Part I: A Mage’s TaskEdit
He winced and doubled over in pain.
“Again!” Antonidas cracked.
Pragas picked himself back up and started over with his chanting. The apprentice mage was practicing on a significantly more powerful arcane spell than he was used to. And even though he’d already been working several hours on the spell and he felt his strength fading, the Archmage accepted no excuses, so he continued.
Pragas Proudweaver was in his fifth year studying under the Kirin Tor in Dalaran. The heir to a family of wealthy tailors and robe-makers serving the royal family, he’d abandoned the family trade, which he considered “women’s work,” to seek the powerful arcane arts.
It had been his dream ever since he was a child, growing up in the land of Tirisfal just outside the great capital of Lordaeron. When the Second War came, and the corrupted Orcs reached their shores, he was still too young to take up arms with his people. It was then that he vowed to find the power necessary to defeat any who would threaten his home. And he was able to seek this opportunity once the war had ended.
“Concentrate! Faster!” this time was Antonidas’ command. He was beginning to work Pragas and all his students harder than they ever have before, ever since his prized pupil, Jaina Proudmore, had been sent to help the prince investigate disturbances in the north. Most of his students thought the Archmage was simply working out his frustration at having his teacher’s pet leave, but Pragas began to suspect more, that perhaps he was preparing them for something.
Unrest was already quickly brewing all over Lordaeron and elsewhere. The Orcs had somehow broken free of their internment, and rumors were that they had rallied again under a single banner. And now, apart from a few scattered groupings, the Orcs were nowhere to be found. It was known that they stole many ships from the human fleet, but their purpose was unknown, and this made people, still stewing in their hatreds from the first two wars, worry quite a bit.
But Orcs did not seem to concern Antonidas in the least.
“A little more,” the Archmage continued commanding. Pragas strained and kept his arms aloft, focusing and straining with all his strength on the shimmering pool of water below him. By this stage in this casting, the water was already churning and cresting chaotically.
Focus, was the word creeping into his mind, probably coming from his own teacher. Pragas focused on the words, and began the final part of his chant. The waves started to subside a little, but the water towards the middle began to rise, like a pillar coming straight out of the water. Once the top of the pillar reached the height of the caster, who was standing at least ten feet above the pool, the water widened, and formed two appendages, one from each side. A head began to take shape in front, and through the cresting turmoil of the water, a face could faintly be made out.
A huge splash shot from the pool, knocking over and soaking the caster, thus signaling the end of his spell work. The huge elemental beast stood up to him, watching him benignly and awaiting command from the mage. Pragas, refreshed slightly, though still exhausted, stood up as best he could and proudly surveyed the pool and the being that rose from it.
“Well done,” sounded Antonidas, somewhat dismissively Pragas thought. Antonidas glanced at the elemental that had been created and instantly dismissed it with a thought, the water loosing form and falling into the pool with a huge, disheartening splash.
“Again!” he shouted.
He awakened suddenly with a gasp, the kind of gasp that one has after nearly drowning, clutching at whatever air they can after breathing so much water. Only no air filled his lungs. He had awakened, dead… again.
The rain began to fall from the dark clouds above and batter his head. Pragas pulled his hood over his shoulder-length, light brown hair. He bounced and jolted along in the soggy cart that was carrying him along the road. He held the reins of the horse leisurely as the steed made his own pace down the road. This gave the mage a final chance to look back at the walls of Lordaeron, from where he had just left after getting additional supplies from his already long trek from Dalaran.
The water elemental spell had pushed him to his limits, but Antonidas had made him perform the spell at least a dozen more times within the same week. Each time the Archmage made it more challenging, until Pragas was finally calling forth the water from the vapors in the air itself to form his minion. When the mage had finally completed training on this powerful spell, he somehow had more of an appreciation for his master’s harsh demands.
He then looked ahead under the darkened clouds and falling rain at the woods of Tirisfal, his former home. It’s the first time he’d been anywhere near his home since he left to begin his arcane training. His parents had allowed him to go, albeit hesitantly. The magic they had seen themselves involved the mages and priests in Lordaeron for whom they crafted the finest robes. They were always trying to show off in front of the royal family. It took a lot of work over the years for Pragas to convince his family that he would not be like the arrogant mages of Lordaeron. His parents agreed, and so with their influence, he was put under the apprenticeship of Archmage Antonidas.
