Excerpts from Sorba's Journal

Excerpts from Sorba's Journal
 * -by Sorba

Forward
"I have seen Darkness; from therein, staring back at me amidst the nefarious denizens of sin was none other than Sorba the Cursed. Adorned with the radiance of the damned, a diadem of scorn askance on his brow, he stood as I stood, peering into the Darkness and seeing naught but himself."

~ Excerpted from the Journal of Sorba the Cursed ~

On a bench in the library of Northshire Abbey sits a lone figure, quiet and reserved, as though darkness itself had chosen him as champion. His left hand is wrapped with a linen bandage; he is still bleeding from his palm. On the bench to his right is a small bottle filled to the top with his blood. In his right hand is a simple bone, flattened at one end and sharpened along that edge; dipping the end of the bone in his blood, he writes in a tattered and worn tome. The tome itself is not large, bound in thick leather it has gold-gilding on the edge of its pages. The words he pens are in a language unknown to Azeroth. His hair is long and dark, and braided over each shoulder; he has a neatly trimmed moustache and beard that are the same color as his hair; there is a circular scar on his left cheek that looks like the wound has never properly healed; on a finger of his left hand is a ring made of dark green stone with peridot laced through it like veins through flesh. Those few that notice him shrink away as though they had found their deepest horrors made real.

In the low light and this imposed solitude, the shadowy figure writes.

Day One: Northshire Abbey, Elywnn Forest.
I am Sorba the Cursed, and I bid thee, good day.

Again, once again, I find myself in a foreign land amongst foreign peoples, and I am confounded by my presence here. I have seen many places and eras; Dereth pre and post cataclysm; Norrath in its two major pinnacles; the far reaches of the universe through the Second Gate of Eve; the shining jewel of Earth, though her luster is rapidly fading; Earths twin sister, Gor; and now, from the belly of the beast I am spat up upon the shores of Azeroth.

I awoke to a tradesman, heavy and balding, poking at my chest with his polearm, scowling at me with tones of distrust and defense. Had I not been awakened, Im certain he meant to strip me of what little I wore and leave me to whatever passes for death in this realm. From where I had been spat, I landed muddy and disheveled alongside a fence bordering a cobblestone road. Perhaps others had stopped, perhaps the tradesman was the first; who can say for my consciousness was not with me. As it was, he grunted when I woke and quickly returned to his cart. There was no other word from him or offer of assistance; it is a small matter.

When the tradesman was a short distance from me, I stood and inhaled deeply. The air in this world was thick and heady, as though there had been a terrible sundering and a recovery. It reminded me much of home. As the tradesman made his was down the road, I followed at a safe distance. I meant the fellow no harm and only wished to see where the road went; perhaps I could find a place to clean up and set about learning this new world and its ways. If that fellow I had followed was any indication of the friendliness and camaraderie to be found here, it is just as well I have always found life that is to say my Curse - returning me to solitude. Come who and what may, my boots will again trod ground alone; lo there, my Curse doth carry me on.

The tradesman entered through a well guarded but open portcullis in a thickly built wall. I had a small measure of concern; if faces or vouchers were required for passage, I would not be allowed entry at the worst, the well armored guards would introduce me to the thing that is death here. There was no challenge though I was looked upon with scorn; whether my Curse had already preceded me or my appearance offended as such I cannot be certain.

I looked around as I walked towards a building at which the road seemed to end; this place had the feeling of relative safety to it. The surrounding fields and light woods appeared to be overrun with wolves and creatures I had no vocabulary to describe; but they did not attack with abandon. The creatures later introduced as kobolds were hunched over little vermin with candles waxed to the flats of their heads. Though they spoke brokenly, one could clearly understand they were fanatically devoted to their candles. I was making my way towards the building, the church, when I was hailed by a nearby guard.

The guard told me I was in no condition to enter the Abbey (the church-like building I had been approaching) and that I should clean up. He tossed me a sack of clothes and pointed over his shoulder, directing me to a small creek behind the building. Finding a secluded spot in an elbow of the creek, I washed the mud and other ichors from my flesh and hair; it was quite a relief to be clean once again. Bathed, braided, and clothed as the guard had provided, I drew near again to return his sack.

Taking the sack, he tossed some food in the bottom, something he called a hearthstone, and a small red-ribboned gift before handing it back to me. He then asked me what method of combat I preferred.

Cautiously, I responded, I have done most anything one can imagine and can wield most any weapon; however I am most at home with a sword.

The guard smiled and nodded. He scribbled something on a small chit and directed me to the tradesman that had set up his cart not far from the guards post. He also bade me seek a fellow in the Abbey that apparently had some trouble with the kobolds in the area. I thanked him and he smiled, Welcome to Northshire Abbey, stranger.

Turning towards the tradesman, I read his written words; I was to be given a small shield and sword at the expense of the Abbey. I was uncomfortable receiving such gifts so soon in this new land; one never knows what price comes with accepting a strangers hospitality.

The price was charged quickly enough. When I found the fellow in the Abbey with whom I was to speak, he bade me go into the wood and slay a number of the kobolds he was having difficulty containing. Thricely he sent me into that wood, and also a mine, to cull the kobolds from their packs. Along the way, I found another tradesman willing to offer thin leather bracers in exchange for meat from the free ranging wolves. I did for both as asked.

In this manner, speaking to guards and common folk who seemed to have no end to their demands, I began to learn my station in this world, and the way of this new life. They call me warrior; they send me to slay; they reward me my slaying. I know now the name denizens call this world and have an inkling that it is not as big as they believe not in comparison to what lay beyond mortal eyes; what lay beyond the fields of darkness and dread; that place from where I have come to once again try and escape my Curse.

