Lilliana Bloodshine

Lilliana's Journal

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Embraced Solitude.

Lilliana sat down in a secluded spot within the desert of Tanaris. The sand worn rocks surrounded her small form, almost like ancient creatures who refused to discriminate whom they would shelter. She had no fear of being bothered here. Like her Sandfury brethren, she knew this desert and it’s inhabitants. If she wished for solitude, aside from certain spots within the Grim’s garrison, this was where she could find it.

Life had been quiet lately. Quiet in the sense that she hadn’t interacted with many of her fellow brothers and sisters in the Grim. Not to mention the other guilds. Her hand remained in the ongoing battle between Horde and Alliance, and Lilliana still found herself engaged in daily skirmishes. This was her diligent duty. However, the lack of spending time with her peers with the exception of a few recent and rather interesting outings, had put Lilliana in a place of emotional duress. She was an exceptionally social creature, and to be faced with silence on the other end always befuddled and saddened her. So, as the times forced, she decided to embrace this new solitude, for doing so had and always would be the best way to avoid loneliness.

In the darkness she had gathered herself within, resting with her back up against the rough rock wall of the inner cave. A leather bond book lay in her lap, a piece of charcoal rested upon the open pages. Faint light flickered from the edges of her violet staff, providing enough brightness from which her eyes could see. She had been sketching. As time passed she put the charcoal pieces away, and instead fetched a small pen. Her hands left smudges from the charcoal on the pages, but she proceeded to write. Her script surprisingly neat and delicate.

I don’t know if I can write about loneliness. Sometimes I think that I have right to speak on that, as I’ve long since passed beyond it in many ways. It may not seem like I have, but I have, years ago…..since Warneshi and the fight by Zul’furrak with the ones that I loved. Nothing has been the same since then. But like, my thoughts have always been private. Placing your thoughts were others can view them and gain insight is dumb. Shadow priests don’t keep diaries. I know that so many people keep written documents of their memories.

She tapped her pen upon the paper.

Memories, you know….places that you can go to that will warm you up inside, yet also tear you apart depending on their desire. The dangers of having others know just what you think so that they can….

The next few lines are completely blacked out. Perhaps she had written something of significance here, and became fearful that it would one day be read.

Lkjoiuoiutewlrkwejrweouoiuclkweireuowkhgsdfweori8ckjouwerc,klkjoueree sadfasdfsadfasdfsdfadsfasdfadsfadsfdsgasgjkweoriulcxkvjloweiruowere

Whatever it was, the two words that followed are:

Veltor sucks.

Then a few sketches of animals before her script begins again.

Speaking of loneliness crap, there is that stupid suggestion that you cannot love another person until you can love yourself. Self loathing is that obstacle that punches you in the face and stops you cold in your tracks. I’m really tired of watching how we all clutch at people in our desperate ways, then just hold them at arm’s length while mistrusting their intentions and disbelieving our own feelings. I think the resulting belief is that we all must be manipulating the people who show us kindness…who dare to love us…and that also goes for vice versa. Oh yeah, manipulation. Not like I haven’t heard that before.

Manipulation…..the Clandestine. Whatever.

It’s so much easier to accuse someone of manipulation then to clear oneself from the accusation. Once that stupid social label is there it remains. It’s used far more than it should be, just like anything else that is rarely understood. It’s right up there with “evil”, “hate” and “racist”, I swear to gawd.

You know, manipulation doesn’t just mean deception. Did you know that? Well I knew that! Manipulation is not so simple as that. Anyone freaking person who tells a story – either by opening their mouth or by body language - in the hope that others will accept their view point is manipulating. Cerrayn and his ridiculous and endless rants about the light, Xaraphyne’s lack of rants but presentation on being neutral and accepting of all, Khorvis’s speeches on ending the lives of the pink skins, and Syreena’s dark view of killing the young and untrained before they become such in the wars between the Alliance and the Horde. Each of them hope that we will start to think as they do, to agree with them. That’s manipulation, it’s not something attributed to one or two people – everyone is guilty. Although I will admit that some are better at it than others.

