Twenty Third Day of the first month of the year.

After enough time among any one group with which you don't share a common history or cultural values and I think two things happen; either you acclimate to them and whatever originally bothered you about them develops a deep, hard callous so that you can move among them, or, it blisters up like a foot in a new sandal and pains you each time you take a "step".
In my case, the callous would not grow and I am simply too thin-skinned to spend a great deal of time among the Forsaken. It all the talk of plagues and using it against every form of life, with a general blase' attitude towards the damage they would do. Looking at the sesspool of Halgrin, where I ventured to help them test their vile concoctions out, made my stomach turn each time. They never reacted, simply staring down in to the small vale they had pumped full of a green haze, watching without much emotion.
I suppose when one is like that and survives it becomes rather obvious that the rest of the world could probably continue to survive that way as well. I've seen the pines of the Eastern Plaguelands gasping for air with with branches, their trunks covered with pulsing tumors. Life always continues in some form, and there's is just a different one. But for those that don't make it through the transformation.
I'd run in to the Kvaldir away from their mist-weaving beach brethren at the great lift on the way to New Agamand. They are ferocious, huge men. They tower taller than even a tauren or one of those ethereal draenai. When I stepped forward and began to help cut through their numbers to secure the lift and the waypoint they fought like some berserking druids I'd seen in the past, whipping in to a frenzy of knotted shoulders and beards and heavy, heavy axeblades. Initially I thought their entire race to be composed of males, perhaps propagated through some mystical means. But later, when I was sent in to one of their towns to try and obtain information I found the female of the species patrolling with wolves of some strange sort, and these women were as tall as the men. I wonder if the diminutive humans of Stormwind descended from these beast-people.
Here is the difference between the Forsaken and the orcs. The Forsaken, in the course of a week, asked me to go trap spectral shades for ectoplasm, desecrate corpses, poison local wildlife, steal the eggs of an endangered species of drake, THEN poison it, and to top it all off hunt down and slaughter the head of one of the Kvaldir houses, kill him, and then bring a sample of his blood to them to aid in the preparation of the final plague for the purpose of genocide. The orcs asked me to go help the local people defend their land and do what they asked of me, save the local wildlife from poaching, and help quiet down elementals that were angered by the travels of the Lich King's host across their lands. I was asked to scout out map points, release prisoners, and bring in poisoned kodos to be healed.
One group works to subjugate the land and poison it, the other tries to rebuild it.
But before anyone might laugh and tell me that I jumped to conclusions too soon, I should point out that I am currently bunked at Agmar's Hammer. Tomorrow I travel to moonrest to try and attune myself to the ley lines there with the hope of finding my way to Dalaran.
Wow. Dalaran. The word makes my head spin. Center of magely studies and arcane knowledge the likes of which haven't been seen in a while. I might soon have access to the libraries and resources there to train myself. Excitement doesn't touch on the emotions this stirs in me.
Backing up to pick up Agmar's Hammer again, I said I'm bunked here. I hope not to be for much longer after the attunement. Yes, it is orcs. It is, in fact, the Kor'kron guard, elite troops of the Horde. And let me tell you, in the case of a siege, really you can't be anywhere better than behind the Kor'kron. I've seen them at work in the Outlands and it is a spectacular thing of singular, brutal beauty.
However, something is very wrong at this outpost. Anyone who doesn't do exactly what is commanded of them is branded a traitor. I've seen notices on the walls to bring people in who did that very thing. I have no intention of getting too comfortable here and letting them start to think of me as anything more than a civilian with a few handy icicle-tricks. The feel of this place is very military and cold, and I have never been one for steel. Give me paper and scrolls and candlelight any day. At least I had that in the crypt at New Agamand. Hopefully I can return to that when I drop off these ectoplasmic samples at Venomspite, a wyvern-hop up the road. I'm hanging on to them for dear life so there's an excuse to disappear in the near future.
It seems no matter where I go, my expectations will not be met in this place. Nothing is going to feel comfortable to me and no place will ring familiar enough to take the edge off my nerves. I'll make do with a rope hammock and a fire for now. Part of me craves the sands of my home island where I could dig my toes in and smell the saltwater tang on the breeze.
Really the only thing that keeps me from doing that right now is me. I have the ability to get to Orgrimmar. Perhaps it's the stubborn streak from my father that tells me I need to stay here until I grow accustomed and make it a second home. Or maybe it's the fact that when I go back what I want won't be there. I'll still see those crazy witch doctors in the places my family and friends once danced and all the rumors of retaking the place will be lies.
It doesn't matter. My family isn't there any more, and I suspect what I want is not the warmth of the sun, but the warmth of their company.
This has all grown too serious and the torches have given me a headache with their raging bright flames. I think it's time to rest.