Nine days in to the month of the new year

This is very judgemental of me, but I just can't have a conversation with someone who is missing the lower half of their face. The tongue flops about, somehow they still make the sounds, but there is something about watching that displaced organ work like a wet worm crawling around in grey soil that makes me shudder. And visibly, also. It's so rude I can't help but blush profusely when I do it, even if I'm just containing the reaction.

Why the alchemists couldn't wire up a prosthetic jaw in the meantime.... after all of their concern over appearances and seeming "normal"...

I think deep down they probably don't really give a damn and think it's funny to watch the likes of me squirm in discomfort while we chat.

I really, really wish I didn't have so much to learn from them. And I'm mad at myself for being so shallow.

One of the things asked of me was to go round up infected whelplings. I don't look forward to it because of the risk it poses should some of it make contact with the fluids on my body (something the royal society took great joy in relaying the details of in splendid and abhorrent detail). Nevermind that the little bastards can and will bite at any given opportunity. I remember Blackwing Lair. I still have a scar on the back of my thigh where one snuck up on my clan in the Supression Rooms.

Oh, the joys of being a lauded hero of the Horde. Duty is expected and encouraged. Saying no renders you a bitch. It also cuts off the free mead and beer.

So, right. Whelps it is, bright and early tomorrow while they're still groggy from the evening's chill.