Holiday

Tarista sat at a corner table of the Inn, staring at the delicate glass vial on the table.  The Night Elf who had given it to her called it the Tear of Grief.  Having heard his story, she could well believe he’d have such a thing.  Now all she had to do was find out why she needed it.

She had made no progress on the book.  Even bribing the goblins here in Ratchet had proved fruitless.  At least as far as her goal was concerned.  For a simple exercise in gaining knowledge and resources it would have been remarkably successful, which only made it all the more frustrating.  She was beginning to think the book was guarded less by an unknown language and more by an enchantment, but she couldn’t bear to think of what would be required to find the key to that.

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Memoirs: Disguise

I was caught up in the holidays. The spectre of the Wickerman, the surprise of Trick or Treating, the joy of helping a sick child. It wrapped me up and, for a short time, it made me forget. At least until it forced me to remember, with the sharp clarity of a looking glass.

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