Pragas glanced at one of the intersecting paths. He wondered whether he should go down to the nearby village of Brill, where his family kept shop. They didn’t live too far from there and it wasn’t a long journey. But he decided against it. His parents never quite approved of his chosen path and he wasn’t sure how he’d be welcomed. Besides that, Archmage Antonidas had given him instruction, and he was going to keep it, even if it would one day become his one dying regret.
Soon after mastering the elemental spell, the Archmage had called to him. “The time has come,” he said calmly and without somber, “for you to be free from my teaching. Your path must now take you to Quel’Thalas, the home of the High Elves. There, you will find the great, master-wizard Relfthra. He will complete your training.”
Humbled, and also upset by having to leave his former master, Pragas had said his goodbye, and promptly left, not knowing he would not see the Archmage again until after Pragas' own death… to kill his former master.
He was in a crypt, an underground tomb. Torches had already been lit, ready to lead him into the darkness above.
He rose slowly, but not as painfully as he’d imagined. He felt around. He knew he was lying on stone. A crypt. It must be. That’s why he couldn’t see anything, he thought.
“The Scourge attacks the Inner Elfgate!”
Pragas heard someone shouting, but he didn’t have time to see whom. The mage was too busy channeling a defensive spell to the Elfgate. Standing in a circle along with many of the other Elf mages, they were to make one last stand to defend their home, pulling their energy directly from the Sunwell itself. One of those with him was Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider.
Somehow, Pragas had made it just two steps in front of the Scourge hitting the doorstep of the Elves. Master Relfthra had been called away before Pragas had even arrived. To keep the human out of their affairs, he was put under the supervision of Kael’thas during his short time there, barely even a month. He’d learned more in those days preparing for the assault than perhaps his whole first year under Antonidas. War sometimes expedites things other than death.
It had been many days since the siege began, and instead of the onslaught slowing, the attacks of the Scourge had only intensified. A few of the Elves that Pragas was circled with had already passed out from exhaustion at the intensity of the defensive spell they were fighting so desperately to keep up. Pragas began to feel his strength dwindling as well. And he was starting to realize that it was only a matter of time before the defenses failed.
He knew then what a terribly unstoppable force an army of the undead would be, always being replenished by their fallen enemies. He imagined the countless Elves and humans from his own land, which were now battling at the Elfgates, in greater numbers than when they had started.
He saw a shadow fly across the ground, then looked up to see a winged creature circling above the Elfgate. Then came two, three, four more. At least a dozen of these large, bat-like-creatures hovered just outside the Elfgate. It appeared one of them had spotted his circle of casters because it let out a piercing screech and the whole group of them descended over the Inner Elfgate, headed straight for him.
“Gargoyles!” a commanding Elf shouted. Pragas looked over to see the one he knew to be Sylvanas Windrunner, High Elf General of the Rangers of Silvermoon.
At once, a division of Silvermoon Rangers appeared and launched a flurry of Elven arrows at the winged creatures, the agility of the arrows matched by that of the targets, many of them avoiding the attack entirely. A few of the arrows made their marks, and two of the creatures fell to the ground, the Elven bolts protruding from their arms or neck. Upon hitting the ground, the Rangers were shocked to find that the creatures had turned immediately into stone, so the Elves kept their focus on those still mobile.
A few more flurries of arrows brought down a few more at closer range, these too turning to stone on impact. The pack was still only a few yards above the casting circle. An arrow through each of their heads at close range brought down the last two. The first fell into the center of the circle, while the second toppled into one of the elves casting the spell.
There was a deafening crash at the Elfgate as the spell wavered, allowing the Scourge forces a brief moment to try and break through. A lone ghoul was spotted climbing over the high Elfgate, and was quickly brought down by the High Elven warriors. Suddenly, just when the division of Sylvanas’ Rangers began to turn their attention to another attack, another piercing screech of a gargoyle was heard. They all looked up, but could see nothing flying in the sky.
This time, the attack came from the ground. The gargoyles that had turned to stone were made flesh again before everyone’s eyes, completely unscathed and healed, the ends of the arrows falling to the ground. Immediately, a group of four of the monsters had jumped on each of the High Elven casters in the circle.
Pragas strained and sweated. He wanted with all his might to help the mage next to him, who’s appendages were being torn from the living Elf with a gut-wrenching riiiiiip. But all his power was poured into the spell before him, and he would not let it falter again. His home was already lost. He would not lose this one.
Rangers attacked the remaining monsters to protect the casting circle. Screams could be heard everywhere as other casters had the creatures on top of them, tearing at their flesh with ghastly teeth and festering claws. Pragas looked across the circle and saw Kael’thas throw a bolt of fire into two of the gargoyles, incinerating them on the spot. He then looked around in panic. Pragas was now the only one channeling the defensive spell. He collapsed to the ground under the powerful pressure.
