"Waken, sleeper."
The voice broke my contemplation. It carried a ghostly, otherworldly quality to it. Haunting. Undoubtedly disconcerting. Above all, a touch surprising. They were correct all along, the priests of Lordaeron; there is life after death. Perhaps I should have listened to those white-robed holy men, but even if I had, it would hardly have mattered as they cared little for my kind, preaching the good fight but practicing it not in the slightest. They would never have a common thief brought into the light, no matter how true his attempts at correction may be. No matter. The shadows have been an ever present companion, and they've served surely just as well as the light has to the paladins and priests.
But that still leaves the question - if I had died, where am I now? If this is the afterlife, it's certainly darker than I would have thought. Perhaps this is the ominous void the warlocks were always going on about. Nevertheless, the pain from my wounds has all but vanished - a welcome respite - and this new world presents an ease of not even having to put in the effort of taking a breath. Finally, a blessing.
"Your new life awaits."The voice came again. Patience, evidently, is not a virtue of this afterlife. Maintaining an air of authority, it began to ring with a touch of agitation.
Begrudgingly, I opened my eyes to the starry sky of the Tirisfal nighttime. That was all well and good; a welcome, familiar sight in a place that otherwise isn't. I would feel at home enough here if only it had someone to clean the place. Evidently, that was not of the utmost concern here. I would be sure to take up a complaint with whatever deity ran this after-death locale. Brushing myself off, I felt the same familiar daggers by my side, worn with time and hardly sharp. Small comforts, but comforts nevertheless. It pays to have such little of worth that your possessions in death are not worth stealing.
It was then a cockroach alighted upon my chest. Curious it felt so safe around a human, but testament to the filth I was in that it did. I moved to flick it away, but to my horror it wasn't my hand that arose to do the deed. This one, dull green from rot, a splash of colour in the otherwise darkened landscape, felt like my own. Thin stretches of bone protruding out from my hands were more akin to claws than fingernails, long, slender and dirty as the rest of me. My throat dry and scratchy, the ability to scream out eluded me, leaving me terrified and silent at the bottom what I soon realized was a grave. The only sound being the fluttering of the wings of the roach crawling carefree across my torso. It drew my eyes to three deep wounds torn through the black leather of my vest, caked blood surrounding each. Finally my body took control, shock and revulsion forcing me to leap from my grave, stumbling backwards, giving rise to the sounds of bone scratching roughly against bone where flesh and sinew had long since disappeared. I felt my face; tough and lacking the malleability of living flesh, but nevertheless mostly resembling my own. Small comforts, again. I took a steadying breath only to remember that in this life I no longer needed it.
Being so absorbed in the changes to myself I hardly noticed my surroundings. A quiet gloom covered the landscape, dark hues of purple and green anywhere that wasn't black. Save, of course, for the ghastly white lady that hovered above me, my new mother ushering me from the grave that is my womb. Adorned with the breastplate and helmet of a warrior, the faceless ghost stared down at me from on high, thin rays of light emanating from her ethereal form. Feathered, translucent wings stretched wide. She was grim, and beautiful, and I was anything but. I was at a loss for words. It was to my fortune she spoke first.
"You are reborn by the gift of the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner. She is the reason for your being. She asks for your service in your new life." The voice echoed powerfully, not a command but a statement of few other options. I willed myself to speak. A rogue can speak with feigned confidence no matter how dry his pool of it has run.
"And this..." I slowed at the sound of my voice, more hoarse and grating than I remembered it, "and this Banshee Queen, would that be you?"
"No. I am in service to her."
"Beg pardon, but then who might you be?" I asked, stepping closer, revealing gnarled nails similar to that of my fingers stretching out from the tear in my boot. I curled them inwards, hoping in vain they would disappear if I hid them beneath me.
"A Val'kyr, formerly in service to the Lich King Arthas, now protecting the interests of the Dark Lady." The answer created more questions than it cleared; Arthas, the great hope of Lordaeron, charming prince, a Lich? Could this land even be the peaceful Tirisfal Glades of my youth? I nodded, opting instead to speak with one of my kind - one of my new kind, that is - a preoccupied undead trying in vain to scribble something on a ledger in spite of his clawed hands. The lady seemed not to mind - there were plenty other corpses. He turned to look at me, broken jaw swinging loosely with the motion, but in spite of it all managing to speak rather eloquently.
