By Aaron McClellan(Remmy):

Entry1

Saylas sat in a secluded room in total silence, while work on the structure of the White Tower buzzed around him. A blank stack of parchment, a dry quill and a full inkwell stared him in the face. He twiddled with the quill, reflecting upon the pleasant heat of the desert sun of his home. He could almost feel the warm sun washing over his back and shoulders, the warm sand under his feet, seeping between his toes. A calm smile crossed his face even as Mabock could be heard yelling from somewhere in the White tower, followed shortly by abrupt loud crashing and the patter of feet running from the orc's inescapable wrath.

Saylas pushed the harsh noise from his mind again as he pictured the wind gently blowing the sand across the wind-swept desert; it seemed to whisper to him, ever since he was a child it spoke volumes to him about the many ages that those towering dunes bore witness to. He sighed longingly as a cold shiver slowly crept it's way up his spine. The smile that had so gently caressed his face moments before slowly faded into memory as he quietly soaked the end of the quill into the still-full inkwell that haunted him, slowly burning an imaginary ring into the hardwood that composed his desk. Finally, painfully he touched the end of the quill to the parchment that so intimidated him so. He'd stared his foe down, and now was the time to take control.

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