I cannot tell you how tired I am of proving myself to these people. Time and again I’m looked at like some common vagrant and regarded as a derelict insane person.

“I am Telinthos, of Silvermoon. Mage of the First Order.” That alone should convey my power, importance and my reliability. When I say I’ll do it. I mean it. No task escapes my ability, patience or determination.

Well. Except for that incident involving the girl. Or that giant in Zul’Drak. Or those goblins in Hellfire Peninsula..

Few tasks escape my patience. But I swear. If another one of these Tournament Fools regards me as another token Blood Elf fresh off the boat I’m liable to lose my patience and rain fiery doom upon their heads and tents.

I might be upset. It could be due to this inane woman and her vision of ‘help’. I’m here to assist in an effort against the Scourge, they smell worse than the Forsaken. Not gather firewood or fetch lost squires. Hell, I’ve got my own squire to keep track of. Speaking of which..

Regardless, I was getting tired. Three days in a row now, I am tasked with taking this bottle of foul-tasting liquid, rubbing it’s contents on my lips and kissing frogs. This will result in a maiden showing herself and handing over a sufficiently rare and unique sword.

Three Days In A Row. By this point, I’m certain the Maiden is getting tired of seeing me. I know I’m tired of kissing frogs. And on another point, there is a fine rack of weapons behind this insane woman, many of which bearing sufficient power as to be felt across the room by unaided eyes. I can feel their tingle from outside the pavilion tent, so surely she has to know what hang behind her.

With not more than a little frustration, I depart. I mount my carpet and take to the air, for the forest to the Southeast.

I did circle the camp once, briefly considered proper tactical placement of my most potent fireball such as to cause mayhem.

Ah, yes. I’m reminded by my Squire why I started writing. It is noteworthy that I have developed something of a drinking problem. Squire pointed this out when I pulled another tankard of stout from his pack whilst I was hurling Bolts of Arcane Destruction at a particularly unruly treant.

I was quite inebriated when I attempted to deny these claims. So inebriated I nearly fell over an edge and into some unpleasant looking magical vortex. “You may have a point.” I surrendered. And then I turned my Squire into a chicken. Briefly. He’s much too useful with hands.

I didn’t sober up until after we put that dragon to rest. And even then I woke up in Stonard with only the briefest hint of memory why. My purse did feel about thirty gold lighter and that innkeep was all too eager to bring me breakfast and have Azkari cleaned and fed.