It has been some months since I have last written in this run-down book about my exploits and journey across the world, both hellish and peaceful landscapes I have witnessed first-hand. I write from Southshore, in which I will explain as to why I am here, and how I traveled. From Darkshore, I have been beseeched by the head Sentinel to proceed along the beaten path to Ashenvale, a region I have heard that has been torn apart by the Legion and the Orcish Horde. During my travels, I have met few adventurers who recognise my face through tabloid and exploits which have transferred from mouth to ear.
It was at this time I came across a great treant who had tasked me to study and return with a book - a book which held scripture of the Old Gods. Not much had come through this task, aside from a small reward which I took graciously and used for supplies to continue my journey.
Ashenvale had few prospects going for it, as many handfuls of adventurers had taken the liberty of assisting the war-torn region with it's issues. In respect, I had given my regards to the Sentinel of the village and shared tobacco with it's male denizens, telling stories of my glory days in the past three wars. Many of which were inspired and in awe of my retelling of the battle which took place at the fabled Dark Portal. Bow and sword in hand as I step-by-step slain the greenskin masses that guarded the very gateway to what we thought was the beginning of Hell. Little to no tangent was sided - many, including the guardswomen who stood outside the inn listened with wide eyes and prideful hearts of the exploits of their Alliance friends. Dwarves, Humans, even High Elves of Quel'thalas standing united against the threat that preceded the current threat that ravaged their homeland.
In surprise, they paid for my room and a meal to fill my stomach for the night. Returning downstairs in the morning, I had taken my leave southeast, toward the direction of Stonetalon Mountains. This would be my first encounter with the Horde-aligned races in many years.
A tauren stood guard between the mountain ranges that divided the aligning regions. Twice as tall as me, with a mace that would rival even the strongest of black steeds that my old army could offer. The Bovine addressed himself as Mahkah. In Tauren tradition, from what I could gather, first names such as that one are given after completion of a feat of strength... which alerted me to some degree. Bow pulled off of my shoulder and arrow in hand, I waited.
In spite of my claims of lack of affiliation, he readied his weapon and waited alongside me, calling me out on what he believed was my bluff. I grew frustrated at his attempts to sway me into pulling my bow back. I called out more and more, claiming in truth of my intentions to simply pass through. A hoof pulled back in a charge, and I took my shot toward his gullet beneath his helmet. Time had felt frozen in that instance. A sin had been committed then and there, attacking without just cause despite self defence. I had struck him with my arrow, hitting his sternum. Just as many deer had fallen to my aim, the bovine goliath had too on his back.
Clutching the arrow with his hand, he could barely breathe. All I remember of that night in terms of dialogue would simply be:
"I'm sorry, Mahkah. I am not ordained in the Light to mend your wounds. I pray for your salvation, however." Sweat had beaded my face in frustration at what he had forced me to do. A hand rested on my shoulder, nearly knocking me to my feet; I remained kneeling as he spoke his last words to me in broken Common. "Spirits guide you, Warrior. Forgive me as I will you in the afterlife."
His words had hit a nerve in me, which I had not felt in some decades. The same situation in repeat, many years to the present.
What I mean by this is a moment in my life that had been on repeat in my mind for some days after the run-in with Mahkah. During the last days of my service to the Light, I had been sent on patrol through what is now known as the Western Plaguelands in Lordaeron. The Dawn had encountered many of our patrols to and from Tyr's Hand, where I was stationed. Arrows shot from all directions toward our sentries before an ambush of fighters came from the brushes to meet our crusaders. A woman, I had been dueling separate from the group, wore the tabard of the Dawn, just as I had the Crusade. Claiming I had deserted, she took me on one-versus-one. Sixteen bouts in, we had nary a dent in eachothers armour let alone blood which little had been spilled. I held two blades while she had a sword and shield. A fine display in the way of the sword which we both admired for a solid minute, exchanging words of gratitude toward one another. Before I knew it, a bullet had shot in my side by ricochet through the back of my hip, barreling toward the woman I had been dueling.
The bullet had hit her chest in the same place that the tauren had been killed. She fell to her front, kneeling over panting in an attempt to recover from her wound. We both were simply fighters, trained in the art of the blade rather than the Light. She was a goliath, in spirit. She was in the range of being saved, however. Helping her to her feet as blood trailed our path, I dragged her away from the battlefield, toward her camp which patrols scoured, watching me in disbelief as I carried the plated woman to her brethren. They received her well, and ran in all directions to gather supplies and the holyman to heal her. How I left that camp alive - is up to the reader to decide.
In any case, I buried my enemy, covering his grave in reeds and limbs from trees to decompose just as he would.
For those wondering as to why I write and publish these articles, there is no reason. Life goes on as souls are taken and life is given. I am destitute and alone in my journey to find purpose and salvation for crimes and sin that has gone unpunished and unforgiven in the eyes of the Church. I am no cleric, nor a paladin to cast judgement for the blood I've drawn from my enemies and the lives I've ruined in war... Until I reached Stormwind, where my journey had originally began.
To pay tithe and pray for the life I had slain, a boy approached me by the name of Thomas who sought my presence for a task.
"Anselm, Sir? It's been some months since you have been to service. Are you okay?" The boy tugged at my tattered armour to get my attention, which I had replied.
"Yes, I am. I've just returned from Kalimdor, taking in odd jobs so I may donate my spoils and pay my dues. What seems the matter?"
The boy pointed to a peculiar corner in the Cathedral, which was dark and considerably more less kept than the rest of the building combined. "Brother Crowley needs you."
That name sent a shiver down my spine and splinters through my bones. With a lit torch I descended down the staircase which the boy guided me down to a small crypt-like room with red tapestry and brazen torches and candlelight. A man in crimson robes and friar hat came from behind a pillar. He wore a tabard of the Scarlet Crusade, just as I had many years ago. "Your crime for treason had not gone unnoticed, Brother Anselm." A finger came out from the sleeve of his robe, with gloves that had the fingers cut out from them. Thomas had already been up the stairs by the time Brother Crowley had revealed himself. "Take your penance and let me speak with you, for I have a task to bestow upon you." To which I agreed, and penance was taken at the hand of Brother Crowley. After a brief rest, I was allowed back on my feet. Exchanging words, it was decided that I return to the scene of my now-realised crimes, to Tirisfal Glades where I go on my path now, resting at Southshore.