This is the record of a Blood Elf, a Sin'Dorei, one of the last survivors of my kind. I hope that this parchment survives so that the writers of history can know what we once were. Slowly, my sanity slips away, out of my control. If no one ever reads this, so be it. Perhaps this will be the last thing I ever do before I succumb completely to mindlessness.

It matters not what house I was born to or what my name is. These are only meaningless details. What matters now is that I am a Sin'Dorei. Not a Quel'Dorei, a Sin'Dorei. The difference is important. The Quel'Dorei are fooling themselves believing they can control this thirst for magic we all share. They meditate to "control" their thirst. Could a human "meditate" in order to quell his need for water? They worship the useless Gods of the Alliance. The do all they can do appease the human scum. Those humans, those foul sacks of rotting flesh who would rather see all of us dead. The Quel'Dorei make me physically ill.

The Alliance can do nothing for the "High Elves" now. Hear and again they will obtain a small vial of moonwell water. This will sate their hunger for magic as much as a grain of rice will feed a village for a month. They will pathetically beg their oppressors for more of this moonwell water. They will delude themselves for as long as they can. Then, one day, they will become one of us. They will not choose it, it will happen against their own will. Soon will come the day when there are no more of those "High Elves" only the "Blood elves." It is only a matter of time before they long for the taste of magic on their lips and it drives them to madness. There is no controlling it. The only difference between us and them is that we have already accepted our fate, and they have yet to.

I do not kid myself. I know I cannot be saved from my thirst, my need for magic. Elune cannot save me, The Light has forsaken me, the Alliance has banished me...I think only of magic. Instead of fighting reality, I have accepted my fate. I know I will never feel good again unless magic is involved. I think of nothing else, but that raw, primal force, bent to my will. I think not of the things I once enjoyed, like good wine, fine art, and carefree dance. I do not eat food or drink water unless it is conjured. "Normal" food provides no nutrition for me anymore. Even the finest candies taste no different from sand. I do not sleep, for my thirst will never let me rest. I think not of love; I need no lover other than magic. Magic is a cruel mistress, but it is the only one I have.

I will do anything for my cravings. There is nothing I wouldn't do for magic. I will suck it out of demons as I kill them. I will destroy a magical item of great power and value to feed my hunger for just a few days or hour. I will seek my former enemies, The Horde, for help. I will follow a crazed half-demon to another world for the promise of a bit of mana. I will kill for magic, and have no remorse. I will risk my very life for a small portion of strange dust. I will suck on large glimmering shards the way a child sucks on a bottle. I am not proud of these things; I am honest.

They say you are an addict when your addiction interferes with your life. I am far beyond that; my addiction is my entire life. I have nothing else left.

The most damning thing of all is I know I will never be happy again. Magic doesn't make my life joyful anymore. All magic does for me now is dull my pain for a few brief moments. I don't need magic to live a happy life; I need magic to live.