Originally written May 17, 2013.
Not a full year has passed since Theramore, but so much as changed. As the Rose still takes seed in Westguard, we are often uprooted by our missions overseas. We are perhaps better suited as a vagrants, without a port except what we can borrow or take, Alliance or Horde. It has come to this.
There is a difference in the passion between fighting for your family and the families of others. I have long since been stoked by the fires of others, urged by the sight of refugee faces, of wounded soldiers and starving children. Now I catch myself seeing the face of my own child on each and every one of them. This fire burns hotter and threatens to overtake reason. I know full well that I would die for him quicker than for anyone else, and I argue with myself whether he could live without a mother, knowing full well the life I had without one. He could as I did; but he will be a different man than growing with one. This, I am certain.
My pens write in different strokes and directions. In private, my pen is philosophical and dotes on life after battle. In public, I write declarations and preparations for war. I write letters to left-behind kin, ledgers for weapons, rosters for men and women soon to be sent far away from home. Pandaria is worlds away, separated by sea and a culture as alien as the Draenei, despite sharing the same world. Its people are hospitable and us vagrants are grateful for it, but we know deep down that we do not belong. The Pandaren are gracious whether they know our discomfort or not.
I am no ship captain, my seafarer skills are no more worthy than the lowliest swab on a ship. But for what gold can be found, I will add to the fleet. Even on the tiniest tug boat, I will serve. I will sail to the farest reaches of Azeroth to find those who will fight, their banner red or blue. We will grow our thorns in the south seas and Hellscream will know our bite.