Jie Sheng Xiu: Stepping out of the Cave

Dear Friend,

It has been a few weeks since I wrote to you, and for this I apologize. There are things that have transpired, great and small, since I last put ink to parchment. Unfortunately tonight, I must avoid letting ruby and sapphire droplets both from staining the page.

I sit here alone again, with wounds that make writing difficult. I have not suffered injuries this great in several years, and it will take me weeks to recover fully, for I must bear this pain and let it teach me. I was foolish, and arrogant; I was shortsighted and too confident. I did not take in fully the magnitude of what I faced, and I will let my wounds be the punishment for this pride. A heavy sorrow grips my heart as well, and a doubt that is difficult to shake.

There is a lesson from the philosophers and monks that I understand now, that once I did not before. It speaks of a cave. They said that one must imagine a cave where a few pandaren were born, and for all their lives they were trapped in this cave, away from the light of the sun. In this cave all they can see are the shadows of figures that move across the wall they faced in the darkness, or the silhouettes by firelight. They grow to think that these shadows are all that is reality. Now, what is the world to them when they step out of this cave and see it for more than the narrow realm they grew up in? Would they be able to recognize the people of the shadows they saw?

This is my lesson. For I am now the pandaren that steps out of the cave, with my mind bearing only the images of the shadows of war and hatred, of my new Horde and the Alliance. Tonight, we fought at the shores of Karasang near the newly forged stronghold of the Alliance. I saw wildness in the fighting that I do not see in the yaungol or the mantid. There was ferocity, a burning anger in their hearts. They slew each other without hesitation; they grinned and roared in their dark joy, they took pleasure in slaying mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Even those among my own ranks were caught up in this horror. I fought and struggled through the field to defeat my foes, and spared a few of them. I crouched over the fallen of several men I had wounded, and disarmed, insisting as I appeared to take trophies that they lay still if they wished to live. As I walked through the battlefield in the aftermath, many had been killed while they lay in their possum state. Even this did not break me, though the doubt crept in.

It was amongst those bodies that I found what broke my spirit. There, among the bodies near the water’s edge, lay a young pandaren. He wore the blue of healing, renewal and vigor, as well as the most beautiful gold, the color of the Celestials, of good fortune. He was like me, I said to myself. I fell to my knees and turned him over, his eyes open in fear, empty without the fiery young spirit within.

I wept there on the shore, mourning over my supposed enemy, who fought to brighten the futures of both the Horde and the Alliance. I know this better than I know the names of my ancestors. He failed to bring the brightest honor to his own.

I returned here afterward, my wounds unattended and my friends absent. So it is to you I write, only you cannot answer me, you cannot comfort my pains, unknown friend. I ask instead that you learn them, and etch them into the stones of your mind and bear them to your family and your children should they ever know the terror that is true war.

And yet, despite my doubts and my sorrow, I hold hope. I have taken a medallion of the Red Crane gifted to me by a monk many years ago, and I will bear it wherever I go. Hope will spring endlessly, and I must never forsake it. I can still do what I set to do, to bring honor and justice, peace and respect to the people I fight alongside. I will not forsake their friendship, nor my own honor by abandoning them. But I have stepped out of the cave, and I see the world for what it is, not the shadows that dance across the walls of a cave. I will try to see the new reality and not forget the pleasant shadows, for they are not separate realities, the shadows remain even in the sunlight. They are both there, and they are all suffering a struggle of balance in their existence. I will merely fight to balance the light in their hearts with the dark. I will do it for them, for my home, and for the other Pandaren that have fallen fighting for the same cause. I must go, and rest away the pain in my heart.

I only wish I could have known his name.

Jie Sheng Xiu: My Home

I wish first to express words of utmost gratitude to you, dear reader, for taking these scrolls from where they lay. I am honored and humbled to share my thoughts with you, in this quiet place between you and I, where I may speak freely of my worries and my dreams, and of my home. It is a wonderful place, this home of mine. I do not speak of the smooth stone and trusty bamboo that I dwell within, but the wondrous place that my eyes are consumed with from the day my eyes first opened, to the moment where I will draw my last breath. I speak of Pandaria; this quiet pearl hidden from the world for more centuries than I can comprehend. 

