Vyprania's Story (Last Update?)

My orcish buddy Ratshag posted this awhiles ago, I'm posting it here to show you the awesomeness that is his writing.

Vyprania's Story, Part 1; Screaming For Vengeance


Seven of us set out from Darkshore to lend our aid to the Alliance. We had been selected by Tyrande Whisperwind herself, in defiance of Archdruid Staghelm, who felt that we should look to our own defence. But the Scourge was battering Lordaeron, and Tyrande felt that we owed it to our new allies to provide what aid we could. We were led by Sandia Lightwing, a captain of the Sentinels. Gallen the druid and Tylla the hunter were our eyes and ears. Crusty old Sergeant Nalise and crafty Dalek provided our sharp edge, and Xalliope was our healer and spiritual leader. Finally, there was me, Vyprania Treemender, barely three-hundred years old and full of youthful confidence.

Our ship dropped anchor off the northern coast of Lordaeron and we were rowed ashore. The sailors were tense and nervous, and departed as quickly as possible. We made our way to the village where we were supposed to make contact with the local defenders. But it was clear that things had gone horribly, horribly wrong. The village was deserted, except for two corpses in the doorway which looked not just mauled, but partially eaten. That night we had our first encounter with ghouls - a small pack which we easily drove off. We would soon learn that this was just the beginning.

Not sure what to do, and with no way to return home, we pushed south, hoping to make contact with survivors. We found towns destroyed by plague, by fires, by invasion. We encountered ghouls, and walking skeletons, and beasts driven mad by foul diseases. And we began to die.

Gallen was our first loss. We were attacked by a swarm of undead, and he was separated from us in the confusion. We tried to fight through to him, but there were too many. We could only watch helplessly as an abomination made of flesh from many people stitched together struck him again and again, overwhelming his bearform strength and crushing his skull. After, we recovered his body and burned it, so that it could not rise and serve the Scourge.

Moonclaw, Tylla's panther, caught the plague and went mad, ripping her throat out before we could stop it. Archers hidden in trees ambushed us, and Xalliope fell immediately. We never found out who his killers were. And Dalek fell under yet another wave of the never ending ghouls – we never did recover his body.

We eventually encountered a band of paladins, members of a new organization called the Scarlet Crusade. They were dedicated to fighting the Scourge and restoring Lordaeron, and we formed common cause. For two months we waged a guerilla war, staging hit-and-run raids on Scourge bases, ambushing their patrols, stealing their supplies. It felt good to finally be performing our original mission. But it was hard. There was almost nothing to eat, for the grain supplies in the towns carried the Scourge, and so many of the animals in the woods were becoming tainted. And I was so tired. We were always on the move, and the opportunities to sleep were few and far between. And when I did sleep, I replayed my friends' horrible deaths, over and over.

And then one night, it happened. The leader of these Scarlet warriors accused us of secretly conspiring against them. Captain Lightwing protested, pointing out how we had fought and bled beside them. But he would not listen, growing angrier and calling us nonhuman monsters. As the argument continued, his troops began to encircle us, their weapons out. Men and women we had thought were our friends! I was shocked and confused. Why was this happening? And then Henrick, a huge, fierce man, smashed her between the shoulders with his big mace. She fell instantly, her neck broken like a twig. "Run!" Narise yelled, and we dashed for the cover of some nearby trees.

And it was there that the final betrayal fell upon us. Nets dropped from the branches, and undead warriors wrenched our weapons from our hands. "Two elves, just as those Crusaders promised," said their leader. "Good. The master will be pleased." And we were thrown, stunned and disbelieving, onto the back of a wagon, trussed up like animals for the slaughter. Something hard struck the back of my head, and everything went black.

I awoke in a dark cell, naked and alone. I was bound to the wall in chains which burned my skin. I could stand or crouch, but no more, and every movement made the chains burn more. I do not know how long I remained there. Sometimes a diseased creature, only barely recognizable as having once been human, would come with a pot of some sort of watery gruel, which it would roughly spoon into my mouth. It tasted foul and I wanted to spit it out, but I was so hungry I swallowed it in spite of myself. I tried to be strong, and wait patiently for an opportunity to escape, but the utter hopelessness of it all was too much to deny. It became harder to tell when I was awake and when I was asleep, for the nightmares and hallucinations at any time. And one day I could no longer take it, but collapsed, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably until I was completely drained. And still my chains burned.