The Scourge's attempt was finally accomplished.
This time, the spell broke.
This time, the Inner Elfgate fell.
This time, the Sunwell was destroyed.
He felt his misshapen hands. They felt odd, cold. Claws were formed at the ends of his fingers, and he could even feel the bones that barely fit together. These aren’t mine, he thought.
Pragas is dead...
He died in the onslaught of the Scourge in the heart of Quel’thalas. There was no triumphant last stand. No holy heroes coming to the rescue. Only pain. Only death.
“No more games!” Arthas demanded. “Destroy them all!”
Pragas awoke after passing out to witness the former prince turned Death Knight leading the charge of the undead through the Elfgate, clashing with a wall of Elf warriors and barreling through practically unaffected, the trampling of the Elves muffling the chilling screams. Gargoyles flew overhead as all variation of undead horror, spirit, and arachnid decimated the front, second, and third lines of elves. Pragas immediately jumped to his feet and into action, summoning up all his reserve strength for this final showdown.
Bones shattered over the cries of defeat from a group of ghouls brought down with a mighty spell. But a single, spider-like crypt fiend spat a disgusting, greenish ooze at Pragas. He barely dodged it before it knocked him to the ground. But brushing a few drops off the goo off his sleeve only got his hands entangled. Without the power to fight the creature off, he had to rely on a spell he now knew quite well, but was saving until all had seemed lost.
Closing his eyes and straining to his limit, Pragas called forth the latent water particles from the air, and even a slight amount from the Sunwell itself. The pillar of water formed before him as it had many times when learning from Antonidas. This one, however, grew to proportions he had never seen before. Fueled directly by the Sunwell’s power, the water elemental formed, and this one seemed like it would be completely unstoppable. That’s when many of the undead stopped their assault and focused on the fluid warrior in their way.
But their attacks would be to no avail. The elemental washed away the swarm with great efficiency. Pragas didn’t even have to control or focus on his creation. This being had the will and power of the elements themselves. Pounding the scourge force back with crushing waves.
“A nice trick,” Arthas called out from the thundering tide, “but futile nonetheless.” Raising his sword high in the air, Pragas saw a dreadful beam of dark energy shoot out of the sword in a direction he could not see, obscured by the destruction of the water elemental.
He realized what happened soon enough. A lumbering abomination of meat and bones bashed through the unsubstantial elemental like a fine mist and charged at Pragas, surrounded by a dark, hazy cloud of death itself. The mage kept his concentration though his astonishment and summoned up all his energy and in an instant his hands were aflame. Pragas thrust his hands forward toward the giant and the fire disappeared from them.
With meat hook furiously swinging in his third arm protruding from its back, the abomination suddenly stopped in its tracks. It started to look confused as a deep gurgling came from its rotten bowels. A moment later, the undead creature’s stomached exploded, forcibly divorcing its upper torso from its legs. Pragas ducked, avoiding a flying organ as blood and bone sprayed everyone nearby.
Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, pain shot through his entire body as a lone ghoul had sneaked up on him and swiped its morbid claws across his back. His shredded robes hung loosely, and blood trickled down his back. He could feel the rot and maggots already creeping on his skin. With the unholy corruption weakening his body, Pragas responded by spinning around and swiftly implanting his magical staff into the zombie’s skull.
But by this point, it was too much effort put forth all too late. The power thrust upon him from defending the gate couple with fighting back the undead minions become too much for him to bear. He could feel his flesh already numbing in his torso where he had been attacked. Darkness gripped him again. Black.
White. He opened his eyes and only saw the continuing chaos and destruction around him. Unspeakable monsters surrounded him everywhere. Elves were impaled, maimed; some even returned the favor to the recent intruders before all was finished. Black.
White. Pragas crawled on the ground through the carrion and blood. He felt his back, where the infected wound began to ooze an unknown substance. Smeared and stained in his own blood as well as that of his fellow allies, robes torn and it felt like his jaw already broken, he looked up right into the face of death. Death it most certainly was, only it had simply chosen the shape of his once-beloved prince. Arthas.
“Ah, a lone human,” the cold voice bellowed, “Another fitting servant for my benevolence.” The dark beast, obscured by the corrupted royal visage, lifted his blade. Frostmourne was ready to take another soul, and transform it into a minion of the undead scourge army.