Yet, even though all are guilty of that, few are labeled with the mark. It’s a mark of disgrace that sets one apart from the rest of the crowd. Labels most certainly do make our world an easier place to understand, but it does so by sacrificing others who are unfortunate enough to have it tattooed onto their forehead with a rusty knife like, forever.

Set apart from the rest of the crowd…..Set apart. I guess I can talk about loneliness.

Two more scratched out lines, you cannot read them.

Lkjoiuoiutewlrkwejrweouoiuclkweireuowkhgsdfweori8ckjouwerc,klkjoueree sadfasdfsadfasdfsdfadsfasdfadsfadsfdsgasgjkweoriulcxkvjloweiruowere

There is no more to be read at this time. Lilliana kept the words she had written in her sketch book, and put both artwork and script into her magical satchel where it would be kept safe from prying eyes. She stayed within the confining solitude of the unknown cave hidden in the desert of Tanaris for the rest of the day until she was called to battle. She knew when she left that solitude would still find a way to follow her. It is something that she had embraced, after all.

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I should make a name for this cave. It has ancient paintings on the walls, if you go further in. I can see them with my staff when I force it to give more light than the usual purple sheen it has. They aren't anything serious, just teenage Sandfury from years past drawing things on the walls. Looking at each etching, the paint faded to colors they were never intended to be makes me wonder what was happening for that troll in their life. I want to know. Were they at war? Were they fighting alone yet beside their friends and the ones they loved? Were they silly? Were they mean? Were they kind?

There is a break in her written word, and Lilliana has drawn a small sketch of Horde and Alliance rushing each other on the battlefield. It's just very simple figures, but the picture still brings serious emotion to it.

Maybe I'll add to them, I like sketching stuff...and then like, years later another Sandfury will be in here and go, 'I wonder what the troll was like, what kind of life did they lead?'. Maybe I'll even sign my name. Hehehe.

So like, what a difference from last time I snuck out here. Things had been so quiet.....but not now. I mean....the fighting never stops. But, since we got Syreena back things have been different. Busier - it seems to have awakened something - all the Horde are on high alert.

Random doodles for a full page before she continues. Lilliana had been sitting there safely in the cave, lost in thought.

Syreena....When I think that the Grim were going to leave her there, like I thought they should have left me when I got my stupid blue ass taken, I could die. Well, not really die...but heh, you know what I mean. You, like I'm really talking to someone right now. Journals are so dumb!

I see how the other Horde, who are aware of the circumstances of Syreena's capture, and the Grim's aloof attitude towards it - view us. I don't like it. They don't understand the full sacrifice that soldier's are supposed to make for the Mandate. At least Syreena's lucky. I don't think that anyone seems to view her differently since her rescue. Although no one can fault Syreena for what happened to her, it's a sign of weakness, being one that is held like that. Death is preferable to captivity, and stepping back into the fray with our brothers and sisters after something like that is embarrassing. At least...I was embarrassed when it happened to me. I still am. Having to be pulled back into the world by your friends, at their risk of peril - at the risk of what their loss could do to the Horde in general... Bah! Xaraphyne went in without thought of her own safety, same with Cobrak. Shaelie, new as she was back then didn't even think - she just acted. I will forever appreciate that Leyu'jin lead the charge with Khorvis on the Grim's side for when I got mixed up with Cobrak's ex-lover bitchface, but I will never, ever be able to live down the look he now gives me that I'm home. Freaking hell, just leave me there, next time! I'd rather have that then watch dreams shared break apart because I'm considered weak.

Why the fuck am I writing about this? Screw that shit!

