Grommet Cogswaddle sat at a small desk in her tiny Stormwind apartment, (It was not so much a desk as an overturned crate she’d liberated from beside the fire in the Blue Recluse.) She gazed out at the Mage’s tower and felt a pang of envy. Not for the building, nor for students practicing the skills she had yet to learn, but for the storage space. The almost countless cases of books and scrolls dwarfed her own small stack of satchels and boxes, but she wouldn’t have traded one for the other, at least, she didn’t think she would.
She patted the bundle of letters from her brother, another much smaller bundle from her uncle, and an even smaller collection written in a scratchy hand she didn’t recognize. She gave an involuntary shudder. There was a short treatise on skinning and preserving hides, and a book full of sketches of plants of all sorts and in all seasons, both written by her Uncle. There were official documents, and a stack of messages from her parental units, nearly all identical except for the names of their patients and the lists of those who had been evacuated or had passed under the great gear for their last circuit.
“I will get these organized some day,” she promised herself, then opened up a document at random and began to read the scratchy scrawl.
All thoughts of organization fled.