The next day He came. A huge man, with power emanating from him in waves. His eyes burned with a cold blue fire. Arthas, he said his name was. And He offered me release. Release from the physical pain. Release from the pain of memory and failure and despair. Release from he nightmares. All I had to do was to serve Him.

One last spark of defiance rose in me, and I spat out a dwarvish curse I had often heard Sergeant Narisse often use. He laughed. “But I have not yet told you the best part of my offer,” His deep voice rumbled. “I will also offer you the opportunity for vengeance. Upon those who betrayed you. Those who ran away instead of supporting you in your war. Those who sent you and your friends off to die.”

With those words, my defiance died. Yes. Vengeance. They must pay, for what had happened to me, and the Captain, and Xalliope, and all the rest. I would make them pay. I looked into those blue eyes, and nodded.

I could feel his mind reach out to me. And then I was falling, falling into blackness....

I awoke, and the pain was gone. I was standing, unchained, clad in armor. Ready to take my vengeance.

Part 2: Screaming for Blood

Once I had been accepted as a Death Knight, I was shown how to reforge an ordinary weapon into a powerful runeblade. It felt good in my hands, just as my Arcanite Champion had in my former life. And then I was instructed to use it.

In a pit were a number of failed Death Knights – men and women who had accepted Arthas' offer just as I had, but who had proven unworthy to receive the Master's blessing. I was to chose one, release it from its chains, provide it with armor and a weapon, and then defeat it in fair combat. In the pit I saw a dwarf woman, and a human man, and even to my surprise an Eredar. All were bound with the same burning chains as I had once been. Most were subdued, quietly awaiting their fate, but one gnome was repeatedly hurling himself forward to the chains' limit, howling with rage and pain. And then I saw him. Dalek, my former companion, who had disappeared under a wave of ghouls.

He too had been brought to this citadel. He too had been offered the opportunity to exact vengeance upon those who had abandoned us to our fate. And he had failed. Contempt and anger flared in my heart. His failure was just one more betrayal. Yes, this one, this failure, would be my choice upon whom I would prove my worthiness. I unlocked his chains with the key I had been given, and tossed armor and weapons at his feet. “Defend yourself, weakling,” I ordered him.


Dalek looked up at me. “Vyprania? So, they got to you. Well, I'm getting out of here. You can help me, stay out of my way, or ...” he eyed my blade, pointed at his heart. “Die!”

He was fast, and a more experienced fighter than me, and managed to cut me badly several times. But the powers my Master had given me allowed me to wrap him in chains of ice, and flay his soul with shadow magic, and then I severed his sword arm at the elbow. He collapsed to his knees, staring up at me. I brought my sword down, and it was over. As I walked back to Instructor Razuvious, I licked the splattered blood from my lips, and thought that nothing had ever tasted so sweet.


Having proved my worth, I was soon sent into the field under the command of Darion Mograine. He used us Death Knights to disrupt the enemy, tearing past the Scarlet Crusade's fortifications on our deathchargers and sowing terror and panic in the lands to the rear. These farmers and peasants were innocents, worthy of protection. Instead, they had allied themselves with the Crusade, and thus willingly made themselves my enemies. Some stood and fought bravely, some tried to flee, but it did not matter. I remember one woman tried to appeal to my sense of pity: “If you kill me, you make orphans of my children.” I laughed, grabbed her by the throat with my mailed hand and pulled her to me. “Do not worry about your precious ones,” I whispered. “Our ghouls will be eating their brains before nightfall.” Then I flung her to the ground and ran my blade through her heart.


The war continued, and we pushed and harried the Crusade back. We disrupted their mining operations, set up plague cauldrons outside their cities, intercepted their couriers. Once, I managed to infiltrate the harbor at Light's Point and turn the big deck guns on the soldiers assembled on the beach below. I fired that gun until the barrel glowed red and the sands were soaked with their blood.


Soon we had penetrated the walls of New Avalon itself, last bastion of the Crusade in eastern Lordaeron. I personally penetrated the town hall and executed the mayor. Then, I unleashed my powers on the townsfolk who had gathered to demand that he save them from the Scourge. What fools! I could hear their blood singing in my ears as I cut through them, raising their bodies as ghouls to do my bidding. It was glorious.