The above words are then scratched out, crossed out and written over with angry, dark marks. However, if someone were to read carefully, they would be able to interpret the meanings that Lilliana had shared on this part of her journal. After this she put the journal away for some time, having upset herself - although it is good to be honest with oneself from time to time. She had gone further into the cave, and spent time adding to the cave drawings that had already been here for centuries. She figured she would add to history. After she got that out of her system, she did return to her journal

The Inquisition has got pretty busy. Khorvis has been called to more active duty in the assaults against the Alliance, and so it's left to Ruuki and I a lot of the time. I hate being in charge of anything...I'm not good at it. I have two new Supplicants...Aderlee, and Makuni. I don't know much about Makuni yet, but Aderlee is another troll. He's clever, like Alak'kul. How did I get so lucky to have two trolls as my Supplicant's in a row? It's nice to watch Aderlee, he sees so much more than he lets on. All four of the new Supplicants seem to have it together, the Grim is lucky....especially now when we need Horde to help more than ever. Bordering on civil war as we do from time to time with Sanctuary and even now with Borrowed Time as it feels....is so depressing.

The information that Drak'zon gave me regarding our fellow Horde's actions...ugh. Cobrak and Kex'ti, you two are treading so dangerously. You both freaking piss me off, especially when I've *covered* for your butts!

Oh! Oh! I need to write about something happy! Oh my gosh, let's see, let's see. Oh....I know!

Lilliana put her journal down. Not that the reader would have any idea of what she did in between her journal entries - but this *is* what happened. Even if this didn’t end up in her journal, it’s still a part of her writings. Lilliana had gone back to the etchings, and worked on her sketch some more. It was the boat in Bladefist Bay, where Tahzani holds the Cantina every Sunday night. Upon the boat she had etched images of the regular patrons, and they were quite lifelike. There was Tahzani of course, near the middle of the chaos in his typically neutral stance, ready to serve. Konro and Brey were off in a corner where Brey looked uncomfortable, Lupimum was barfing over the side (which never happens, he always hits the floor), Canai was sitting off by herself, Darrethy was seated on the edge with his wife, and Syreena was lurking behind with a dagger out. Khorvis was seemed to be yelling, probably barking orders for another drink when an already full mug rested in his hand. There were many other characters present as well – when inspected it was a fair interpretation of Cantina night…the joys that came with it, as well as the drama in which the nights often ended in. Of all the characters that Lilliana had etched into the rock to tell the story of Coldstar’s Cantina, she had not drawn in herself. When she was done she stepped back, holding up her staff with it’s gentle lavender light, inspecting her work. Eventually she went back to her journal – but she had little to add, save a few words.

Tahzani can beat me in a fight. I like that.

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“A flower knows when it’s butterfly will return.”

Upon a page within Lilliana’s leather journal, now becoming quite worn from it’s frequent use, is a sketch of a flower. Not far from the flower is a butterfly, which seems to be fluttering in hesitation somewhere on the edge of the page. In between and around the two detailed sketches is Lilliana’s delicate and neat script.

I’m totally still writing in this thing. I don’t know why, really. Well I do know why….but it still kind of makes me mad. Having to sit down and clear my head…when I have a simple job….support my brothers and sisters in the Grim and kill Alliance. The end, right? I wish I was insane enough to believe that was how it could go, and I guess for some, well….um, a lot in the Grim, that is how it goes. Ha ha ha! Why can’t I be insane? Damnit!

At the end of “Damnit!” is a little smiley face.

There was an old Grim….a girl’s who’s name I remembered but not one I’ve ever met…..who came to present herself to the Inquisition last night. I didn’t know it was her throughout the entirety of the Inquisition, til near the end. I didn’t bother trying to poke around her head, cause like, that crap is rude. I caught a look from her early on, one that I’ll take as disapproval as she watched. Now that I know who she is it makes much…much more sense.

I don’t know what word I’m looking for…..I’m not good with words, or in explaining things. Even though she was in clear view of the Inquisition before she was introduced…. it felt like she was judging us….spying on us. And….as we all well know, spying is never acceptable among friends, nor is judgment appreciated. She’ll have a lot to prove if Khorvis decides firmly in her favor. This pretty little earless elf in red has no idea what the Inquisition has become. Teehee.

Here is a tiny sketch of an arrow, with marks behind it to indicate it is sailing through the air.

