Post by Aldored on Sept 19, 2009 9:54:17 GMT -5
((I'm going to attempt to start Aldored a journal, so I can flesh out his character and better my (lack of) writing skills. ;D ))
This journal appears to be well worn, though only a few of the pages are filled with entries. Its leather-bound cover is smooth and its edges are shiny as if they've been left in a traveler's pack for quite some time. The name "Aldored Barlow" is etched into the bottom left corner of the cover.
Entry 1
The writing on this page is bold, yet relaxed, as if the person writing it took their time.
My ex-fiance got me this journal. I must admit that I haven't taken too good care of it, as it's already looking like something that was unearthed from a dwarven dig site. I don't know why I haven't written in it until now. Maybe I've finally cracked and must resort to talking to myself. Whatever the case, recording my life may become useful at some point if I ever wish to pin-point out exactly where I went wrong on any given day.
By Lothar, I just re-read all of that...am I really that much of a whiner?
I have just returned to Stormwind after spending three days escorting a trader's caravan from Elywnn to Darkshire. I was wary on taking up the job, as I did not relish the possibility of running into any of the undead. The price was right, though, so I went ahead against my better judgment. Luckily for me, the other guards, and the traders, we fought no un-living monstrosities. Unluckily for me, the other guards, and the traders, we did run into a pack of ravenous worgs.
The pack had been stalking us almost since we had first stepped into Duskwood. The brainless oaf the trader's had assigned as a leader, some fool named Roche, forced us to press on to Darkshire and ignore the threat that stalked us. Naturally, the beasts attacked when we were at our weakest: Making camp for the night.
There were five of them, all nearly the size of a good Eastvale stallion, though a lot less friendly. They killed one of the traders who was near the outskirts of the caravan first. We nearly didn't even hear him scream. It did, however, alert us enough to fend off the rest that came charging through the brush of the cursed forest.
I cleaved ones head off with an axe, but was flanked by another. My stupidity and lack of forward thinking earned me a mangled arm that night. I'm thankful for my life, though, as losing that would have been a lot worse. After slaughtering the pack we continued on to Darkshire virtually uninterrupted. The forests of Duskwood have a way of tricking you into thinking you're in constant danger from an unseen foe. Of course, most of the time this is true...
I'm sleeping in an abandoned apartment in Old Town tonight. It's not much, but it beats sleeping in the Park again. My arm doesn't look to be infected, which is a blessing from the light in itself. I have it heavily bandaged, but I'm still cautious. I can't afford a visit to the clinic, and the church always expects "donations" for their handiwork.
My only company tonight appears to be a skin of wine. I don't mind, though. Hell, now I can pretend to be one of the dainty nobles of the Keep.
Damn, my humor does not come across well on paper...
Long story short, I am not happy with how things are, but for the moment it seems that's the way they're gonna stay. I hope tomorrow brings something better than just a hangover.
This journal appears to be well worn, though only a few of the pages are filled with entries. Its leather-bound cover is smooth and its edges are shiny as if they've been left in a traveler's pack for quite some time. The name "Aldored Barlow" is etched into the bottom left corner of the cover.
Entry 1
The writing on this page is bold, yet relaxed, as if the person writing it took their time.
My ex-fiance got me this journal. I must admit that I haven't taken too good care of it, as it's already looking like something that was unearthed from a dwarven dig site. I don't know why I haven't written in it until now. Maybe I've finally cracked and must resort to talking to myself. Whatever the case, recording my life may become useful at some point if I ever wish to pin-point out exactly where I went wrong on any given day.
By Lothar, I just re-read all of that...am I really that much of a whiner?
I have just returned to Stormwind after spending three days escorting a trader's caravan from Elywnn to Darkshire. I was wary on taking up the job, as I did not relish the possibility of running into any of the undead. The price was right, though, so I went ahead against my better judgment. Luckily for me, the other guards, and the traders, we fought no un-living monstrosities. Unluckily for me, the other guards, and the traders, we did run into a pack of ravenous worgs.
The pack had been stalking us almost since we had first stepped into Duskwood. The brainless oaf the trader's had assigned as a leader, some fool named Roche, forced us to press on to Darkshire and ignore the threat that stalked us. Naturally, the beasts attacked when we were at our weakest: Making camp for the night.
There were five of them, all nearly the size of a good Eastvale stallion, though a lot less friendly. They killed one of the traders who was near the outskirts of the caravan first. We nearly didn't even hear him scream. It did, however, alert us enough to fend off the rest that came charging through the brush of the cursed forest.
I cleaved ones head off with an axe, but was flanked by another. My stupidity and lack of forward thinking earned me a mangled arm that night. I'm thankful for my life, though, as losing that would have been a lot worse. After slaughtering the pack we continued on to Darkshire virtually uninterrupted. The forests of Duskwood have a way of tricking you into thinking you're in constant danger from an unseen foe. Of course, most of the time this is true...
I'm sleeping in an abandoned apartment in Old Town tonight. It's not much, but it beats sleeping in the Park again. My arm doesn't look to be infected, which is a blessing from the light in itself. I have it heavily bandaged, but I'm still cautious. I can't afford a visit to the clinic, and the church always expects "donations" for their handiwork.
My only company tonight appears to be a skin of wine. I don't mind, though. Hell, now I can pretend to be one of the dainty nobles of the Keep.
Damn, my humor does not come across well on paper...
Long story short, I am not happy with how things are, but for the moment it seems that's the way they're gonna stay. I hope tomorrow brings something better than just a hangover.
Founded April 26, 2005