Pragas spat a wad of his own blood at the feet of the unholy knight, wincing in agony. “I… will never serve you,” he choked.
And with one swift thrust of the frozen blade, the black finally won…
End of Part I.
Part II: Speaking to DemonsEdit
I never had a eulogy. There was no one left to give it. After the fall of Lordaeron, my home, so fell Quel’Thalas, and eventually Dalaran. Everywhere I had been, everyone I once knew was either dead or long since forgotten, refugees across a great sea as their cousins in Stormwind had similarly done nearly twenty years ago.
This is not their story. This portion of the tale begins, as many often do these days, with a dead man. And, like many, he becomes enslaved by the living-dead Scourge, a king of liches atop an icy throne, and a once-noble prince turned death knight.
But unlike many, this is one of the few who had the will enough to resist; to enslave his would-be slavers; to take on his curse, and use it as a weapon against his enemies in order to free himself and the rest of his kind from persecution and endless torment.
This is my tale.
As I said, we begin with a man in the unfortunate condition of already being dead. A mangled body, indistinguishable from any of the other wartime casualties left unsorted in a small crypt. Except this particular body is in the strange predicament of still being alive.
This is where I enter (at least, this is the first thing I remember), for my soul belongs to the hapless body writhing in the tomb. It took a while for me to realize this fact for myself. I could not see. I could not breathe, taste, or feel the world around me. It can only be described as what I would think being trapped inside a womb feels like.
Before I could tear myself apart from sheer terror, I had to come to grips with what was going on. Silence at first, then slowly, I began to focus my thoughts. Quiet. Breathing. I did the motions, and slowly got used to the lack of air filling my non-existent lungs. Slowly, the dull hum in my ears ebbed and I heard the faint but familiar crackle of nearby torches. Yet, all I could see still was a faint light.
Then, a shadow appeared in front of the light, and there came a voice gruff and ugly, as if the flies were eating at his throat, which made me guess (rightly so) that this one was in the same situation I was in, only less incapacitated. Still, I didn’t like the way he spoke to me.
“I’m Undertaker Mordo,” he introduced himself impatiently, “What’s y’r name? Nevermind, y’r needed topside.”
I tried to answer, force the air out though my vocal cords. I breathed, and hacked a long, deadly cough. I kept on coughing as I struggled for the air I couldn’t breathe. As I kept coughing, I could feel something force its way through my throat. My feeling had returned enough to sense a small creature forcing its way through my windpipe, small legs tickling at my throat, keeping me coughing. I lifted my arm and reached inside my mouth. As my jaw cracked open, I pulled a large beetle-creature out of my mouth, probably busy feeding off the carrion that had built up in my carcass.
I tossed the grub aside in disgust and finished coughing, and tasted a layer of greasy bile lining my mouth and throat, but at least this time I could speak, though my broken jaw still made that difficult.
“Wha’ happe’d?” The undead had watched the scene, and had grown even more impatient.
“You are dead, of course,” he stated. Of course I knew this, it just helped to hear it from someone. I had guessed now that Prince Arthas would not give me a simple death, but that still didn’t explain how I got here.
“Dunno’. Y’came in the wagons coming out of Dalaran."
Huh? “Dalara’?” I lifted my jaw to be more coherent, ”But I died in Quel’Thalas…”
Mordo grunted, and I could hear the accompanied shrug.
“Y’ve got work to do. Come on.”
“The first virtue is respect. The universe is the physical manifestation of other's wills. Thus, for a person to denigrate the universe is to ignore the personal power of those around them. This is not only disrespectful, it is dangerous. A follower of the Forgotten Shadow must develop his personal power in order to exert his will on the universe, but seeking too much power too quickly puts him in conflict with other, stronger beings. Only a foolish follower seeks to challenge his superiors right away. Showing respect ensures a measure of self-protection.”
I can safely and inarguably say that I did not follow Mordo out of the tomb that day (If it was even day. I could not be sure the sun still existed at that point). Whether by some unseen force pulling on me, or the complete deterioration of my muscles --I could not tell which held me down-- I collapsed before I could even reach the foot of the steps. I kept gasping, reaching for the air that would not come. Somehow though, the motions felt more comforting. At this point, it was all I had.
Faintly, I could hear some movement nearby. I glanced toward the stairs expecting to see the undertaker with his lantern, but no one came down. The noise got louder; it sounded as if something was being dragged across the cobwebbed floor. Just then, from behind I felt a nudge. I half-crawled, half-limped out of the way to watch another body, which only moments ago had been cold dead, crawl out of an inlet of the crypt and stagger to its feet.