But, as the city burned around me, I was given one more assignment. The Crusaders had a number of prisoners from some new organization, Argent Dawn. Most had died, but a few yet lived. Knight Commander Plaguefist had saved them for me to execute, as a reward for my outstanding service to the Master. One particularly feisty night elf, he said, ought to be especially enjoyable. Pleased that my superiors thought so highly of me, I drew my sword and strode into the prison house, only to stop dead in my tracks.


The night elf prisoner was Sergeant Nalise, who had been captured at the same time as me. What could she possibly be doing in an Argent Dawn uniform?


“Come to finish the job have you? I's like to stand for … Vyprania? Is it you? Fucking Scourge, what have they done to you? I barely managed to escape with my life that night, but if I had known what they would do I never would have left you there. Oh, little one, I am so sorry.”


I stood there, mute, uncomprehending, unable to think or act. My head was filled with voices, arguing with each other, confusing me, blinding me like a fog.


“You must remember the splendor of life, my sister. You were a champion of the Kaldorei once! This isn't you! Listen to me, Vyp. You must fight against the Lich King's control. He is a monster that wants to see this world - our world - in ruin. Don't let him use you to accomplish his goals. You were once a hero and you can be again. Fight, damn you! Fight his control!”


Outside, I could hear the Commander, wanting to know what was taking so long.


"There... There's no more time for me. I'm done for. Finish me off, Vyp. Do it or they'll kill us both. Vyp... Remember Teldrassil. Remember our mission. Remember hope. There are still those who will help you. Find them!"


The voices on my head grew louder. "Kill! Mercy! Obediance! Loyalty! Vengeance! Justice! Blood!" I felt trapped, confused, uncertain - feelings I had not felt in years.

She raised her chin defiantly, and her voice cut through the fog in my head. "Do it, Vyprania. Put me out of my misery.”


And I did, severing her head with one swift blow and leaving it in the dirt next to her body. As I walked out of the prison house, the Knight -Commander said to me, "You're one cold blooded monster, Vyprania. I salute you, sister." I could taste Nalise's blood on my lips, where it had spattered across my face. And it did not taste good at all.

Part 3; Screaming For Justice

I was deeply unsettled by the conflict within myself. I was a weapon of vengeance, serving my Master and striking down those who had betrayed me. Why was executing one who had joined the Argent Dawn, our sworn enemies, so hard? Why could I not sleep at night? What was wrong with me?

But the war continued, and there was no time for self-doubts. We had broken the defenses of New Avalon, pushing the Crusaders down to the coast. I was personally chosen to infiltrate their base at King's Harbor, disguised as a courier we had intercepted. There High General Abbendis, completely duped, revealed her plans to me. She was abandoning Lordaeron, and embarking for Northrend. She instructed me to instruct the Scarlet forces marching from the western outposts to turn back and rendezvous in the North instead. Instead of passing these instructions to them, of course, we instead prepared a trap for the newcomers.

Arthas himself came to supervise the apocalypse we were preparing to unleash on these unsuspecting fools as the marched into Havenshire. Highlord Darion Mograine came to me before the battle. “Vyprania, our Lord has asked me to send him my best knight for a special assignment. I can think of no one better suited than you.”

My heart filled with pride, I traveled to Death's Breach, where this campaign had begun so long ago. There was my Master, tall and indomitable, inspiring our forces while filling the hearts of the Crusaders with doubts. Just being in His presence again, I felt cleansed. No more doubts, no confusion. I knew what I was, and what role I was to play. It was comforting to know that my will was not my own, but His. Arthas gave me a horn to summon a Frostbrood Vanquisher, and sent me to unleash hell. From its back, I blasted the Crusader's ballistae with deathbolts, ripping apart the core of their army and allowing our ground forces to chew up their troops. Those betraying bastards never knew what hit them. It was glorious, seeing their twisted and bleeding bodies scattered on the ground. And when they began to run, throwing down their weapons and shields in a desperate attempt to save their own pathetic skins, I could not help myself. I laughed and laughed and laughed, swooping in again and again to add to the slaughter. The Scarlet Crusade was finished – their evil reign of terror over the Plaguelands was finished!

