Shattrath. Shit. I’m still in Shattrath. Every time I think I’m gonna wake up back in Hellfire. Every day I spend at this inn I get weaker. It’s as if my body is losing it’s agility. I can’t bend as I used to. My work-out isn’t working, probably because I’m in a constant mood of desperation. I drink to sleep. I sleep so I don’t have to wait. See, this is what it’s like being a “temporal operative”. A few weeks ago they pulled me back. I was home, but when I was home I wanted to be over here. When I’m here …
I want to be over there.
My name is Caliss Starshadow. I’m a temporal agent. this is my diary – and I hope no one will ever read it. This is the only way I stay sane. I write. I drink. I stay alive.
Temporal agent … taste those words. It’s like … a wet dream of office speak, deep in the bowels of Stormwinds Old Town. What it means is this: SI:7 is in cahoots with the Bronze Dragonflight and what could possibly go wrong with something like that? Oh, I know there’s a Horde side to it. I’ve met blood elves and orcs in the same game as me. Just like me, most of them are going crazy. Most of them are itching to get out.
They sent me straight into the heart of darkness, hoping that maybe I could find something that could stop what’s happening. To be honest: I’m not smart enough to understand their plan. I don’t think anyone is. Maybe Chromie knows, but I’m pretty sure that Trias has a big question mark above his head.
So I’m here. In Then. In Shit, right. Shattrath. I’m here … pretending that the mercenaries I see and the mercenaries I fuck are all history. Heroes – tales. I slept with a night elf huntress the other night. She was heading for Shadowmoon and was in need of some R&R. Oh, I’m sure she knew I wasn’t from “now”. It’s like I’m walking around in an invisible time bubble. My weapons, my armor – all of it is just too … powerful. It’s to powerful for this world, because this world is already dead.
I hate this place. Send me back, as Grammz, a void walker I once met, said. So I did. A cut through his neck and all that was left was his metal shoulderguards and a echoing whisper – “Back … to the Void!”.
Grammz was lucky. It – I don’t know if rogue voidwalkers have genders – knew already, knew what I have come to realise. Outland is dead. The only thing that keeps it going is violence and sex. I learned that fast. When a world is dying, all that remains are the primal instincts. Kill to live. Fuck to be alive.
I met a goblin the other day. She was on a short stop to my version of Shit. She was on a dragonflight retainer, digging up secrets, all that stuff. She told me about Draenor. She told me about mountains of gold, of beaches made of pearls, layered so thick a handful would make you rich beyond belief. Like Outland, she was full of it. I know that. Still, her tales of paradise kept me going through another set of drinks. She didn’t mind spending the night on a blanket in a tent, with me, in Lower City.
I don’t play by the rules. That’s why SI:7 wanted me. So I didn’t kill her. I should have fucked her, I guess, I could have (she was a “nelfie fan girl” as she said; fuck, I hate that slur – nelfie!). We slept instead, cuddled up for warmth, protection and basic life. You sleep better if you can feel someone’s pulse. She snored, but I don’t blame her. I snored too the first couple of nights. She was jet lagged. Timeline disease, it plays havoc on your system. I slept for fortyeight hours straight when I got here, I didn’t even wake up for a privvy visit (if you tell anyone I’ll cut your damned throat and feed you with your larynx!). Now I’m lucky if I can sleep three hours a night without nightmares. Outland does that to you. There’s three things left in Outland: Sex, death and sleep. I sleep as good as I can. I’m killing anything that wants me dead. I’m visiting “the places”, if you know what I mean. The tents in Lower City, where you can get it on for a silver because people are hungry and frightened. Skin on skin is comfort. If you don’t put up, you’re dead – that’s how it is in Lower City. Might as well get paid for the rape, right?
I’m losing my mind here. I need to get out! I can’t even hear Elune anymore!
We’re dying here, you know. Every day there’s a new story of a chunk of land dropping off. Everyday there’s a story about someone going into a bar or a clinic or a temple, opening up with a heavy caliber in each hand because Death is the only thing that’s left. It’s sort of a sport among the despairing people. Take out as many as possible – maybe death won’t be as lonesome then. Some of the nutjobs I’ve done in – because I’m on contract to do them before they do someone else – have been here for twenty years.
Twenty years of death. No wonder they go nuts.
I’m the sanitation worker of the Naaru. Tell that to your motherfucking draenei friends. Me, a night elf, once called “the scourge of Darnassus”. Yeah … I have a reputation. Deal with it.
I’ve been here six weeks (I think it’s six weeks). I’ve been here, in a world that should not exist. Thanks a fucking lot, Chromie. I need to get out of this place. Killers, fanatics and crazies – this is what the world will look like when it is about to die. I need to see Azeroth again. Some of the people I put down make the Defias look like pre-school bullies. Some of the cults I’ve dismantled over here, in Outland, would make the Twilights blush in embarassment. There’s a broken in Lower City who gorge on filth … let that tell you what you need to know. There’s covens of cannibals. There’s covens of deathspeakers. There’s covens of draenei warlocks … and there’s rumors of an exarch gone mad, hidden away in the bowels of the ruined Auchindoun.
They need to pay me way more than they do if they excpect me to go there. One of the orc beggars close to the temple told me something. I’m not the superstitious kind but his words got to me. He said, he did:
“The dead grows … fearful. Something truly dark … is coming.”
Then he flipped his dreadlocks at me, throwing a handful of scrying bones on the ground, and hissed:
See, this is why I drink to sleep. This is why I hope that they will pull me out. FEAR has gotten hold of me. I fear the worst thing possible, for an agent in Outland. I fear … I fear that …
I am not prepared.