Achaena's Diary, Page One

Hello.

That's how these things begin, right? A greeting, an introduction, and then I spill my darkest secrets.

But the healer says that this will help. So, let's do this properly.

My name is Achaena. I am a half-elf. I am twelve years old. And I am a monster.

Oh, not like the Worgen, or the San'layn. No curse has made me to be what I am. But I bear no illusions: I am a monster.

But I'm only twelve, the astute observer will remember. What could I have possibly done?

Let's begin at the beginning. An elven woman deposited her newborn baby on the front doorstep of the orphanage. I remember neither my mother, nor the orphanage. I was too young. But I know what happened next.

A group of assassins, my family, adopted me. They raised me, trained me. I learned to fight with all manner of weapons, including my own magical talent. I also learned to brew potions and poisons.

I made my first kill when I was only ten. I've never felt any guilt. Why should I? This is what I was raised for. I was proud; Master was proud of me. He presented me with a set of ten perfect knives, which I carry to this day. They're a part of me, and more importantly, they are my last reminder of him.

You see, it was less than a year later that their scheme was uncovered. I returned from a job to find the house - my home for my entire life - crawling with guards. Everyone I'd known and cared for was dead.

But time moves on. I escaped the guards' notice easily enough, kept out of their way. I pursued legitimate work, even looking after a hunter's pets for a time. That was interesting. One of them was dead - killed long before I met him. I made fast friends with the ghost wolf named Vladik. He is a supremely loyal companion; he rarely leaves my side. The hunter ultimately let me keep him. If there is one person I trust implicitly, it is him.

I've met a lot of people - some of them were even good, I imagine. But mostly ...

There was that warlock who tried to kill me in Dalaran, because I wouldn't kill someone for free. Stupid - no gold, no blood.

He didn't succeed, obviously. Neither did the dwarf who tore a chunk out of my leg.

I'm still alive, but that one was close. I still have scars from those encounters - the leg healed with the help of magic, but nothing can cleanse fel taint permanently.

Even my own friends are - many of them - awful, horribly cruel people.

I think the dwarf, Kelgrim, is probably the best person I've met, and all I do is anger him. Maybe I should try to listen to him - he's old, he's supposed to be wise. But the things he says are so unrealistic.

People are mostly bad. It takes work - hard work - to care for anyone other than yourself. Even those who claim to be altruistic are only doing it to feel better about themselves.

Now I'm feeling bitter.

Maybe I'll burn this page - that's supposed to make you feel better, too.