"Ah, a newly risen," he said in the same crackling tone I heard through my own voice. Dry. Grating. "When did you die?"
"Wha- when did I die? Yester-"
He laughed, more of a sinister coughing sound than anything resembling joy. "Surely you know it's not yesterday, my boy. You've been rotting in your grave for some time now! Must have been buried pretty deep. No matter." He waved his hand aside, revealing he had only a few digits on his hand. I wonder if they were lost before or after his death.
"What you need to know is this; you've died. Fortunately, you've been reborn, and more fortunate yet, you still seem to have your wits about you. More than I can say for some, here." He pointed to a twitching zombie in the distance, standing and staring blankly into the darkened woods beyond. "You're in service of the Banshee Queen, an elf slain by the Lich King Arthas. We call ourselves the Forsaken, and hear me, when you enter the world looking like that you'll find the name fitting rather quickly. But serve the cause, and we'll help you acclimatize. My name is Undertaker Mordo. And you are?"
He stretched a boney hand towards me, and already much of the revulsion had begun to sink away. A rogue adapts. I began to respond with my human name, but cut myself short. This new life presents opportunity, a freeing of the trappings of my past, all the disgust and vitriol towards the forgotten of society lying dead in my grave but finding no such similar rebirth. Forsaken; the title feels familiar. A foul green tint on a nearby crooked streetlight illuminated the insect that had felt no repulsion to my new being. I stared Mordo in the eyes, finding still a resemblance of a soul behind them, and took the hand in mine. There was no warmth between the flesh, but nevertheless there was a bond.
"Roach", I replied.
Mordo nodded knowingly. "Ah, taking to the new life quickly, I see. You'll do well here. Are you ready for your first task? I know you're a little green - and I don't mean your skin, this occasion - but there's no time like the present."
I replied with a level of enthusiasm that surprised even myself. "Yes. In service to the Dark Lady, I suppose."
"Very well, Roach. The mindless - the undead such as yourselves that somehow along the way lost their mental capacity - they need to be put down. A sad sort. Slay them and return to me. You'll find it's good to have your wits about you." He spoke the final words tilting his head to the side, once more swinging his broken jaw, and revealing a missing patch of skull that revealed brain matter.
In the past I had killed men. Not many. Only those that presented me with no other course of action. I did not refrain from killing for emotional reasons, but purely from a practical perspective; bodies meant searches, and holding the interest of Lordaeron's finest did not walk hand in hand to survival. The roaming patrols of soldiers in the city, clad in their gleaming white armour, were the blinding, glorious sight of death to a thief. I suppose I know first hand. But this was different; the zombies before me were soulless, lost to death already but clinging to life by a single thread, waiting to be snipped by the daggers at my side. I unsheathed them, the cold steel still familiar, and stabbed the nearest in the throat.
The zombie turned, and with sudden swiftness lashed out at me with the sharp nails of his bare hands, tearing three lines across the exposed flesh of my shoulder. I felt no pain, but neither did he. I stabbed wildly, connecting enough times to fell any man, and finally a well-placed slash across the neck severed the head from the body. No fatigue struck me. On to the next.
I returned to find Mordo elated after seeing me clear the field, although he was unable to smile. He pulled from a chest by his side a thin cloak, handing it over to me as thanks for the completion of the task. "Keep warm," he said. "Do not let the cold of death slow you. Now go, help those that are still fresh," a skeletal hand pointing to four newly raised corpses cowering behind trees, "and do what you can to bring them to our side."
The first, a frail woman, most teeth scattered to time and her nose absent, sat quietly in the comforting dark behind the sea of graves. I bent a knee low, and spoke as softly as my harshened voice allowed. I spoke of the fear, of the unknowing, of the hatred that will surely fall on us, but also of the opportunity. An opportunity to rebuild, and start anew among those that understand each other. In time, she looked up at me, face grim and hard, but nodded. She approached Undertaker Mordo shortly after. The second, a man rocking back and forth uneasily, pulled a sword upon my approach, screamed that death should hold a permanence, and managed to sever his head with his own weapon. Even seeing a corpse fall to death was somehow just as unnerving.
The third was a woman, blond hair having lost much of the lustre of youth. She lurked behind a tree, trying in vain to hide from my presence. I began the same speech as the first, but found that the woman was not as responsive. I tried reaching out a hand.
"Get away from me, you abomination!" she screamed at me, not fearfully but forcefully. "The undead are a taint upon Azeroth! Every one of you creatures deserves to be destroyed!"