I’m still watching the tension, the dispersion of the Horde. Paiyuna means well, but it made my heart drop last night in Wyvern’s Tail, when I overheard her proudly speaking of a “mission” she was on. When I asked about it, of course she couldn’t tell me. Of course…. There has been a lot of that going around lately. Creating ambassador links will continue to be difficult….

I’m grateful for the information that Drak’zon was able to give to me. I still have no idea what Paiyuna was talking about….but….. I just don’t understand. The Grim are historically and continue to be blatantly open about our plans. We want the Horde to succeed, we would not withhold this. The Horde know what we do. Well, I know you can’t get much more simple and easy to understand as “KILL ALL ALLIANCE THEY BAD”. But heh, ya know.

This lack of communication…the deliberate lack…. It’s so dangerous, and this is how civil wars are started, how we end up fighting with our brothers and sisters in arms – how we get attacked by an enemy, unprepared and then falter and lose. When Tahzani took me out the other week, he made a comment about what the Legion had once done to the countryside, and of how terrible it would be if they returned. If the Legion returned in our current state of disarray and political jumble…. Gah! But….I trust in the Grim. The Grim has always stood on it’s own. Those I want to call my brothers and sisters in arms…. But those who are not Grim… continue to push us this way.

And because of this….I see no other recourse but…..

Although the reader would never know this, Lilliana paused for a long time. There is a heavy and thick period mark at the end of the “recourse but….”, as if she could not bring herself to move her pencil forward. In time she continued, but nowhere near the same train of thought as earlier.

Flowers are pretty, don’t you think?

Here Lilliana had turned the page, and dropped her writing. Instead she drew a field of wild flowers, sparse when compared to a tended garden, but still beautiful in its own way. The gray hues of her pencil add to the imagination of what beauty would be if one were to behold it with their own eyes, rather than merely seeing it in line form on parchment.

On the page beside she drew multiple butterflies, different sizes and supposedly different colors. The designs on their wings all differed, and not one was the same.

In between the two pages, at the location of the journal’s binding, Lilliana draws a stone barrier. It is supposed to be very high. Perhaps it explains why the flowers are on one side, and the butterflies are on the other.

Tahzani se –

Lilliana’s written word trails off. There is another letter after the “se”, but who knows what she was getting at. She shut the book and ran out of her cave into the night, called to a battle. Her thoughts and beliefs, specific to her and her own world view would have to wait.

There was little time for true reflection in times of war.

((to be continued!))

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The Clandestine Dance

“Deception and manipulation are valuable tools in getting your own way, as well as for avoiding confrontation. It works in war and is known as a valid approach in politics. However, when such mannerism are brought into the home it will destroy everything. There is no place for such things there, where only honestly helps to encourage the survival of whatever it is that you are trying to build.”

Lilliana began her journal entry with a statement. The page below it soon became filled with her sketches. A flower here, a butterfly there (to which she giggled faintly, thinking of the comparison of the Wildhammer dwarves to butterflies from the other night), small birds flickering through the air above the flowers. On the edge of the page she sketched in a larger bird, a hawk perhaps. The larger bird’s expression predatory as it eyed the tiny birds below.

She found herself staring at what she wrote, and then added to it, below. Her script is neat and clean, with a girlish quality to it as in how she shapes her letters and fills the page precisely with what it is she is trying to express.

“Do I even understand what that means? I’m guessing I do, since I like….wrote it. Maybe not. I thought I did, but then I just go back and do the same thing. But it doesn’t work everywhere I want it do. I keep on expecting it to….it always has before. You know, where I pick and choose what I present and what I withhold, regardless of what the consequences are. Sometimes I make the right decision and other times I make the wrong one. It’s like a dance, and my moves are not perfect, sometimes I trip up. Like, when you learn all the steps, but the footing you’re offered isn’t conducive and then you end up flat on your face with mud up your nose. I think that means you should have chosen a different dance, or walked for a bit and just given it up. I dunno, I may think there is a method to what I’m doing….but I’m a big dumbass sometimes. You can’t like….be clandestine all the time.”

