From Orgrimmar I traveled to Stonard. It seemed the right direction to go. At the small post in the Swamp of Sorrows there was a sense of urgency in the air. They had no work for me, and little time to spare for explanation, but I was directed to the Blasted Lands. That barren wasteland where the Dark Portal looms over the landscape.

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The work in Silithus is without end. Each time I finish a task, another is given to me. I cannot continue. I told the Cenarions today I would be leaving in the morning. The only answer was a curt nod, as if it were expected. My remaining tasks were given to another who was dispatched into the sandy wastes. I have seen so many others take that road out of the stronghold. Too many never return.

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The land is stark and barren in Silithus. The air is dry and without life. The chicken seems to have picked up some sort of sand flea and her scratching keeps me awake in the silence of the inn at night. The members of the Cenarion Circle here are dedicated and aloof. There is no time for idle chatter as we are sent out day after day to battle that which lurks in this sandy waste.

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I can stand the Plaguelands no more. The stench of death and decay permeates everything. The druids say there is still life in the land but I cannot feel it. The wind is a wailing beast of despair that does not let one rest. Had I the voices of the Spirits to keep me company it would not be as difficult. The months of silence stretch on endlessly though.

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