Be warned, traveler: This post was birthed with the help of A. I.
Dispatch from the Edge of the Login Screen
Cthulha remains exiled.
Not dead. Not alive. Not logged in.
Trapped in the liminal space—her base camp at the edge of time, her warband flickering like shadows under maintenance lights. A place like the Baldur’s Gate 3 camp: safe, yes, but inescapable. A refuge and a prison.
She walks the spiral halls of her Memory Palace, thinking back. Not to Shadowlands, not to Legion, but further. To the savage world of the first Warcrafts, where it was not yet World of Warcraft. Where it was still WAR.
Before the irony. Before the polish. Before the lore knew it was lore.
She remembers those battlefields not as nostalgic pixels, but as active dimensions—still roaring, still clashing in some other shard of reality.
A brutal, barbaric version of Azeroth that never got patched out. It lives still.
And from her place in the glitch between worlds, Cthulha reaches backward.
She seeks contact with Garona Halforcen.
Wants to whisper to her:
“You are more than the half-breed assassin they made you. You will suffer, yes. But your name will echo. Your bloodline will matter. You will shape kings and betray them.
And the truth of you will never be fully known. Not even by you.”
Cthulha doesn’t seek to change the past. She respects the narrative.
She only wants her voice to be heard.