"Calm yourself. We are not monsters. We're the same, you and I - well, I might be a touch more quick to accept change, but..."
"No! I cannot be dead! I hunt the undead! Trained to kill the lot of you, I cannot become you! My father... I must find my father!" With that, she ran off to the east, through the rusted gate that led to what appeared to be a town.
"She's right, you know. A monster, that's all you are." The last was a man, standing in a defensive position with his sword, telling me in no uncertain terms that approaching him would be the end of me. "I hunted you as well. I'm no friend of yours, you atrocity." He spat the words at me.
"You're no different from me." Already, even from my own kind, there was a pervasive sense of hatred of the unknown.
"Don't you know who I am? I am Marshall Redpath, charged with battling the Forsaken on behalf of the Alliance! I'll find my own. Others truly like me. We'll put you dogs down." Much like the girl, he stormed off.
I found Mordo standing close behind me. He nodded towards the east, towards the gates in which Redpath and the girl ventured. The town there was lovingly called Deathknell. He wished me luck. I wished him the same. Whatever lies ahead, it won't be easy.
-----------------------
Past the gates held a clearer picture of an undead town; dilapidated buildings for decrepit skeletons. Creaking, aged wood structures with meandering cobblestone paths were protected by what could only be the undead's military core; heavily armoured men and women, bones still exposed beneath plate and mail, wearing what must be the symbol of their - our - kind. A pale woman's face with arrows crisscrossing beneath atop a tabard of dark purple. The entire place held an abhorrence of light. A rogue could feel right at home. I straightened my posture in hopeful pride, only to find the most disconcerting sound of shifting vertebrae.
Two buildings seemed populated, the one on the right holding the appearance of an inn, only lacking the warmth and homeyness of what one expect from such a location. The other, more outwardly formal with soldiers milling about. The coldness of that, at least, felt fitting for its purpose. I opted for the latter.
Almost immediately upon entering, a Forsaken approached me, flanked by two robed women, likely mages. The lead man was a sight I've never seen before, and perhaps never thought I would. A living corpse in a priest's vestments. The very same caught me staring, startling me when I realize he had noticed me doing so for some time already."Your jaw has not been rotted away in undeath, so please refrain from letting it slack in my presence. My name is Shadow Priest Sarvis, and you have a lot to learn." Humbling, certainly. "You'll find that not even death can truly wipe clean the past from our bones. A man dedicated to the light in life cannot simply leave it upon his passing." He looked me up and down. "Daggers; lightweight, dark clothing; even your very stance. You were no priest, that's for certain. The Banshee Queen has deemed that we accept all those that follow, regardless of their... improprieties." The man motioned to flick the cockroach off my shoulder - well, shoulder bone, specifically - but I shifted backwards.
"Roach, at your service." I replied, ignoring the slight.
"Roach. Pleasant. Regardless of the filthy moniker you've chosen, you have been granted the opportunity to start anew. But not entirely, just like myself. A priest still, albeit one that favours the shadow more than I had in life. You cannot leave the path you've chosen, it's far too late for that, but you can use it to become something greater. Whatever is in your past, whatever darkness that you have fallen to before, those sins have been buried along with your name. Whatever talents you have had, however... those remain." Pointing to one of the women, clad in a brilliant blue robe, one of the few exceptions to the green and purple colour palette, he continued. "Her... former mage of Lordaeron. Fought the orcs in the second war. Commendations, rising in the ranks, valour this, bravery that, but now she serves the Banshee Queen as any other. All of it means nothing, now. You and her are on the same playing field - her spells, your daggers. It doesn't matter as long as you serve. Now go find Redpath, the one that ran from you in cowardice masquerading as devotion to his former cause. He has likely joined others of his kind, ones unable to acknowledge their new place in our society. They're battling with our Deathguards. Now go. Give the marshall his second defeat at the hands of the Forsaken."
I nodded and turned to leave, but he called after me once more. He pulled free a piece of a broken mirror behind him, pausing a moment to look upon his reflection before passing it over. He brushed a loose hanging strand of hair from his face. "Help those embrace their new fate, 'Roach'. Once you're done with Redpath, go to the inn and find Lillian Voss - the girl you sent screaming not long ago. Show her the truth, and show her the path. Enlightenment is not always a bright, glorious epiphany. For her it will be very dark, and very real, and if she attempts it alone she may not come out the other side."