This one was, or maybe once had been, female. This one seemed in slightly better shape than I was in, which didn't say much. A large scar that cut deeply through her left cheek had decomposed most of that side of her face. The other side, however, still looked rather fair, apart from her one remaining eye, which was glazed over and whited out.
Her skin was not leathery; it hadn't been mummified. But the rosy pink color that had once come from the blood that highlighted her cheeks and skin was replaced with a greenish tint of decay and ichor. Her obviously once-blonde hair had grayed and dulled, also taking on the putrid tint in her skin.
For a moment, she looked at me with her single, glazed eye. All I could do was stare back, half with curiosity and half with shock. At that point, it looked like she was trying to crack her lips open, as if to say something to me. I held my breath. But instead, she turned around and let her still full legs carry her up the stairs.
I still do not know what happened to her.
But those are probably the best times I had in Deathknell.
“The second virtue is tenacity. Followers of the Forgotten Shadow put even greater stock in the virtue of tenacity. It may at first seem impossible for a person to change the universe when countless others seeking to do the same surround him. Through unwavering perseverance and tenacity, though they may triumph.”
In the lingering days after waking in the crypt, thoughts and memories slowly started to coalesce themselves. As if remembering a long-forgotten dream, or hearing the whispers of the one who witnessed my path, I began to remember what had happen, and how I became part of the mindless, all-consuming Scourge:
I see now that I was not the only casualty, or possibly reward, added to the vast undead army that day in Silvermoon. The Sunwell was destroyed for a purpose, and with the power of the newly reborn Kel’Thuzad, plus my own fists, the remainder of Lordaeron was scoured. Armies fell, others simply fled. And all that died rose again to serve in an even more vast army. We continued south, until all that stood in the way was the Kirin Tor in my former home of Dalaran.
I watched through my own eyes as we breached the magic walls the city had put up. Though weakened, we were able to destroy the Archmagi protecting the city. Every one. Including my former master and mentor, Antonidas. It is then when we came face to rotting face for the last time.
There I was, a plagued one, destroying everything in our path, reveling in the glory of the destruction. It was my face he saw. Those eyes were mine. They belonged to the Scouge, but also to me. What I wanted was the same as the Scourge. I wanted him, and every human in my path to die. I wanted to let loose and tear him limb from limb. I did not hold back.
Antonidas, my former teacher, stood with a look of shock on his face as I charged at him. Without hesitation I jumped on him, ripping flesh from bone, devouring it all and slurping up all the warm, red blood. It was glorious, and delicious. I was intoxicated by death, along with the other undead around me. It was like a high I had never felt before. I will never forget it. I will also never forget the face of sheer terror and astonishment when Antonidas recognized who I was. It’s strange that I still feel no remorse…
We had finally broken through Dalaran’s defenses and were preparing to take the Book of Medivh from the Kirin Tor. With it, the Eredar, Archimonde the Defiler, leader of the Burning Legion, would bring forth the end of the world. But even though it was already too late to save the city, a final charge was lead to destroy as many undead as possible. It is here that my existence as a member of the Scourge came to its end.
I looked up from my feast, and saw many knights wearing the banner of the Silver Hand. Holy paladins, who used the powers of the Light as a powerful destructive force against any undead. With their zealous devotion, they were the most powerful obstacle in the Scourge's path.
The ghouls turned to attack the knights, and I followed. A few knights fell, but so did more ghouls. I found a target and reached up to attack. From behind a broadsword came down on my right elbow, severing my arm. There was no pain, or any change in my attitude. I continued to lunge and reached out with my other arm. The knight I was attacking drew his own sword and sliced off my arm as easily as the first.
I only stopped for a brief moment, just to make sure what had happened actually did happen. But I continued my assault. I would tear their faces off with my teeth if necessary. That's when one of the paladins opened their holy books to cast as spell, and instantly a surge of light and magic struck me and several others with a force and pain that I hadn't felt up to that point. Every inch of me burned. I even dared to look right into the light, which was the last thing I saw. The holy fire burned the eyes from their very sockets.
And everything went black once again.
“Power is the third virtue of the Forgotten Shadow, and the most difficult to attain. A Forsaken who grabs greedily for power might encounter power too great her him to handle, and die in his attempt to master it. A Forsaken who succumbs to despair and seeks no personal power has no reason to exist; he craves nothing, desires nothing, he sits alone and pines for his old life. To the cult, Forsaken who do not seek to better themselves might as well still be part of the Scourge. The quest for power requires caution, forethought, and a subtle touch.”