I sit here, with warm green tea, a single candle, and the dark blanket of night around me, only speaking of the Pandaria of my mind – since that blanket hides much of it from my sight. The cherry blossom trees still leave their subtle scent in the wind, reminding me of how this place appears in the day. I hope that when you read these words, my unknown friend, you find Pandaria the same way that my mind’s eye envisions it in this darkness. The rolling hills layer with vegetable fields and huts much like my own, grazed upon by our peaceful neighbors like the mushan and goats, yaks and stags. In the distances are a great wall of mountains to the North, and a great wall made by the rocks that come from those mountains to the West. Both fill me with awe when I take the time to stare at them, though the two walls protect very different things. 

First, the wall to the North protects a place precious to my people, the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. As its name suggests, it is a place where the nature of Spring is eternal; blossoms bloom and never wither, among golden grass and golden trees. It is a beautiful place, with pure waters and pure land. It is sacred to us, the Pandaren, but it also carries with it a dark legacy; our former masters, the Mogu. Using our ancestors as their slaves, and with the aid of magic, the Mogu erected the great wall to the West of where I sit. We call it the Serpent’s Spine. This wall, however, does not protect a sacred place from those who would do it harm. Instead, it protects us from two very great enemies; the Mantid, and the Yaungol. I will tell you more of each of these dangers, old and new, in good time, my new friend. 

Tonight my spirit dwells among lighter clouds, closer to the Sun. Here, my spirit may reflect on hope and enlightenment. You see, my unknown friend, in my time a great change has come to Pandaria. New people have come to our home,  and with them have come opportunities and dangers. They are elves, and humans, goblins, gnomes, tauren, draenei, orcs, trolls, dwarves, worgen, and the dead that walk. They come separated as two distinct groups of people, the Horde and the Alliance. But they are like a man in a mirror caked in dirt. They cannot see it, for they are far too accustomed to their own faces in perfection of form, but beneath the muck the other stares back at them, a perfect reflection hidden from the eye. The muck that prohibits them from seeing their reflection in the other, is a hatred and a violence that saddens my heart. Even writing this, I feel my spirit sink lower from its high place in the clouds at the thought of such a terrible anger that plagues them. 

But, my friend, I have cast my lot in their war. Many of my people do not understand why I have chosen to fight with the ones called the Horde; for they, like I, see a mirror. The trouble they have, however, is the muck that clouds their vision of that perfection as well. I can see the man beneath the muck, and I have chosen to be the servant who wipes the muck off of that mirror. Unlike many of my brothers and sisters of Pandaria, I know that if I do not choose to do so myself, I will be forced to take a side of the mirror. Change has come to Pandaria, and I know that we cannot hide from this war that has found itself on our tranquil shores.

And so, I don the colors of red and black; fortune and power. It is not the most beautiful of colors, gold, or the immortal blue, but I believe that I have chosen correctly. These people of the Horde come from a world that is harsh; this I have been told by my tauren friend, Xandras. He speaks of the people of this Horde fighting since the day they could lift a spear, defending their right to exist in a world that they feel does not want them. They seek to survive; but I say to them my friend, that survival is not all there is to the beauty that is life. Life is more than survival; it is love, it is poetry and art, it is the quiet nights spent with friends and family. These people of the Horde, my friend, they do not see this other side. They are too busy surviving; too busy enduring hardships that in some ways they have placed upon themselves. I do not suggest that hardships are a bad thing; as my father once told me, the diamond cannot be polished without friction, nor the man perfected without trials. Even the Zandalari troll that is among those I have chosen to fight with has recognized this.
 

But one must be capable of living for more than that; without that other half, what is the purpose of survival? If we are simply surviving, we can create no legacy and no meaning for the life we have endured. We are not simply here to suffer. Xandras is the first to speak to me of these hardships; and he thinks that we Pandaren are too soft for the dangers that are to come, that we weren’t ready. I say to him through these written characters that our people have endured our own trials, and we have suffered, but we have not let it conquer our way of life, and never shall it. We will be prepared for this war between his Horde and their Alliance, and we will overcome it as we have challenges before. We will fight with honor, and courage, and we will not fail. My people will fight for what is dear to us; our home, and our families, our hopes and our dreams.  But it shall not be all that is left of the Pandaren when the war is won; we will carry on that way of life, as we have for these many millennia of peace.