"I don't believe she needs a mirror to see her fate. I believe she just wants her father. Or my head. Both, most likely."
"I am prepared to take that chance," he muttered, bored with our interaction. He ushered me away. Another undead, likely a new recruit, came ambling in after me. One hand on a rusted, dull sword, he carried the gait of a warrior. I heard the man address the next in line, although this time with a much different tone. Comments about a strong warrior, worthy of the cause, far different than the condescension given to me. He identified himself to the newcomer as Shadow Priest Sarvis. I hadn't even earned the respect of hearing his name. He proved himself wrong in his manner of treatment of me in saying my past didn't cling onto my bones the same as my rotten flesh. But I'll prove him right in showing whatever skills I had before are still with me. I'll earn my keep here, and I'll earn it with the head of Redpath at my feet.
-----------------
I heard the battle far before seeing it. Battle cries and the ringing of steel on steel shattered the otherwise quiet landscape. The fight was taking place on a series of small hills east of Deathknell, through a small crop of homes, remnants of the lives of the living before the Forsaken came to be. The mindless undead shambled about aimlessly, but these were issues for another time; the greater threat loomed just beyond. The other undead, refusing their fate, fought tooth and nail against the Forsaken onslaught. Riddled with fear and self-loathing, the safest course of action would be to put them down before they could mount a stronger force. Turning the tide would be a much greater task than clearing the fields of mindless zombies. An enemy no longer absent, staring blankly, waiting to be put back to the earth, but rather one that was hellbent on removing our very existence from this world.
The words of Shadow Priest Sarvis rang through once more. You cannot leave the path you've chosen, but you can use it to become something greater. The night was dark, what little illumination there was coming from the light of the moon and the occasional flash of light coming from a mage or warlock's flame. The perfect cover to slide into the shadows, but not for the purposes of clipping a coin-purse but rather to slice open whatever opposition stands in the way to this new life. The sounds of war allowed for the slightest of footsteps upon the grass to go undetected, my being a shadow undistinguishable from a stalking man or a trick of the light. My first victim was locked with a Deathguard, swords swinging wildly, uncomfortably in the unfamiliar skeletal hands of the newly raised. Sliding behind him, I pulled the battered helmet he wore back, exposing his throat and burying a dagger deep within it. Old habits, I guess, going for a spot that was once so vulnerable, now the same as any other spot on the body. It takes more than one swift, calculated strike to fell the undead. Pulling the dagger free, it took another two jabs to bring the rival low, the last being a savage raking of my weapon down his chest, spilling whatever ichors and fluids remained inside. The Deathguard nodded his approval.
Many more fell in this fashion, not one feeling the presence of another behind them until it was too late. The tide began to turn, and the Deathguards closed in. Redpath called in the distance, spurring the like-minded on. A pack of three pushed towards his position, but Redpath was mine. Calling from a makeshift camp, his position was lit by torches casting the figure of his presence deep into the pressing lines. Cutting him down would push the remaining forces into full retreat. Sliding towards the rear, I made my move - but the torches belied my movements. Haste always precedes errors. Redpath turned, raising a battered sword and shield towards me.
"You again! You'll never take me alive!"
"Well, I don't know if I could."
Marshall Redpath, former proud member of the Alliance, now driven mad by his own cursed frame. In his rage he threw himself towards me, slashing with all his might, nearly driving a strike home with every swing. With every ounce of strength I feel back, dodging the latest heavy thrust by inches. Redpath overbalanced, falling forward, exposing his flank to a well-placed jab of my dagger. Growing reckless, he lifted his sword once more and cut an overhand arc landing a straight cut deep in my shoulder. The expected pain did not come. Spurred on, I came at him stronger than before, diving upon him, stabbing left and right, one after another.
"Monster! Do you not bleed? Do you not... do you..." The words faded as daggers thumped into his chest. Redpath and the deserters were being cut down in droves. Meanwhile, I earned my keep. Now for the simple task of bringing back the head, showing Sarvis that I am a thoughtless bandit no longer.
-------------
Before returning the head, I remembered the mirror in the folds of my clothes. Entering the inn, sounds of Lillian Voss' screams of terror came from an upstairs room. Passing relaxed soldiers, either oblivious or uncaring to Voss' plight, I found her alone, hiding behind whatever she could. Lillian ran her hands through her thin, wispy hair, strands falling to the ground beneath her feet. I dropped the head to the floor in front of her with a sickening sound of blood and sinew on the hard wooden floorboards. She wouldn't look up, but that wouldn't stop me.