But even when I awoke in the crypt, my sanity did not follow quite so easily. For many months after, I did not even leave. I slipped into an unending brooding depression. I stayed in the crypt and began to focus on all the demons that assailed me. I then began to explore their realm with my mind. Being between death and life allowed me to breach the gap into the Twisting Nether.
The first time I struggled to see inside the crypt, all I saw were the mindless dead, my former people. Why couldn't I have stayed dead? Why had The Light forsaken us? It had forsaken us all. For ages we’ve wondered about life after death. I did not see The Light, or see great angels or ancestors. I only saw more death, more suffering... and Him.
It shook me like a jolt and nearly froze my already cold bones. Ner’zhul, the King of the Liches, the first betrayer of the living. I saw with my minds eye Icecrown, and the throne of ice, freezing to the touch and harder than stone. I saw the eyes glow in the frozen metal crown. Then I heard him speak.
“Wake up, ghoul.”
When the Lich King spoke to me, it returned to me all the memories of things I had done under the rule of the Scourge. Somehow, perhaps through my arcane abilities or the manner of my death, I was able to maintain such a small grip onto my sanity and soul that I was able to reawaken the way I am now. But apparently, Arthas had little use for my magical knowledge. Perhaps it is also my training that made the Lich King see a threat in me, which is why I was relegated to a common zombie underling, a ghoul.
“Wake up, ghoul.”
I lay in the tomb, writhing as the voices of demons and undead assailed me. I heard the voices of demons, the Scourge, and of the Lich King himself.
“You are still my servant. You can not defeat my will. Join the Scourge again…”
Join us. Ered'nash ban galar.
It was when I heard this that I remember hearing the voice before. When I fell to the will of the Scourge, the voice was stronger, more constant than it had ever been. And this time, He wasn’t alone. This voice was different now. I heard something else behind it, someone familiar. It didn't take long for me to remember that bitter and cold voice that had come just before my death.
The pain of a million tortured screams shook my half-hallowed skull.
“We are much more than that now. Join us and see.”
“I- I won't.”
“Then you shall rot.”
From then on, I couldn't move. I watched for hours as more rotten corpses shifted and woke. I thought about the zombies creaking to life and staggering from the crypt into the unknown hell that waited above, to serve whatever master could control them.
“They are not zombies. They are Forsaken!”
The crystal clear voice jarred me from my state. Suddenly, all the other visions that had tormented me vanished. I could see clearly, and I finally had a piece of my sanity back. But who-
“They are Forsaken. As are you. Arise from your tomb and all will be explained.”
The voice was most certainly feminine. It reminded me of one I'd heard before, soon before my death, but barely more than a specter. Sylvanas-
“Stand up, Forsaken.”
“Now, I will help you subdue your inner demons. Leave the crypt. Learn your powers again. And soon, you will come to me and we will complete your training.”
“The final virtue is death. A Forsaken reaches the pinnacle of power when he masters death itself, transcends it. This power over death requires the same delicate touch of any other power. A Forsaken must not kill indiscriminately, nor can he withhold death from the weak. To kill wantonly escalates the Forsaken's risk of encountering power too great for him to overcome. It also robs him of his strength; A Forsaken who spends all day slaying wildlife and human peasants might exhaust his power, and be left defenseless when a true threat arises. Likewise, a Forsaken who shows mercy to the weak and forgoes regular exercise of his power may gain a reputation for weakness himself. This draws predators and offends the cult.
He must always preserve a balance.”
I finally emerged from the tomb for the first time with my free will in tact. Eventually I came to realize that this terrible curse was also a gift. It was then that I decided to alter my name to that which caused my demise, and what would become the undoing of all the enemies of the Forsaken: the Plague.
But death is not just all that I have seen. Death is now what I have become. I suppose it is in that sense that I found my magical talent again and became a warlock, so that the demons that once haunted and controlled me would be my servants, and the tools for their own undoing. I abandoned my arcane training and pursue the shadow arts.
With the aid of the Dark Lady Sylvanas, the all-consuming power that was used to enslave us shall instead set us free. And in death, we shall have new life. I am Death. I am Plagos Deathweaver.
So far, I had not seen a detailed account of anyone's reawakening as Forsaken. After trying it for myself, I don't really blame them. I know this isn’t anything original or interesting, just something that I wanted to try my hand at. And I know it’s excessively long, but looking at it, it could have been a lot longer.
Some excerpts taken from the Warcraft RPG manuals without permission.