But within a year we had new enemies to vanquish. We received word that Tirion Fordring, failed leader of the Silver Hand, had allied himself with Argent Dawn. They were marshaling their forces – we had to act quickly to crush them before the became too entrenched. Highlord Mograine led the assault on Light's Hope Chapel, and we had them! We drove them back to the grounds of the chapel itself, and the Highlord was about to strike down Tirion Fordring himelf when-

when …

when …

… something …

… happened …

There was a bright light, and our weapons … grew heavy in our hands. It just was … too hard … and I didn't understand what was happening. The voices in my head, they were yelling at me, screaming, all at once, and I Could. Not. Understand. Them. Then Mograine was calling on us to surrender, even though we had won, and nothing made any sense, it was all wrong, spiraling down, down...

Arthas! He was there! He would make it better, make the voices go away. But, he was all wrong too. He was foul, and stank of death, and he hated us. Despised us. All of us. And Mograine was down, and Fordring was holding Ashbringer, and Arthas was fleeing, and the screaming in my head was getting louder and Louder and LOUDER!

Then, it was over. Quiet. The realization that we Death Knights had been Arthas' tools, his pawns, his dupes, was slowly seeping into our minds. And we had done evil. But Tirion Fordring – he did not hate us. He could have destroyed us, but instead I could sense his sadness for what we had become, and his hope that we would ally ourselves with him against the Scourge.

It did not happen immediately. Mograine and Fordring and the Argent Dawn leaders spent several days negotiating an amnesty, while we Death Knights sat in the field, disarmed, watched by suspicious guards. Several of us went mad as the realizations and memories of our deeds came to us. One orc lay on the ground screaming until they took her away. I saw a gnome tear out his own eyes and hurl them in the direction Arthas had fled in. Myself, I sat quietly, trying to remember the cheerful, happy young woman I had once been. It all seemed so very long ago.

And then, they were done talking. We had a mission – to take the citadel of Acherus back from the Scourge and establish it as a base for ourselves – the Knights of the Ebon Blade. We fell upon the abominations in a frenzy – none of us caring if we lived or died. When the monstrosity Patchwerk came upon us, we swarmed him from all directions, forcing him off balance, unable to choose a target with that simple mind of his, until we got him down. The I climbed upon his chest, and thrust my sword into his heart with both hands.

After, Highlord Mograine came to me. “If we are to survive, we must gain the acceptance of Stormwind and Orgrimmar. They will never love us, but I hope they will at least tolerate our presence. Please, Vyprania, will you go to King Varian for me? I need an ambassador, to present these papers from Fordring on our behalf. You were once a hero of the Alliance, selected by Whisperwind herself – surely he will listen to you. Will you go?”

I looked at my commander. Like me, he had suffered betrayal upon betrayal, good intentions and honest desires dashed upon the harsh rocks of reality. And I could see the strain he was under, trying to lead and protect us, to find a way in a world where we were hated by all, and always would be. The thought of returning to Alliance territory filled me with dread, but I nodded, and accepted the package of documents. I would not let him down, as I had let down so many others.


A portal took me to the gates of Stormwind. The guards had been told to expect me, and so they did not strike me down. But they and the citizens let me know I was not welcome. They spat on me. I was pelted with rotten fruit, and horse dung, and a few stones. One hit me just above the left eye, and I had trouble seeing through the blood. But I barely noticed these attacks. It was the cries of “monster!” and “murderer!” and “Arthas' whore!” that hurt me, for they were all true. Shame for my actions, for my selfish desire to pursue vengeance, for murdering my friends, swelled within me. My breath grew ragged, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes. But I did not weep, for I was still a Death Knight, and my brethren were depending on me to represent them before the king with dignity and strength. So I did not cower before the assaults from the crowd, and I did not break and run, but instead walked with a slow, steady determination.

Nor did I listen to the voice in my head calling on me to strike these cowards down with Pestilence and Blood Boils.

When I reached King Varian and presented my papers to him, he read them, then glared at me and drew his swords. I thought perhaps he would strike me down, in spite of my ambassadorial status, but when I made no move to defend myself he took a deep breath lowered his blades. “Were it not for this letter from Tirion, you would be a stain upon my floor. Only an endorsement from one of the greatest paladins to ever live could have ensured your survival. We... We will work together against the Scourge. Against the Lich King! “

Against the Lich King. Yes. Someday, Arthas, I swear to you that we will meet again. And I will strike you down for all that you have done, and bring an end to your evil.