"I'll say it again. Calm yourself. The Forsaken will protect you now. Any that stand against us will find a fate similar to what is left of the man in front of you." The friendly approach failed before. Tough love is always worth a shot. I threw the mirror next to the head.
Voss took it in her hands, holding her thin, skeletal fingers over the glass. Slowly she pulled them aside, staring deep into the image so familiar yet different all the same. The severed head bothered her not in the slightest, but the mirror, reflecting all she had lost, sent her running out the inn. Still, I felt I'd see her again. Where could she go? Her home is here, and nowhere else. Even if she didn't agree. No other land could have her. The sooner she realizes her fate was preordained the moment she died, the better. Poor soul. And poor me for being foolish enough to pity anyone while being a walking, shambling nightmare.
Returning the remains of Redpath, Sarvis, perhaps a touch surprised, pointed east towards a town. Brill, he called it. "Don't mind the abominations," he said.
What the hell are abominations?
----------------
The road east forked at a collapsing house, weathered by time and a lack of upkeep that is beginning to mark the newly undead landscape. None of it looked particularly surprising. That is, save for the gargantuan mass of flesh standing guard before the doorway. Dwarfing any undead I've seen thus far, the creature stood head and shoulders taller and several bodies wider. It was, after all, made of several bodies. Composed mostly of stitched together human skin and limbs, the bloated monstrosity must be an "abomination", as they're so called. Green ichor poured out of a large opening in its belly, spilling out onto the grass as it hacked at a plant with a mighty cleaver. For whatever reason, the sight bothered me much less than I would have anticipated. Call me nothing if not adaptive. I felt I might as well approach the thing, all the while wondering what was the cause of my lack of repulsion. Mordo told me Arthas had a hold over most of the undead, calling them to do his bidding. Why is the Banshee Queen different? Nevertheless, following her path seems the best course of action. What choice did I have?
"Harvesting hard," it said, a deep, rumbling voice, but still carrying with it a hint of a whining, unintelligent child. "Potion master wants weeds for plague soup, but weeds keep dying."
Am I to help it? Is it one of us? Where did they even find the limbs for this? Its feet were massive, large enough to support the creature. No human had those. This... this thing, raised more questions than it answered.
"I'll take them for you on my way to Brill," I told it, speaking of whatever plant it was hacking away at.
"Good. Good! Go get pumpkin! Kill mean red humans, too. Plague good. Humans bad." I bent down to pick up another of the weeds it was collecting, but it's cleaver almost took my hand. I don't believe it was on purpose. I also don't believe it noticed.
"Where are these pumpkins and red humans?" I asked. A small, distorted limb coming out of its back pointed to the northwest, just as it let out a burp, fetid even beyond what I would have expect. If its cleaver didn't kill the weeds, the smell would surely make it wilt. I was all too eager to bid it farewell. Perhaps I could bring the Forsaken of Brill a gift upon my arrival.
--------------
The abomination's information proved correct. A stone tower overlooked the fields of pumpkins with many weary humans harvesting what little they could of the crop. Guards patrolled the outside, men and women adorned in crimson armour that stood in defiance to the utter blackness around them. Chatter filtered through the lines of pumpkins, but it was soft and hushed, likely so vigilant due to the presence of so many Forsaken in and around the area. Sticking to the shadows, the humans were blissfully unaware of my presence. Slitting the throats of unprepared farmers proved to be much easier than slaying the undead. For one reason or another, it felt hardly any different than killing the zombies, in spite of the fact that these humans most certainly had souls to speak of. But they were the enemy. Sentimentality has always been the enemy of practicality. Nothing if not adaptive, I suppose.
The guards, meanwhile, would prove a more difficult task. A few outsiders along the outer edge proved easy pickings, but for now, staying away from the larger groups would be the safer route. Hooking around the patrols, I made my way to a tower standing watch over the crops and soldiers. Two stood at the entrance, a man and a woman, both looking more bored than attentive. This far back in the lines, they likely wouldn't be expecting a Forsaken in their midst.
The man breathed a heavy sigh. He stretched, licking his lips and turned towards his companion. "The dwarven ale we got shipped in, it's powerful stuff," he said. She didn't respond. "Perhaps had a little too much last night..."
"Just go," she said indignantly.
