Cosman sits in his usual thinking spot, a bench in the cemetery, busier than he would have expected, seems the day of gift giving is upon them. He takes out his black leather journal, as well as a pencil, beginning to write as the people pass him, glancing oddly.
“This season is strange to me, Giving gifts, mistletoe..all of this cheer for some reason. My people have very few festivals, let alone one for such things as the winter itself. I come here to these graves, because of all the things i know, the dead is one of them, here i am at peace..among the dead. I do not know what this speaks to about myself, that i find more solace and comfort in those incapable of providing it, who can say..”
“Though these times, with these new people, perhaps there is hope for me yet, i can see the hatred that burns within the eyes of my people in his version of things, my own kind ere driven mad, so there is distrust when i proudly state my kind, even on draenor my kind are looked to with suspicion, due to the corruption of the order. But in these times, even the wars of this world seem to lull, hatred is tossed aside to remember what is most important, Family. If only i still had one, perhaps my new friends can suffice for now.