Thórra,
I don't know why I write these anymore; they just go in a drawer afterwards. The Lich King has fallen. We thought we were all saved, but the world is ending around us. Even as I speak, elementals are flooding Orgrimmar. I thought your disappearance and reappearance was somehow connected to Arthas, to the Scourge, but everywhere I look: in every shadow, around every dark corner, under the hood of every cultist in this dusty city, I seem to see you for a second. The visions won't stop. Is this what you were trying to tell us, to point us toward? Was the threat greater than Arthas all along? Have I, fixed in my short-sighted vengeful hatred for the man who destroyed our people, missed the signs of some greater threat?
Ekhan is not here to explain it to me—the druids have all been called back to Moonglade. Zalmoxis is... Zalmoxis is beneath the feet of Ysera now. I've felt anger and disgust and fear and rage in my hundred and thirty years, but the memory of that moment in the Dragonshrine brings nothing but blank sadness. The thought of beginning this struggle again makes me wearier than an elf should be in his youth. Fatigue is how we die; it was how we died even before we could. I cannot escape the feeling that a lot of us are much closer to death than we realize.
"ESCHATON", the Luminous Path's pre-Cataclysm RP saga, is coming to an end. Where will you be when the Gjallarhorn sounds?