"Let me know if you see Lieutenant Gebler coming. I wouldn't want to get caught on duty with my pants down," he laughed. The man sauntered off, still within sight of the woman, and stood near a tree. He promptly removed his gauntlets and whatever armour he needed to relieve himself. Giving him privacy, the woman turned around and looked out east, presumably wondering what mistakes she made that had her paired with an imbecile. Fortunate enough for me, I strolled right in between the two, the path parting before me.
At the top of the tower stood a cage. Crumpled in a corner sat a familiar shape, an undead with light, frayed hair. Lillian Voss, together again. Much like the old days, chasing a girl, her ever playing hard to get. Perhaps a little different this time around. Before getting the chance to speak to her, voices came from the bottom of the tower, near the entrance.
"Apologies, sir, the ale, I-"
"You're a disgrace to the Scarlet Crusade! You'll be on guard duty for the rest of your life, you insufferable..." The new speaker trailed off, and I heard footsteps upon the stone staircase leading to the rooftop.
"Voss!", I called in a harsh whisper. "Voss, you have to get out of here! I'm willing to help but I'm not going to get myself killed - again - trying to save your skin if you won't bother saving it yourself!" She stood, gaunt and wretched, now staring daggers at me through her cage. It was too late. The man who must be Gebler walked up to the rooftop. In perhaps the later stages of his life, Gebler still carried with him the stride and confidence of a seasoned warrior. A sterling, gleaming sword by his side and armour polished to perfection, he stood an intimidating presence before the slim, gangly undead trapped before him. No matter if he saw me coming, I wouldn't be able to take down the man, not under all that plate. Voss's fate was in his hands. Oddly, she softened at the sight of him.
"Lilian," he spoke. "Your father sends word. He regrets to inform me that, while you may have been a powerful weapon against the undead presence in Tirisfal, you pose too great a risk to the well being of the Crusade's intentions. By his orders, you are to be executed immediately." The statement was cold, matter of fact. Gebler could have been delivering any mundane message, let alone a death sentence.
"But you know me... we were friends, once." There was a tenderness, a point of vulnerability in Voss's words.
"No longer, Lilian. Fate has turned you to an enemy of the cause. You're to be put down by the orders of the-"
"NO!" In a flash of brilliant purple flame, she leapt through the bars upon the armoured warrior, melting the skin off his very bones. The stench of burning flesh permeated the crisp nighttime air of Tirisfal, sickly and strong. There was no fight - simply a slaughter. Voss knelt by his armour, face distorted in rage and pain, sadness and betrayal. "The world of the living may have turned its back on me, but I'm no damned Scourge." She looked towards me. "Go. Go now." I was happy to oblige. Perhaps I was becoming desensitized, but not so much as to be unshaken by a man having his skin melted off with the suddenness it had.
On the way to Brill, I almost forgot to stop to grab a pumpkin. In the distance sounds of alarm and fear rang out, calls to search for the murderer of their kin. Best be heading out, then.
---------
"Useless, wretched horrors!" the apothecary roared, tossing the weeds I delivered to the floor. "Doom Weed, not Gloom Weed. You do not strike terror in the hearts of man with gloom, you do it with doom! Well, the pumpkin helps at least. Thank you for that." He tossed the pumpkin into a large, bubbling cauldron full of a viscous purple fluid. The apothecary's lab was massive, what one would call state-of-the-art by Forsaken standards. The town of Brill was no different; it held all the makings of a more lively town, the buildings no longer fallen apart but built to the specifications of a what an undead would hold dear; hauntingly beautiful but dark and foreboding architecture all the same, protective walls lining the outside. In the very centre stood a statue of the Dark Lady. More beautiful than I would have expected, the elven leader of the Forsaken must have been raised fresh, before the effects of rot had settled in. She lacked the distinctive features I've grown accustomed to for the undead. No off-set jaw, no patches of dead skin, no exposed bone.
"The Dark Lady commands we create a new plague, one that will wipe the humans from the surrounding areas of Lordaeron and beyond. While I'm sure the Doom Weed would have sewed beautiful destruction across the ranks of the Scarlet Crusade, the Gloom Weed will at least kill a couple, I'm sure." He sighed, genuinely disappointed. Nevertheless, dousing the pumpkin in the purple glop, he perked up noticeably. If a Forsaken could smile, he was. "Let's go give it a test, shall we?"