She circled the word, ‘dumbass’ multiple times until the ink had sunk in to interfere with the proceeding page, staining it black. Then she crossed out the word ‘clandestine’. That may be her title within the Grim, but this particular word provided her with nothing but frustration and offense. She’d never say so though, she was aware of the truth behind it. In this she at least never lied to herself.

“But here….there is no acceptance, no casually looking away because it’s easier to do so. Here I’m not able to pretend, no matter how fluid and graceful my moves are. What do you do when someone can see every flaw in your dance? You know this dance better than they do and should be able to gracefully fake your way through it, yet with each move you make, you notice that they watch each misstep and take note of it.”

She chewed on her pen, her sharp little teeth broke small indentations throughout the small ink filled cylinder.

“What do you do when that happens?”

Lilliana was in the cave she often frequents, hidden somewhere in the desert in Tanaris. She rested her head against the cool rock behind her. She sunk down, slouching, and that pushed her pony tail forward and over her face. She unraveled the brown tie that held her pony tail together, and put the bone ornament into her pocket. Now her hair could fall freely over her face. She helped to smooth out her hair, her fingers running through the usually neatly combed tendrils. Then she looked back to her journal. She underlined, ‘What do you do when that happens?’. She narrowed her eyes, the blue in them darkening from the expression which she holds.

“You can’t dance alone, so you ask them to dance alongside you.”

She slammed her journal shut.

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Lilliana sat with her journal in her lap.  She was enclosed by pale, yellowing canvas.  Perhaps she was in a tent.  Outside the light was dim, and her journal was illuminated by the glowing of her priestly staff.  The journal was opened to the last page she had written on from her few and rare entries.  All the butterflies Lilliana drew on this page and the previous pages were scratched out, either by a repeated line drawn over in a frenzy, or by the pen actually poking holes directly through the paper.

Trust is a fragile thing.  Like a butterfly.

No, trust is like a freaking eraser. 

She took a moment to attack the other butterfly drawings and made an attempt to erase the entire thing. This left dark smudges upon the pages or ripped the paper.  One thing that is clear, is that once something of beauty was on the page, but is now just a disjointed mess of ugly.

It gets smaller with every mistake.  Yes, eraser works. But so does butterfly. 

You erase bits of it’s pretty wings each time you make a mistake, but it doesn’t go away clean, instead there is a mess of fragmented wings….or like…..as on my stupid journal page, flecks of charcoal and pencil and ink and ripped pages and…and…..and…..and……..  What a mess.  Now it can’t fly. It’s just a body with no wings. 

That would suck to be a butterfly with no wings. May as well have no heart.

Look in the mirror!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Eraser, eraser, eraser!

Eraser.

Lilliana rested her hand down upon the page.  When she lifted it again, her skin was left with the dark coloring she used upon her journal to write.  Later she would brush her face with that hand, and stain the skin of her face.

I said the last time I wrote in here, that deception and manipulation doesn’t work in survival of all things. That’s for war. That’s for politics. Blah blah blah.  I understood that there’s no place for that shit in a home….where like, without trust shit just breaks down because um, there is no foundation. Right…..?

I don’t know.  I really don’t know.

I like, look at myself and don’t know.

No, I know what I’m doing.

No, that’s a lie. 

Liar!

Following her last comment, the rest of the page is full of pure ink.  It appeared that Lilliana simply sat there and repeatedly drew her pen, line over line until everything was black.  That must have taken some time.

It wasn’t in the heat of the moment.  It wasn’t just because I wanted something.  I wasn’t trying to manipulate, I wasn’t…...  I didn’t plan that. How the hell could I have planned THAT?  I mean…..THAT.  Fuck it.  So like….the wings were gone. I meant it, but it meant nothing.  Too much had been erased. It had no where to go. Okay. I get it. Grounded.

Oh.

Ok.

No wait, I thought I got it before.  What I mean is………

 Lilliana closed the journal, placing it a few feet from her on the ground.   Unlike the previous time she dared to write into her journal, the pages were closed gently, the book replaced softly.  In fact, after the book was placed on the ground, Lilliana laid down, and rested her head atop the leather cover and used it like a pillow. 