Or you will strike me down.

Either way, Justice will be served.

Vyprania's Story: The Priest

The Knights of the Ebon Hand were established. We were recognized by the leadership of the Alliance and the Horde, and endorsed by Tirion Fordring. But we were not received with open arms by our new allies. People in Stormwind no longer threw rotting fruit at me, but the vendors were all suddenly out of merchandise when I entered their shops. The auctioneers would not recognize me when I tried to bid on an item, and the children would quickly cross to the other side of the canal when they saw me.


Light's Hope Chapel was worse, despite the fact that these were supposed to be my comrades in the fight against the remaining Scourge. Unseen hands and legs would shove or trip me into the mud, and there would be nothing but innocent faces when I turned around. My belongings were rifled through when I was out, and anything of value taken. Notes denouncing me as "Lich bitch" and "Arthas' whore" and worse were left on my bunk.


And so, like many of my fellow Death Knights, I found myself passing through the Dark Portal and into Outland. With Vashj and Kael'thas and Illidan defeated, this alien world had been largely abandoned by the mercenaries who had made it their home for the past two years. All that were left were rear guard detachments of the Horde and Alliance, and the Scryers and Aldor strutting about Shattrath City, pretending that they still mattered. It was a land of Death Knights, sharpening our skills against a far greater range of opponents than we had encountered in our battles against the Scarlet Crusade - demons and ogres and fel beasts. Some talked of destroying the Portal and cutting ourselves off from our allies who despised us, but I could never support such a move. Arthas was on the other side, waiting, and some day I would go back and face him.


But there were times I wondered if I would ever make it to that day. Killing felboars for some goblin entrepeneur covered my living expenses, and kept my reflexes sharp, but there was no sense of purpose in it. No mission fulfilled. And so I began to spend more and more of my time in the bars of Shattrath's Lower City, seeking escape from the emptiness that gnawed at me, the voices that shouted in my head for vengeance and blood and justice, if only for a few hours. And it was here, surrounded by empty flasks of port and listening to some orc up on the stage scream that he was a fish-man, that I met the priest.


She didn't look like much, a short, stocky dwarf with black hair pulled back in a simple braid. But her gear marked her as a seasoned veteran of the recent campaigns against Serpentshrine Cavern and Tempest Keep and the troll city of Zul'Aman. Her left hand was crooked at an odd angle, as if it the arm had been broken and had not quite healed properly. When she pulled up the chair across from me and sat down, however, it was with the deliberate care not of a worn out campaigner, but rather one deep in her cups. Like me.


"'Allo, lass," she said, her speach slightly slurred. "Mind if I join ya?"


I shrugged non-commitally, and stared at her, baffled. After a minute, with a directness I would never have dreamed of using in my former life, I demanded "What are you doing here?"


"Ach, I'm helpin' mehself to some of yuir port. Mah flask bein' empty, ya see."


"No, I mean, why aren't you in Northrend?"


"Oh, that. Been replaced by a new gel, doncha know. She's younger, taller, prettier, an' can do fear wards and desp'rate prayers as well as Ah can. So ole Cay, she ain't needed no more. But that's all right - gives meh time ta catch up on meh drinkin'."


Not having a purpose - I could relate to that. My purpose was to kill Arthas, but these days that seemed so remote that I might as well not have one at all. I nodded, waited to see what else she would say.


"Now, lass," she said. "I've seen a lot of yuir type pass through these past weeks. And none of them be what I would call ... happy ... but you. You are more troubled than most, I ken. It is like black waves emanating from yeh. And I suspect there's things yeh carry inside yeh, dark things, things what weigh on yuir soul. Now, Ah'm just a simple priest of the Light, and Ah'm probably not the sort a Black Hand elf like yuirself would chose ta unburden on, but Ah am here. And Ah know a thing or two of the darkness we've all had ta embrace ta get through, and as for mah not being an elf, ishnu al-elusia amayne kaldorei, sellia alayn vesh Elune-na nalluria Cenarius-na falibus."