In times and worlds passed, there have been those drawn to me, my Curse seeing to their affections and loyalties so that when the moment was perfect, my trust and faith in them would be betrayed. Though I have a febrile mark upon my left cheek and a ring of the peridot stone on my left hand, I am certain none of these here have yet heard of me. For this small measure of grace, I am grateful.

I know it is a sham, however, this grace. That received now will be used to rend my soul, again to sunder my heart and leave me broken, torn to shreds. There will be men seeking my loyalty only to use the covenant to betray and belittle me once more; there will be women that beg my attentions only to laughingly turn from me once having them; it is the nature of my Curse, part and parcel for the reason I can never find death; why I can never find peace; why I can never find love; why I can never find anything - but hatred and rejection, distain and desolation, sorrow and shame. Indeed my refrain; my strength has perished and so has my hope been slain.

And this Journal continues in another life in another world. Though I have no sight regarding what lay down this path, I have understanding that history will repeat itself given the proper time and circumstance, my Curse holding sway even here. Betrayals inevitable; loves earned and then shunned for the affections of my enemies inevitable. So it has been and so it shall be again. I only wonder for the price and how often I will this time be required to pay.

And my Curse

It is night. The sounds of Lakeshire Inn are muted and light, interrupted by the gentle lapping of Lake Everstill just outside the front door. Hunched near the dying embers of a large fire, a lone figure leans close in the fading light writing quickly but neatly in his Journal. He has a linen bandage around his left hand to stem the flow of blood from his palm, a febrile mark upon his right cheek, and an odd ring of green stone with peridot veins on a finger of his left hand. He wears a long face.

Day Eighteen: Lakeshire, Redridge Mountains
I am Sorba the Cursed, and I bid thee, good day.

As you can see, Ive found my way out of Elwynn Forest and taken up a temporary lodge here in Lakeshire. The atmosphere is one of uneasy peace; there have recently been attacks by the Horde upon this tiny berg and they are struggling to rebuild. The tasks they bade me do are according to these rebuilding needs; cull the knolls in the hills; retrieve tools and spikes from the bottom of the lake; carry letters seeking reinforcements. Most of the citizens here continue as though there is no war; a curious posture since one cannot help but notice the evidences of its occurrence. It is a small matter.

Thus far, I have managed only to stay out of trouble; for the most part. From Elwynn Forest I made a way of ease for the folk clinging tenuously to Sentinel Hill in Westfall, visited the haunted Darkshire, and taken my rest here in Lakeshire. I feel the winds moving already, however; Lakeshire does not strike me with permanence nothing does anymore save the authority of my Curse; accordingly, I have unpacked only the direst of essentials; whetstones, polishes, oils, and soaps.

The lake Everstill, I believe it is called reminds me of the Ironsea of Ispar, the Caribbean of Earth, the Thassa of Gor. Though the lake is small by these comparisons, being thusly close to the water again has unfurled these memories like a sail; I can only hope to shortly see what passes for sea-faring vessels in this world. Perhaps I may don the captains coat and once more helm a crew, taking what spoils there are to be found upon the briny foams.

There are some doodles as though the writer is stalling in writing the next part. The images he draws are bits of terrifying scenes; scenes of destruction and devastation; recollections of the innumerable times hes been killed and the horrors hes been forced to witness; the horrors hes been forced to be. Tears stream down his face and dot the pages of his journal in which he is writing.

Who can tell the way of things or how a future will unfold? Who has sight with any accuracy and can speak to the mist of tomorrow as though it was the recollection of yesterday? Those suffering a Curse of fatigued repetition and dying refrain; My strength has perished and so has my hope been slain.

There are aspects of my Curse already unfolding after but nary a fortnight and I am powerless before it. It has come swiftly this time, as though it were punishing me; though its punishment is for things I have yet to do. With the sword on my back and dancing the dance of the Warrior, I will ensure myself the full measure of its punishment. It is inevitable; it is unstoppable; I can only hope to shield the kind and benevolent few seeing past it from it. But who am I to stand before such a foul entity and thumb my nose at such a force as this; who am I to stay the unrighteous and foul? I am Sorba, him called the Cursed, and though it ultimately means I must alone walk the tunnels between worlds and lives, still I so stand against it.

There have been those that cross my path alighting with interest in me and unabashed focus; and I can only attribute such attentions to my Curse. I wish them no harm none of them and yet my Curse moves with malevolence, intent on destroying any who would proffer a kind word or succor my fatigue. Those three will never know the cause for just as I am compelled to speak I am Cursed, I am compelled to keep silent about its sway. Those three will never know and be added to the rolls as souls I am responsible for corrupting; the timid and innocent priestess who is training and striving hard to be in my employ, standing at my back as I face the denizens of this world, keeping me tall; the razor sharp and brilliant Night Elf who shares my curiosity about the world around her and interest in the metal crafts; and the mighty Dragonslayer with whom I have fielded, we two dancing the terrible dance of death.

There have been others of course, most notably the guildmisstress who took it upon herself and guild to offer safe haven for me from the wilds of this Azeroth; I pray she does not notice I have not attended to her invitation. Providing for me that sort of comfort is begging attention from my Curse; attention she, her House, and her betrothed are not guilty to attain.

The Dragonslayer and I seem to share a kindred bond; we are kith in a way that is familiar though she and I have never before met. She is special unique and I find that those around her do not fully appreciate her talents, her skills; or her. She has a way with the sword and its dance which reminds me very much of others who have

Finished writing, the lone figure lowers his head and fully weeps, his tears obscuring the rest of the entry beyond this point.