So the dead guy's not dead.  What's his name, Monroe.  Not dead after all.  I don't know if it's a necromancy thing or if he was never dead to begin with.  He doesn't really confide in me.

Whole bunch of chaos in the Blasted Lands tonight.  Everyone shouting and shooting and attacking and yelling.  There was some tar or oil or something being poured on people, and a massive explosion.  Kelsus almost died, but Nyres said that he'll be fine.

By the time we all…

(Not written in Konney's journal.  Instead, tacked to a wall in the Theramore Keep.)

TEMPLARS OF THE ROSE



Some ignorant, nasty, fear-mongering wreck of a human being confronted me in Stormwind and banished my minions.  I haven't been able to summon anyone or anything since.



I'm freaked out, I'm furious, and I'm stuck on a clunky old mechano-strider because I can't summon my beautiful, powerful, fiery steed.  I don't have Karpep and…

I was talking to Lunarfire, and he reminded me of something.

I'm the warlock.  I'm the one with the power.  I'm the one in control.  I'm the one this fool's afraid of.

Karpep doesn't bring down a rain of fire.  Kirshok doesn't harvest souls.  I'm the one who summons.  I'm the one who banishes.  I'm the one who drains life and curses people and enslaves demons.

This guy's worried about an imp?  This guy's worried about my puppy?  No, he's…

Nothing.  Nothing in my parents' books.  Nothing in their scrolls or journals.  Nothing.

No one at the Slaughtered Lamb knew anything.  Those experts, those professionals, who claim to know all of the ways of our magic, didn't know a thing.

I want to ask Arialynn for help, but she might say no.  And if she won't help me with this, if she's not on my side...