An Unremarkable Notebook Bound In Red Leather

[Aphraelle]

The Thalassian handwriting is scratchy, shaky, almost illegible in spots.

They tell me I have been ill for months, lying here in Dalaran with fever. "A sickness," they say, "perhaps a new one. You have been very sick, Lady."

An illness. So they say. I know better. Poison, I am sure of it. I mentioned it once and the healer patted me on the head - damn his condescension! - and asked me who would wish to harm a pretty lady like myself. He may know healing but he clearly has no inkling of Sin'dorei politics.

The nurse has given me this little notebook. She is kind, though strange. A draenei - they are all strange, perhaps. Her Orcish is minimal, my Common even worse, so communication is slow and difficult. I had to mime writing before she understood what I wanted and brought me this book and stylus.

I must sleep now, already I tire. The nurse has covered the mirror, as I asked - I cannot bear to look at myself now, weak and haggard like an old woman.

More later, when I can.

[Aphraelle]

The Thalassian writing is still shaky, but firmer than in the preceding entry.

Feeling a little stronger today. Peeled back the cover from the mirror to assess the damage... Gods, I look so old. The healer assures me it's temporary - I have no choice but to hope he knows what he's talking about.

The Draenei nurse is pleasant, although she talks constantly without seeming to realize, or perhaps care, that I understand at best one word in ten of what she says, and that on a good day. It annoys me sometimes, that the wretched woman cannot seem to shut up for one whole minute at a stretch, but mostly it's a companionable background noise that fades in and out of my consciousness.

The healer says I may be able to leave my room in a few days to go for a short walk, if I understand the nurse correctly. I wonder if Dalaran has much changed. Probably not. I must find some warm robes and a veil, even these rooms feel chilly to me.