Though my heart swells with pride at the steadfastness of our people to who we are and why we fight, I do have concerns. Some of them come in the form of the orc, Rakar Warscream, and the elf, Deyaenus Dewmorning. Both are men with conviction, with a surety of what is right and what is wrong. However, they are each blind in their own way. The first, and most simple, is the orc Rakar. He speaks and thinks in the way of those that would further fling muck across the mirror. He wishes to defeat these members of the Alliance without conditions, without a line in the sand of what he will not do to accomplish it. He has even suggested finding partnership in our old masters, the Mogu. What he does not understand is that these Mogu he seeks to court, will turn on him when the Alliance have ended. They will chain these Alliance like a dog, and with the collar tightly wrapped around the neck of these humans and their allies, he will set them loose on the Horde Rakar seeks to glorify. In the end, both would be slaves to a master more cruel than any of the harm they have inflicted on one another.

I have hope, however, that his mind is among few of this Horde. For they have not all behaved this way, and those that do are the ones whom I wish to change for the better. The other worry comes in the form of Master Dewmorning. He is not a bad man, by any means. Though I feel that he is many years my senior despite the youth in his face, he acts like a cub who has just found that he can have his own opinions. He comes to us, speaking of us as heathens and backwater dwellers, promising to enlighten us through something he calls the Light. At first, I did not understand what he meant; after all, the Sun’s rays and those of the candles beside me do not bring me knowledge. They are precious, yes, for without them there would be no such thing as life. I thought then too, this must be what he means. The Light must be revered, for it is what gives us all that allows us life. No, he tells me next, the Light is a force that decides all good and evil within this world. 

I think it is the imagination of a child, to think that there is a force that dictates to me whether what I do is right, or wrong. Am I not the sum of my actions, to be judged on my deeds as a whole and not each individual choice? How will his Light enlighten me to the truth beyond what I know? What more is there to know? What truth do I not have that he requires? I hope one day I will learn of what he means, and I hope you already understand better than I, friend. I suspect many others like him will come to our shores and speak of this religion. But it taints everything that we have known; everything we are is not evil, or good. A criminal can save a life; a charitable soul can still inflict harm upon his child or his wife. Neither the criminal nor the man of charity are wholly good, or wholly evil. These questions of nature are not so much my concern either, however. What does worry me is the stubbornness in his ways, and the blindness of his faith. He even told me that to understand is not necessary, I must merely accept. What wisdom is there in such a course? Even in trusting the word of a friend for something we do not understand, we are still acting without wisdom. I sincerely hope time with him will change him and open his mind, for it is truly an intelligent spirit. His mind is a crane trapped in a cage, shackled by chains of fear and a lock of poor teaching. I may not be the key, but hopefully I can at least put oil in the lock.

I do not wish to end our musings tonight in fear and worry, my new friend. There is always good news. There are many honorable spirits among this new Horde in my land. Curious souls like Maraiel, even begrudgingly patient old men like Vaelrin, and happier spirits still. I heard the voice of a new mother, though I know not her name. I could have mistaken her for a monk, from the way she spoke. Many elves that I have met are friendly and patient, and some of the orcs, like the General I serve, are even kindred spirits – warriors with great honor and dignity, hardened by many seasons of trouble. It is a great new world of knowledge and experiences to seek. These people, that I mention in these fleeting words just now, give me hope that my cause is not lost in being absorbed by Fortune and Power. They are those who can tell why I am here, and they will support me in my plight to help this Horde change for the better. It will be a long task, wiping away stubborn muck and stains from this mirror, but I will do my best. And perhaps I’ll have a few good beers to make it easier. We will speak more soon, my new friend, and I will share with you other thoughts on my mind as the relationships I form with these strangers changes and evolves. Let us hope they will blossom like a beautiful flower, and not rust as it is when iron and water meet, causing both to be rough and brittle. Good night, my new friend.

Ikanis Blazewind: Tides of Change

It is on rare occasions that I turn back to journals. I think part of it is necessarily because when I look back at my previous entries, I sometimes grow sick at the person I was. I am ashamed of nothing, I am proud of what it has made me, but there are things that I am now that have changed, and I dare not return to who I was once.  But I digress.

Change is indeed a fitting word for what I find myself in the midst of now. I would speak of Myranda first, as my new daughter has brought a relief and joy to me that has been months in the making, in some ways is another opportunity for me to leave another light in this world in the midst of all the darkness I bring to it. But, there is context here that requires mentioning. So, I think I will start from the beginning and return to my daughter where she belongs, as one of a few pillars among a pressing tide of troubles.