I blinked, startled to hear this dwarf speaking in nearly accentless Darnassian. Where had she learned that? And I found myself beginning to tell my story - the ill-fated mission to Lordaeron, the betrayal at the hands of the Scarlet Crusade, my bargain wih Arthas. She listened mostly in silence, non-judgemental and accepting, nodding occassionally. I told her more - things I had never told anyone. The young mother I struck down in New Avalon, how I murdered Sergeant Nalise, our defeat at Light's Hope Chapel, the bitter shame I felt on my mission to Stormwind. The more I talked, the easier it became. The screaming in my head became muted, and I felt a degree of peace I had not experienced in years. I do not understand how this short, drunken priest of faith different than what I had grown up with, and so antithetical to what I had become, could make me feel this way, with such little gestures and so few words, yet somehow she did.


When I finshed, we were both silent for a minute. Then she spoke. "Aye, that's a heavy burden to be carrying in yuir heart, lass. And you will be carrying it - not'ing Ah can do to end that. But there are things what can help you carry that burden. First, I can give you this: Vish al'narith, mallune del nash'ant Vyprania tel annath." When she uttered those words, I could feel something enter me, something strong but gentle. It was as if Elune herself had touched my soul. Perhaps she had - spiritualism had never been something I understood well.


"And second," Cay the priest said, "there is a man I think yeh should talk to. He has an assortment of adventures he has gathered together to look out for each ot'er. People what dinnae quite fit in anywhere else. I t'ink it might be a good place for yeh. A home for when you need one. This man, he's an odd duck, and," (her voice briefly rose to a startlingly piercing squeak) "oi! is he a randy lad!"


"But," she continued in her normal voice after a fit of giggling. "He is a good man, and Ah t'ink he'd take you in. Just one thing Ah should warn yeh of, lov."


She paused.


"He's an oorc."

Vyprania's Story: The Orc

Ratshag, the orc's name was. I found him in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Lower City run by a Goblin named Rokk. At least, it was his name carved in a board nailed above the doorframe. At the first table were two Forsaken, heatedly arguing about something in Gutterspeak. At the second table was a Draenei paladin, asleep or passed out. And at the last table was a large orc warrior, his back to the wall as he faced the door. At first glance, he did not appear all that remarkable. His armor and weapons were a mishmash of hand-forged, rewards from service on battlegrounds, a few pieces I recognized as being from Outland, but nothing to mark him as one of the heroes of Serpentshrine Cavern or the Black Temple. As I approached him, though, I saw the scars. Dozens of them, criss-crossing his green skin. His face, his hands, and his armor all showed signs of having undergone tremendous hardships, and survived. I began to understand what that priest meant when she called him an “unsung hero.”


“You must be Vyprania,” he said, standing and extending his right hand. His grip was firm, but not overly so. “Have a seat. I took the liberty of ordering the clefthoof fajitas – they's very good here.”


“That's fine,” I said. Since my dark rebirth, I'd found that my senses of smell and taste were greatly diminished, and I found all foods to be bland and nearly indistinguishable. I ate for sustenance, but never for pleasure.


“So Cayleigh's done told me yer story. Mebbe you can tell it to me yerself at some point, but first lemme explain a bit about meself and what I call Team Ratshag. Me, I grew up in one of them concentration camps over in the Arathi Highlands, after the second war...”


As I listened to him, I realized that, while he was not hiding some of the horrific details, he was definitely underplaying them, as if they were to be expected. One sister and an uncle killed by diseases, another sister crippled while working as a slave laborer, beatings, rapes, torture. It was the escape, and the journey across the ocean to Kalimdor, and his first meeting with Thrall that mattered to him.


About this time our food arrived, along with a couple of mugs of ale. It was a huge pile of sizzling strips of meat, onions, and peppers, and a tall stack of thin disks of flatbread. “Help yerself,” he said, scooping some of everything onto one of the disks and rolling it up.


There must have been four pounds of meat on that platter, along with everything else. “I don't think I'm that hungry,” I said hesitantly.


“Oh, no worries,” he said. “Take what you want, I'll have the rest.”


His narrative continued with his picking up an axe as a young man and Durotar and hunting down the wild boars which had been destroying the crops of his village. As it led to larger and more challenging campaigns again quillboar and centaur tribes, murlocs and nagas, and even elves and humans and other members of the Alliance, I noted that he took pleasure in establishing order, but never expressed any interest in revenge, even when fighting the humans of the Eastern kingdoms, possibly the same humans who had run the concentration camps.


