion.

I have become then curious to see how this was perceived from an insider point of view and decided to interview a person able to represent the common, widespread and probably stereotyped idea of the ‘Paladin’ as a holy knight at the service of all those in need and peril. With such purpose in my mind, I contacted for this interview Sir Thomas Kerengar of Lordaeron, leader of the Shield of Light, a well known and respected order operating under the patronage of the Cathedral of Stormwind.

The Gourmet Corner: The Thirsty Knight

As promised I publish the first installment of my reviewing tour of the restaurants and inns around our city.

On Sunday night I visited Mr Ricaver Peterson’s restaurant along with a friend, whom I would like to thank again for his valuable assistance in this occasion.
As a quick introduction I will say that Mr Peterson, who is from Westfall, decided to open his establishment after a period spent serving in a knight order – hence the name of the tavern. While the upper floor of place is a restaurant and more ‘upper-class oriented’, the ground floor is mostly a pub, where light refreshments and drinks can be enjoyed for rather reasonable prices.

But here comes the review. Marks are given in stars: * poor ** mediocre *** fair **** good ***** excellent

THE THIRSTY KNIGHT: AN INN WITH AN ATTITUDE.

Owner: Mr Ricaver Peterson
Master Chef: Mr Borann Stormcloud

Where: The Dwarven District. First building on the right coming from Old Town.

When: used to open just in the weekends, but it is now every day from 21h until late.
Reservation recommended for the upstairs area.

Price-range: average (about 8silver per meal, drinks included).

----------

The Location. Some may think that the dark and polluted dwarven district is not in fact the best choice to open an inn. I partly agree with this impression, and not just because of the notorious smog cloud impending on the borough but also because of its dubious reputation in terms of petty criminality.
The atmosphere outside the inn was not the most cheerful or reassuring, and when my friend and I arrived to the place and dismounted from our horses, we noticed shady figures lingering around, more similar – I am sorry to state this – to vultures in search of prey than the usual festive crowd outside a tavern.
I must add, however, that the welcoming staff to the inn is excellent and very friendly, and the bouncer – a sturdy dwarf named Dorgano Stonebeard - does a great job in keeping troubles away from the customers, as we experienced afterwards (see below – service).
Mark: ***

The Atmosphere. The interior of the inn is pretty. The architecture is nothing extravagant or special – but we all know that monotony reigns supreme in the city buildings as far as the inside layout is concerned – I think that renown architects like Baros Alexston should apply their designer genius to devising something a bit more original.
The décor is Ironforge-inspired, with pewter mugs and other dwarven ornaments (hammers and shields) hanging from the wooden walls.

The inn, which has been recently refurbished and re-opened, is evidently enjoying a moment of great popularity, since we found it full of customers, the result being a lively environment, packed with the most different people. This adds – no doubt – to the social factor of the place, although the noise from the tables can spoil a bit the privacy some people hope to enjoy in an evening out with friends.
We were given a table upstairs, on the gallery, which, in addition to allowing a good view over the rest of the hall, provided a discreet atmosphere and a nice background for conversation.
Mark: ***1/2

The Food. The inn doesn’t have so far any written menu - it has just opened after all – but we were promptly briefed by the owner about the plates available, most of them quite country-style I would say, yet interesting: blood sausages, beer roasted boar, liver pie, clams, and others.
A fair good choice, especially if considering that the head chef, Mr Stormcloud, was on sick leave. An unfortunate occurrence, since fame has him to be one of the best chefs in town.

I was looking forward to trying his specialties, but I must say that we were rather pleased with what the owner himself cooked for us: a clam dish for me, and roast boar for my friend.
The clams were especially delicious – the very same quality and freshness that one could expect in Southshore – and accompanied by a mouth-watering herb sauce. The bread served, which is always a good sign of the quality of food in a restaurant, was fresh and crispy.
I was a bit disappointed when I heard that, due to the chef absence, there were no desserts available. I insisted a bit and the resourceful Mr Peterson performed one of his tricks and came up with two nice custard pies – I particularly appreciated his flexibility and the ability to humour the customers’ whims so promptly.
Mark: ****
Note: I cannot give the full 5 stars due to the fact that I didn’t try the chef’s plates.

Drinks. The wine and liquor list was quite long (Darkmoon and Jungelvine wine, Pinot Noir, Malt, Ale, Stout, Cherry Grog, Port and others); as announced, I have to rely on my friend’s expertise for this, due to the fact that I do not drink alcohol myself.

