The Dancing Hare's blog

Dear Diary,

The mystery of the missing smith has been solved. Not that it was really any great mystery to begin with. He arrived yesterday evening in the doorway, I was reading. To be honest, I didn’t notice him at first as I was so wrapped up in the tale I was reading, the story of a miller’s bride who threw herself into a rain-swollen river in her grief.

Dear Diary,

Honestly, it’s like talking to a wall sometimes. I mentioned that to Sath and he laughed and said, “I could have told you that.”

Raleth glanced out onto the patio to check on Lali. He wasn’t very surprised to see that the kittens were helping. One lay across her open book, one batted at each of her feet, one on the table, and he could only guess that the other two were hiding somewhere in her robes.

“How’s your practice coming along?” he grinned, leaning against the doorway.

“Oh!” Lali hastily herded the kittens back onto the floor guiltily. “I am! I mean, I was, but they wanted to help and then I got distracted.”

Oh Diary,

I wonder if I’ve made a big mistake. That’s what I get for listening to Sath, I suppose. He kept saying it was, and now I wonder if he was right.

Dear Diary,

The last few days have been quiet. But I know he — or someone at least — is watching. I don’t know how I know, but I just do. The morning after I last wrote, there was a jar full of pretty blue and white and yellow wildflowers left on the table. He must have put them there, but why? He doesn’t seem the sort to put flowers on his table normally. There wasn’t a note. In fact, I haven’t seen him at all. I can tell he’s been here, because I can smell him — oh how  I hate writing that! But it’s true. For whatever reason, he’s avoiding me.

Dear Diary,

I never really kept a diary before, because I was too afraid that Mierra or Mother or Father would find it and read it. Also I never really had anything interesting to write about. And some things, well, I don’t think I want to put them into letters in case they should fall into the wrong hands.

You’re in a good mood, Ru’anthar grumbled. It’s annoying.

Sath’alor loosed two arrows, hardly a moment apart. They struck the center of the straw target a hair’s breadth apart. He shot a grin to Kestrae, who sat in the stands huddled in the warm shoveltusk cloak. “Why shouldn’t I be?” He guided the black hawkstrider over toward the stables, sliding down from its back. The stablemaster took the bird’s reins and led it to its waiting stable, lined with warm straw.

Hello again Grandpa,

I’m glad to learn that you are well. Do the blood elves still tease you about your big hooves? You should tell them they aren’t even really big by draenei standards. They are just normal hooves. I should very much like to see your new hat. It was a good drawing though.

Spring in Gilneas was the most hopeful of seasons. It might not possess the flashy colors of autumn, nor its harvest abundance, but when the dreary clouds lifted the world exploded in a riot of bright green new growth. The does ventured out warily from the thickets, their new fawns teetering precariously behind them. The warm spring air hummed with the sounds of insects, and peeping hatchlings. There were no hunts in the spring — even the nobles in their fancy coats and hats had some compassion.

[[ Another one, from somewhere in Darkshore. ]]