Theramore is the first thing that comes to my mind, though it is a story already forgotten in the minds of many of my comrades. The trauma of it has left a mark on me I think, though I wasn’t a victim myself. I remember vividly, and still feel now, the disgust that sank in the minute I learned of that tragedy; I will say it freely here, since I doubt the Kor’kron are going to find this any time soon; Garrosh is a monster. There is no other word that fits the description, besides perhaps demon. Such a reckless, craven act that leveled an entire city with no ounce of honor or remorse is something that borders on the mentality of the Scourge or the Legion.  I thought we had left the mongrels infested with Mannoroth’s blood behind; I thought the orcs I served with were better than this. I should remind myself that most of them are, but there are many too who blindly follow him. Even Ashgar has his unrelenting hatred of humans, and allowed it to cloud his judgment against an atrocity, a violation against all the Horde stands for. The Horde does not stand for butchers and monsters, it does not stand for devastation – that is what the Horde of Blackhand was. The Horde is more than that now; it is about destitute or misunderstood races banding together to survive in an increasingly dangerous world, with honor and an unbreakable spirit. Garrosh possesses none of this, and sometimes I begin to doubt that the orcs I call friends are so unshakable in their warrior’s honor.

But I digress again. I fear for what has become of her people, what has become of Jaina Proudmoore. She yet lives, and this has no doubt brought hatred into the heart of one of the people who still avowed to peace. My brother mentioned she was now leading the Kirin Tor in Rhonin’s death – Leorik no longer thinks it’s safe for us there, in Dalaran. He says it is a matter of time before she retaliates against those closest and easiest to revenge herself against; the Sunreavers and those of the Sin’dorei tentatively welcomed back into the place where I spent most of my years in schooling. It is pitiful – and yet that was where I felt my family was safest while I was away to this new land. Isn’t it funny, I still trust a potential enemy more than my Warchief and his goons? I sent them there for fear his lackeys would take Rhiewennon and Lyric from me, and even little Lyraela, Aestiah’s daughter. It is conscription for all of us who serve the Horde, even children to be used as manual labor, according to our esteemed Warchief. As if mutilating children in the process of creating war machines would give us a brighter future.

And yet, I was not able to stay there with my family and protect them. I was required to sail for a new land, and act as the diplomat between the Sunguard and their people. Admittedly, it eases my mind to think of that place. It was wonderful; the people there are wonderful. They’re just the kind of people Aryssia and the children need to be with; they’ll keep them safe for me, and they’ll be good friends. I hear we already have a few of them in our ranks, though I haven’t met any of them personally. I’ve spent most of my time in Pandaria bickering with angry humans wanting to shoot me or stab me, outraged that the various Mayors of these Pandaren villages refuse to turn either of us away, or take sides. The Pandaren I met, though, were some of the most generous individuals I have come across in my centuries of life. The gifts I brought home to my family, the silk robes (I don’t have any idea what they called it, die-mo or dim-ho or something), the new cooking utensils and toys, all of it was freely gifted to me. They even taught me how to cook better, even if I still can’t bake worth a damn.  I can only hope they change us all for the better, before we wipe them out in the midst of this paltry war.

They still think this war is important too. I find that cynically amusing. Every day that passes, we kill more people who would die to defend their homes from real evil. Evidently people think that just by pushing a demon lord back into a hole that solves the problem. It’s no different than when Rhiewennon leaves the stub of the carrot he was eating under the carpet; it’s still there, and someone’s going to trip over it or it’s going to stink up the place until it’s taken out. The Legion will come back, and I’ll mock them all for the time they wasted on bigotry and vengeance.

I intend to take my children, including my beautiful little Myranda, back to Pandaria with me when I return. Even with the war around them, they’ll be safer there. I’ve already seen to a place for them; I paid good gold to find a plot of land in the valley there, near Half-Hill. I haven’t told Aryssia yet, but she will already have a garden waiting for her there. I accidently let it slip to Lyric, but I’m trusting her to be a good secret keeper for me. She’ll love the look on her mother’s face. I have to wait until Aryssia is capable of going again, however. As excited as I have been for Myranda, I watched how hard carrying her was on Aryssia.

I think I need to go back, and soon. Xandras asked me just before we left for Pandaria how I am able to keep myself in check – how to hold my mind against the corruption that tempts me daily. I told him it was because I have things to lose, now. I don’t think I was completely honest with him. As much as I hate this war, I think I need it to some degree. I have to fight – I have to get it out in the way it wants to, by destroying. I just hope I can turn it into something useful and continue to be a Warlock that actually has a conscience and a soul. And on that note, fuck Deyaenus for still being alive and still being a prick. I think it’s time for dinner.