The apothecary moved briskly up the winding staircase of the circular room, stepping over spilled liquids, shifting in and out of clouds of gasses and artfully dodging the many used flasks and tubes strewn about the floor. The prospect of trying out his new potion renewed his vigour, giving him a spring in his step that belied his thin, wispy form. On the upper level there stood a man of the Scarlet Crusade, bound in chains and bleeding from his nose and mouth. That didn't stop him from shouting curses at us, calling us monsters, murderers, any number of foul names. Considering we had him locked in a potion master's cellar as a test subject, I couldn't call him wrong.
"A gift, Crusader!" the apothecary chirped, holding the pumpkin up in one hand like a server in the halls of the king of Stormwind. Stepping nimbly back and forth, he practically danced up to the man.
"Ah, the finest yet. Another pumpkin! I would sooner eat the rats. Standing watch in that light-forsaken guardpost, eating little beyond that one single food. Pumpkin spice this, pumpkin spice that... one grows weary. You could have at least cooked it." The grumble of his stomach could be heard over the bubbling and popping of the chemicals below. "So be it. Give me a piece."
The apothecary pulled a knife from his robes, cutting a small chunk out of the pumpkin. He tossed it towards the Scarlet warrior, hitting the ground and rolling up to his feet. The man picked it up. "To your annihilation!" he toasted before giving it a bite.
He paused. The remaining piece of the pumpkin fell loosely from his hand. The apothecary's mouth curled in a wicked grin. Sores began sprouting up from his flesh, bones showing through his forearms and hands. Pustules surfaced, and the smell of rotting meat filled the domed ceiling. He cried out in fear, staring at his hands as the flesh on his bones grew gangrenous and turned a putrid green. "My mind... my flesh... I'm... rotting!"
After only a minute, he was more a ghoul than a man. Instead of turning into either a mindless zombie or a possible Forsaken, however, he simply slumped over and perished. "Ah, the plague Sylvanas always wanted. We can rot away the human race one laced pumpkin at a time. Back to the drawing board." He spoke the last words with a little optimism, at least. "Go see Magistrate Sevren. He runs the show here. Bald. Rotting face. Can't miss him."
It narrowed it down by half.
------------------
"Yes, I'm Sevren. What'd that fool apothecary tell you? Look for the bald one with the face rot?" Magistrate Sevren did, indeed, have quite the unfortunate face even by the standards of the Forsaken - but it wasn't that which brought me to him. He carried himself as a magistrate would in life; brown trousers, a clean, white shirt topped with a blue vest, matching black shoes and gloves. Even if it was all a little worse for wear, he gave every appearance of a well-to-do leader of a thriving town.
I told him of the plague's progress, the Scarlet Crusade outpost, the abomination, and in spite of it all, it came across as old news. The gruesome becomes the mundane as a Forsaken. It wasn't until I mentioned Lilian Voss his eyes opened wider and there was a hint of interest.
"Lilian Voss, you say? She has quite the history." The magistrate flipped through one of a series of books behind him in Brill's town hall before finding the page he wanted. A log book full of a series of notes on the goings-on of the Deathguards and people of Brill. "From what we know, Voss's father is the High Priest of the Scarlet Crusade here. Lilian was bred to be the ultimate weapon against the Forsaken, trained in combat from birth. Sorcery. Stealth. Assassination. She is a formidable force, formidable force indeed."
"When I saw her, she was captured by the Scarlet Crusade. A lieutenant was sent to execute her, claiming orders from her father. She burned the man alive. Quite the pretty purple flame, but I don't believe Gebler had the chance to enjoy the view the way I did."
Sevren thought for a moment, absentmindedly picking at a sore on his face with one long fingernail. "Natural enemies, her and the Scarlet Crusade now, hmm? And still holding all her powers! Perhaps we can bring her to our side. We've heard word from our Deathguards there's a camp east of here held by the Scarlet Crusade. Shouts and fires have sprouted up as of late, and Voss may very well be the one causing them. If you've spoken with her before, perhaps she'll listen to you. Bring her to reason, Roach."
"What makes you think I can? I've seen her three times, and the best result I've had thus far is instead of her turning and fleeing she simply told me to leave. If I disobeyed, I'd be looking no better than Gebler's new look of a melted candle." The whole escapade felt like a lost cause.
"Progress, then, if the lattermost experience didn't have her fleeing from you. Report back to me if you find her." Say what you will about the Forsaken, but they're decidedly to the point.