When I commented on this, he shrugged.


"It's over," he said. "The past, I means. What's here and now is, ya gots thems what ya care about, and care about you. Ya gots thems what'll pay you fer ta do a job. And thems what be in the way of gettin' the job done; sometimes they's in the way just by bein' alive, and ya gots ta put they's arses down. Anything else, revenge or bloodlust or collecting ears fer yer own amusement, that just gets in the way of doing The Job. And that ain't how I roll."


I blinked in surprise. This was a very different way of looking at the world than I was used to. I found it appealing, almost seductive, in its simplicity. In its willingness to accept the world as it is, and move on.

"And do the members of your ... 'Team' ... see things the same way?"

"More or less. Depends on the person. Thing is, we's all square pegs what ain't found the right hole yet, and I tries ta at least give everybody a place where we can be thems what don't got our own place togethers. Have some funs, give encouragements, that sorta thing. Mebbe someday, if the world settles down a bit we'll finds our places, but we'll see. Psychlogifying ain't really me department."

A square peg. Yes, that was me. I hadn't fit in anywhere, not since the Battle of Light's Hope Chapel. The idea of having a chance to meet other outsiders, to not feel so alone, was very very appealing. And if they don't accept you, kill them all! screamed a voice in my head, but I tried to ignore it.

"So, anywho, if ya thinks ya might be interested, drop by the place next Friday night. I'll introducifies ya to the Team, and then we takes it from there."

Interested. Yes. I was definitely interested.

Vyprania's Story: The Rogue, The Paladin And The Druids

"Team Ratshag Secret Headquarters" said the sign on the door. I was surprised to find a grin creep onto my face. The Orc had an odd sense of humor, I was coming to realize, something seldom seen in Ebon Hold.

I knocked on the door. A minute later, it was opened by a small, hunched-over woman. She peered up at me, if "peered" was the right word. Her eyes were missing, leaving two dark empty sockets in the middle of her face. She was also missing large pieces of flesh, and what remained didn't look to be held on to well. In all honesty, the ghouls I raised while doing fieldwork often looked healthier.

"You're early!" she snapped at me venomously. "I'm sstill baking the pies!"

"Ratshag said 6:30..." I said, taking half a step back reflexively.

"Fegh! It'ss not a raid. You don't get kicked for being late. But ssince you're here, come on in." As she stepped back out of the doorway, she straightened up enough for me to see she was wearing an apron with the words "If ye must pynche something, pynche the cooke!" on it.

I followed her into what was essentially a large apartment. A large central room with sofas, chairs, and small tables, a second room on one side with a large table which looked like it was sometimes used for eating and sometimes for meetings, and three small bedrooms to the other side. In the back was a well stocked kitchen and pantry. Just outside the kitchen were three tubs filled with crushed ice and bottles of beer. The Forsaken woman, Danger Mouse she said her name was, nonchalantly picked a bottle out and popped the cap off with an exposed bone in her elbow.

"Here. Rats getss grumpy if you don't drink his crappy beer, so I always pour one out before he getss here and fill the bottle with some dwarven ale."

The bottle she handed me had a cheap label proclaiming it to be "Uncle Bonechomper's Day Old Piss". Lovely. However, I really didn't want to risk offending my host so early in our relationship, and my senses of smell and taste had been dulled considerably since my dark rebirth, so I went ahead and took a swallow. It was ... tolerable.

Mouse was scurrying, for lack of a better word, about the kitchen, throwing ingredients together, pulling pans and implements out of drawers, cleaning others and throwing them back in drawers. I tried to pitch in and help, and received a thwack on the back of my hand hand with a wooden spoon. I backed off before she decided to use the rolling pin next, and settled for polite conversation while she worked.

I found out that she'd been born Nancy Burnside, and grew up outside of Andorhal. She'd been 17 years old when the Scourge outbreak killed her. To me, this sounded like an infant, but humans live such short lives. In fact, she was considered an adult she assured me, and had been planning to marry a man, and leave her parents house. Bob, his name was, or maybe Richard. She wasn't sure anymore. But the plague had come, and apparently she had risen and been absorbed into the Scourge army. Unlike me, she had no memories of this time. Rank-and-file zombies were not required to do much thinking, unlike Death Knights. She came to herself some six months after Sylvanas began her uprising and found herself caught in the midst of the fighting between the Scourge and the Forsaken. She'd managed to work her way to Tirisfal Glades, and eventually Ratshag had found her. She'd never been able to find any records of what happened to her family - most likely they had all perished. She said this as if it did not matter, but I was not in the least fooled. She started to mention the human rogue who had become infatuated with her, much to her pleasure, Khol something, when other people began to arrive and she dropped the subject.