At this point she revealed no more and left whatever else was in her head unsaid to be mulled over and ruminated on later.  It would likely be something to trouble her in her dreams and distract her in her daily tasks.  The week had not been pleasant, nor would her night be even after getting some of her sorrowful thoughts down on paper.  She fell asleep.

At one point during her fretful slumber the hand that was smudged with the ink from her page brushed across her face.  Her skin took on the charcoal traces, although the ink had dried hard on her hand.  Lilliana would find her face a mess in the morning, an act from her frantic erasing of the butterflies she had once drawn.

Edited by Lilliana Bloodshine
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((I don't know why I have so much trouble with the darned formatting....))

 

Lilliana sat with her journal in her lap.  She was enclosed by pale, yellowing canvas.  Perhaps she was in a tent.  Outside the light was dim, and her journal was illuminated by the glowing of her priestly staff.  The journal was opened to the last page she had written on from her few and rare entries.  All the butterflies Lilliana drew on this page and the previous pages were scratched out, either by a repeated line drawn over in a frenzy, or by the pen actually poking holes directly through the paper.

Trust is a fragile thing.  Like a butterfly.

No, trust is like a freaking eraser. 

She took a moment to attack the other butterfly drawings and made an attempt to erase the entire thing. This left dark smudges upon the pages or ripped the paper.  One thing that is clear, is that once something of beauty was on the page, but is now just a disjointed mess of ugly.

It gets smaller with every mistake.  Yes, eraser works. But so does butterfly. 

You erase bits of it’s pretty wings each time you make a mistake, but it doesn’t go away clean, instead there is a mess of fragmented wings….or like…..as on my stupid journal page, flecks of charcoal and pencil and ink and ripped pages and…and…..and…..and……..  What a mess.  Now it can’t fly. It’s just a body with no wings. 

That would suck to be a butterfly with no wings. May as well have no heart.

Look in the mirror!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Eraser, eraser, eraser!

Eraser.

Lilliana rested her hand down upon the page.  When she lifted it again, her skin was left with the dark coloring she used upon her journal to write.  Later she would brush her face with that hand, and stain the skin of her face.

I said the last time I wrote in here, that deception and manipulation doesn’t work in survival of all things. That’s for war. That’s for politics. Blah blah blah.  I understood that there’s no place for that shit in a home….where like, without trust shit just breaks down because um, there is no foundation. Right…..?

I don’t know.  I really don’t know.

I like, look at myself and don’t know.

No, I know what I’m doing.

No, that’s a lie. 

Liar!

Following her last comment, the rest of the page is full of pure ink.  It appeared that Lilliana simply sat there and repeatedly drew her pen, line over line until everything was black.  That must have taken some time.

It wasn’t in the heat of the moment.  It wasn’t just because I wanted something.  I wasn’t trying to manipulate, I wasn’t…...  I didn’t plan that. How the hell could I have planned THAT?  I mean…..THAT.  Fuck it.  So like….the wings were gone. I meant it, but it meant nothing.  Too much had been erased. It had no where to go. Okay. I get it. Grounded.

Oh.

Ok.

No wait, I thought I got it before.  What I mean is………

 Lilliana closed the journal, placing it a few feet from her on the ground.   Unlike the previous time she dared to write into her journal, the pages were closed gently, the book replaced softly.  In fact, after the book was placed on the ground, Lilliana laid down, and rested her head atop the leather cover and used it like a pillow. 

At this point she revealed no more and left whatever else was in her head unsaid to be mulled over and ruminated on later.  It would likely be something to trouble her in her dreams and distract her in her daily tasks.  The week had not been pleasant, nor would her night be even after getting some of her sorrowful thoughts down on paper.  She fell asleep.

At one point during her fretful slumber the hand that was smudged with the ink from her page brushed across her face.  Her skin took on the charcoal traces, although the ink had dried hard on her hand.  Lilliana would find her face a mess in the morning, an act from her frantic erasing of the butterflies she had once drawn.

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