The passing days have many old memories come to the surface, many I thought lost. The squire whom I once thought lost has returned, her solace ended in Northrend, and soul returned from its dark path. She still refuses her former name, to the point that I see within her the same anger that drove her to vengeance each time I accidentally use it. Instead, she prefers the name she christened herself with years ago, when she sought my death.
Now she seeks sanctuary in the ranks of the Templars, and more than once, we have ventured on missions as knight and former squire. I find myself easily slipping into a mentor role with her, despite the caution within me that remains. Her role in this world is perhaps unknown yet, but I am grateful that it is again at my side, and not as a dangerous but delicate enemy. I at times question whether she looks to me as more than a leader and dame, despite my age being at least one decade young of her late mother.
The days have also brought me new kin. My search for lost kin in Gilneas has ended, a man came forth searching for my late father. He had with him the only family heirloom I will ever possess, to which I now keep close. It is odd to suddenly place so much importance on such a small, material thing. Before, I placed value in a weapon, but knew it could easily be replaced, and with a sturdy stick if need be. I question whether such material importance is a weakness, and yet I will keep this gift to remain connected to what was left of me twenty-five years ago in Gilneas. I have no ties to that nation other than kin, I share no ideal or loyalty. The reasons for myself and my father's departure remain true, it seems that the rest of Gilneas was simply a number of decades late to the same realization.
I sent a letter to my newfound kin, to discover his whereabouts. He asked for nothing of me, he simply delivered his gift, his message and departed. Perhaps the exchange was as odd to him as it was me, or perhaps he wants little to do with kin that abandoned his homeland years ago. It was not till a day after our meeting I realized that I did not question his escape, and whether he was affected by the worgen curse. I realize that the unexpected shock kept me from forming the question at all, which is strange. I am not used to speechlessness.
The Templars ready for war. It was perhaps easier to prepare for war in Northrend, when funds were more plentiful, and armor and weapon simpler to craft. We lived for and specialized in killing undead, to the point that our expertise weakens us here. The armor we crafted for Northrend was well-suited to a rusted weapon's cleave, and to the chilled weather. That same armor does nothing against shadow or fire, the preferred weapon of today's enemies.
One month, we mobilize. Training in Theramore as we have often done is a strange venture now, with its forces now deployed in Kalimdor against the Horde. After three years, the goals of Theramore and the Templars diverges, and the Templars finds itself at-ends with old friends. The thought of moving elsewhere passed through my mind and the minds of others, but aside from Stormwind, Theramore is the only other port unaffected by the Shattering. We remain here out of habit, and caught within a political conundrum. Then again, that is not an unfamiliar place for a Templar, it is a familiar and welcome home.
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