It’s been years since I last wrote anything. Words once flowed so easily, back when I had a pulse. Maybe it’s foolish. But the grave offers no closure, and the living offer no answers either. So I’ll speak to the page instead.
The passage of time is bittersweet — especially for one such as I.
Before the Scourge tore through my homeland, I would notice the years as they passed: a little more plump after a bountiful Pilgrim’s Harvest, a new wrinkle on my forehead, a silver strand among the black. Subtle reminders of a life well-lived.
Now… this dead face of mine is unchanging, permanently etched with eternal shame. I look just as miserable as I did all those years ago, back in Brill.
In my lifetime, I have served under two kings — Terenas and Arthas — and a queen… or rather, a banshee. Ever since she tore the sky open above Icecrown, life within the Horde has grown… strained.
Being Forsaken — and a death knight, once forged as an unholy weapon in an undead army — I had long grown used to distrust, even among allies. But Sylvanas made everything worse.
The stares grew colder. The silences, heavier. Mother Tauren clutch their children as I pass, as though I were a nightmare made flesh, ready to drag them away in chains of shadow.
Hostility and suspicion cling to us like rot. We are second-rate citizens in a city — in a Horde — I once fought to the bone to protect. No gratitude. Little respect. Only wary, judgmental eyes.
That’s why I left. Not just Orgrimmar… but perhaps the Horde itself.
After crossing the sea to the Eastern Kingdoms, I briefly considered life among the Alliance. But they would never trust me — nor should they. My hands are far from clean. And the Scarlet Crusade? They’d sooner set me ablaze than utter a word.
Wherever I go, I am met with narrowed eyes and blades half-drawn.
So where does one go, when both war and purpose lie behind them?
What becomes of one who no longer belongs to the world… yet still walks it?
I’ve made a decision. I’ll travel north — to Northrend.
Apparently, the Ebon Blade still have use for those who can wield a sword. They remain stationed as protectors against the Scourge, should they swarm again.
I do not go in the name of the Horde. I go for my risen brethren — those who know the cold shoulder of others… and the ache of disconnection.
We do not need warmth. But we remember what it felt like.
First real attempt at any serious RP narrative