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The smell alerted me before anything else; the purple fires on the corpses of Scarlet warriors sent waves of nauseating stench on the wind. The fires still burned the bodies near the centre of the camp, many of the corpses lying face down in the dirt as if caught while trying to run away. No scavenging animals dared approach the bodies, preserving them in a grim message to the Crusade. Just beyond, one soldier - his more decorated appearance implying he was the leader of this camp - hung from a tree by a rope wrapped around his foot. The purple flames illuminated the man, the flickering light showing a dagger embedded deep in his chest with a note attached. If Voss was here, there was no sign of her beyond what she left behind.
The body swayed as I pulled the dagger out. The jaw hung open, not in the way Mordo's had, but in shock and fear as one who saw their death stalk towards them in no uncertain terms. The note read:
By order of High Priest Benedictus Voss;
You are ordered to find Lilian Voss. Put an end to her carnage. May the light rest her soul, and may she find peace.
"A betrayal." In all my years as a thief, no individual had been able to approach me without my knowing. Voss was the first. Turning to face her, she stood upon a hill, twirling her one remaining dagger in one hand and putting the other out in a gesture to have me return the weapon. I gave it handle first in her palm. If she wanted to kill me, she didn't need the both of them to do so anyway.
"Father made me into this," she said. "Years of training, told to slay the undead. Then I die. I become them, and what then happens to me? The only ones that approach me, attempt to help me, are the undead themselves. I do not yet know if I will join your cause, Roach, but you can witness me as I complete mine." She turned and stalked to the north, following a path towards a distant cathedral.
"And what cause might that be?"
"A reunion, of sorts."
A path led along the western side of the cathedral, a Scarlet stronghold, towards another tower similar to the one that held Lilian captive. Countless guards, some wearing the robes of priests and mages, others the armour of foot-soldiers. Voss was undeterred. Stepping out of the shadows only to kill those nearest to her, leaping upon them and ripping out their throats with her daggers or burning them with her unholy purple fire, their ranks collapsed before they even had the chance to call out to their brethren for support. Blood and fire followed Voss like footsteps, a path of her own carved through any that dared stand in her way. Her killings were expert, methodical, merciless. It wasn't long before we reached the entrance to the tower, leaving behind a swatch of corpses in which I hardly took part.
No longer caring for stealth, she strode confidently into the tower, daggers coated with the blood of the fallen dripping onto the hard wooden floorboards beneath our feet. Before us sat a man behind a desk, dressed in a priest's garments as well but much more spectacular than most. Flowing robes of red, black and white, all pristine, all a display of power and purity. This could only be her father.
"Lilian..." he spoke, mouth agape, eyes bulging. "It's so good to-"
"Stop. Stop your nonsense. I know what you have done. What you have ordered. I'm your daughter..."
He rose from his chair. "You don't know what you speak of! You've been turned, and I was simply looking out for what's best for you!" The High Priest was gathering confidence, playing his cards well. "Who is this interloper?" he roared, referring to me. "A monster, poisoning your mind, bringing you promises of peace and security when you're nothing but a-"
She threw a dagger, hitting him square in the forehead. The priest collapsed in a heap, blood pooling upon all the books and papers before him, scattering many to the ground.
"Even in the face of death, he refuses to change," I dared speak.
"No. He never could." She sat, showing for the first time a hint of exhaustion, either emotional or physical. "How have you so quickly become Forsaken?" Voss asked.
"It was simple on my part. I just had to die."
Voss turned to look my way, a quick glance showing the humour was not appreciated and my life was still resting firmly in her hands. Looking away, she rephrased the question. "How did you accept it so readily? When you first spoke to me, you had just turned."
It was a fair question. I went from a common thief to a devoted soldier in the undead army in what felt to me like a mere matter of days. I have seen monstrous things crafted of flesh and bone, witnessed murders, took the lives of the living, and all in the name of a Banshee Queen in which I've never so much as seen. The answer was not an easy one.
"Fate brought us to undeath. My first life was a wasted one, following no ideals, no truths, just doing my best to pilfer enough coins to make it from one day to the next. Whatever existence this is, however terrifying and different it may be, provides a new beginning. I can rewrite who I am. When you come from nothing, there's no only room to gain. In the Forsaken, I - we - can fight for something greater. A purpose. Fate brought us to undeath, but now that fate is ours to command."
The choice was hers. I returned to report to Magistrate Sevren on the events that happened here. Whatever the next task may be, I will do so with vigour. For the Dark Lady, and for the Forsaken.
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