He tried the port, a pinot to accompany the main course, and bourbon at the end of the dinner.
His comments were quite favourable: the port had a ‘nice stingy taste’ and probably a faraway provenience. He recognized in the excellent pinot a ‘Maclure’ flavour and expressed appreciation also for the bourbon, single malt and about ten year old.
I think that, according to his positive appraising, I can give a rather high mark to the wine list.
Mark: ****

Service. We were both very impressed by the professional and courteous approach of Mr Peterson to his customers. He and his staff were never intruding, yet always ready to help, quick in serving the courses despite the large number of customers and, above all, rather effective in dealing with… troublemakers.

This last bit requires a little digression. We all know too well that, no matter where in the capital one decides to spend the evening, the chance of having our fun and, more often than not, our personal safety disrupted is very high.
Crazy bombers and robbers, leather-clad assassins, pretty girls selling poisonous flowers, feral big cats turned homicidal, misguided bards or just the usual pesky eavesdroppers: lot of potential troubles await the poor Stormwinder trying to enjoy an evening out.

This dinner was no exception, and the trouble took the form of a quite annoying individual, a gnome whose expensive, gaudy attire matched quite rude manners and immediately qualified him to my eyes as a ‘nouveau riche’.
This gnome barged into our conversation grabbing my friend’s glass of wine and drinking from it. Later he came back with a more threatening attitude, but at that point Mr Ricaver and his colleague, Master Stonebeard, had already taken action.

They were kind, but very firm, in accompanying the troublesome customer back to his table and, later, in asking him to leave. The situation was sorted out without too much inconvenience, and my friend and I agreed that it was a quite remarkable display of professionalism and correctness on the management’s part.
Mark: *****

Overall comments. Although ‘The Thirsty Knight’ is maybe not as up-market as originally advertised, I cannot but recommend this inn to everyone looking for a quite relaxed yet lively place where to enjoy good quality food and drinks at relatively fair prices.
Overall mark: ****

L.K.D.

In Silithus again

It is said in a ballad that everything happens just once, but at least one time, yes, it has to happen. One of the major events in Kalistra’s life happens on the morning of a day otherwise unremarkable, in one of the most unforgiving lands of Azeroth – Silithus.

Why the warlock likes this desert so much is hard to explain. Silithus is a place that many roam through, especially now that the red-crystal fever has struck, tantalizing the avarice of both the Alliance and the Horde. But it does have little charm itself.

“You dance with mirages in Tanaris”, a Tauren proverb recites, “but in Silithus the desert is just dust and ashes.”

Yet, to Kalistra this barren land has become, over the course of many months, a landscape of memories: her first frightful ride to the Cenarion Hold, with eyes barely glancing at the sides of the road, afraid to spot the many-legged predators hiding among the dunes; her flight there after the wedding fiasco last spring, to collect her thoughts and gather her strength. The visits she received here, and the past joyous forays, months earlier: all these events populate the ‘genius loci’ of this inhospitable place and, before the warlock’s eyes, the ever-shifting dunes conjure with their shadows and ripples, faces - either pleasant or not - belonging to that human world so far away at the moment.

Kalistra stops suddenly, hearing a rattling noise behind her and the crackling of static energy that her minion Kragthang emits whenever it is in trouble. The woman turns and allows herself a second to look at the Voidwalker: the most rudimentary of the demonic minions – far less intelligent and strong willed than the Imp and more similar to an elemental than a demon, except for the unmistakable Nether aura surrounding its misshapen form.

Her attention, though, is soon drawn to the huge insect-like Scorpid, menacingly snapping its pincers at the Voidwalker. Balancing its weight on its forward legs, the giant scorpion elegantly arches its back, displaying the barb full of poison. Its joints creak faintly while, for some moments, the creature stands out motionless against the ochre background of the dunes, still and graceful like a living heraldic symbol.

Kalistra decides that it is time to contribute to Kragthang’s fight. She murmurs something and moves her hands, retreating a little. To a casual observer she would seem to perform a strange rotating motion with her arms, like someone swimming backstroke, a trail of purple-green energy barely visible around her fingers.

A few seconds later the giant scorpion is suddenly encircled in flames and the unpleasant smell of burning chitin lingers in the air before the warm wind disperses it. The pincers open and close in a panicked fashion, whilst the monster turns frantically around, raising small clouds of sand with his legs, in search of the other possible attacker. But the demon is ready to deliver one of its distracting blows: they rarely fail with this sort of unintelligent beings and, as a consequence, the scorpid completely ignores the real distant source of its demise, and goes on obtusely fighting against the incorporeal mass of the Voidwalker.