There was Ellspeth, a Blood Elf, who promised very sweetly to drain my soul last of all. Phoenicia, a Dwarf with fiery red hair a personality to match, encouraged me to "keep yuir feet on the groond!", which made no sense but seemed friendly and well-intentioned. Another Forsaken, introduced as Galertruby, was most anxious to talk to me. Unfortunately, he was in an even worse state of decay than Nancy, and was completely missing his lower jaw, rendering him completely unintelligible. So I listened, unable to understand a word, and did my best no nod and make affirmative sounds at the right moments. This seemed to work, and eventually he patted me on the arm affectionately and headed off toward the tubs of beer. And of course there was Ratshag himself, who let out an excited roar when he saw me and lumbered over to give me an enveloping hug. The voices in my head screamed at this overwhelming invasion of my personal space - Pestilence! Strangulate! - but I forced a smile onto my face and even managed to gently pat him on the back.

There were others, perhaps a dozen or so, and most were at least politely welcoming. Except for one. A human female with black hair and a red checkered shirt took one look at me and very pointedly walked to the far side of the apartment, glowering. After a minute, Ratshag walked over and began talking to her. They kept their voices low, but we Elves hear better than other races and I could make out much of what they were saying, even over the other conversations in the room.

"... no frickin' way, Ratters!"

"... needs us. Nowhere else to..."

"... Lich bitch traitor ... can't trust ..."

"... know what I'm doing ..."

"... it away from me!"

"That'ss Kinnavieve," said Nancy, next to me. "She has a problem with dead people."

That was it. I just couldn't handle that. No matter how nice Ratshag was, and Nancy, and some of the others, I had to get out. The hatred, the distrust, the contempt - I couldn't take it. Not again. I turned and started walking rapidly toward the door, only to find it blocked by two newcomers.

They were both young by Night Elf standards, these two newcomers, but quite tall. The one was well over seven feet, possibly seven three. She was wearing nothing but some worn leather pants and a bra, and had she was holding a small wooden crate with air holes in one arm. She had a dragon tatooed on her left shoulder, as well as other markings on her hand and ankle. The other, still practically a child but only a few inches shorter, was wearing a simple black dress and sandals. I recognized her, and my heart sank. Palintera Nightwhisper. I'd fought with her father at Mount Hyjal, and seen him die. If that paladin had a problem with me, and my betrayals, how badly must this young Elf loathe me and what I had done?

We stood facing each other. I blinked, unsure how to get past them without making things worse. For some reason, they were both grinning at me, and bouncing up and down, as if excited about something. After a moment, the taller one held out the crate. "We got this for you," she said. "It's a bunny!"

Unsure how to respond, I looked at it. Yes, there was indeed a small white rabbit hopping around inside. And then Palintera stepped forward, arms reaching for me. I tensed, ready to run or, if necessary, defend myself.

But it wasn't an attack. It was an embrace - warm, gentle, almost maternal. Not at all like the boisterous bear hug the Orc had given me earlier. "Welcome home, my sister," she said softly. "Welcome home."

And for once, the screaming in my head faded away. I found myself leaning into that warmth, my arms holding onto her for support. Tension that I had carried for so long I had almost forgotten it was there seeped away, my legs felt weak, and tears streamed down my cheeks.

After so many years, I had made it home.

dude, you should totally publish this stuff its great

Vyprania's Story: Outland

Ratshag suggested that I spend some time in Outland, learning how to be an independent mercenary, instead of a spearhead with the weight of Acherus behind me. I wasn't sure about that at first; Outland seemed like a dead, forgotten place. But I found there was still work to do there. Small bands of orcs and demons still wandered Hellfire Peninsula, survivors of when the great guilds smashed the Hellfire Citadel and the Throne of Kil'Jaeden. In Nagrand, tribes of ogres still battled each other and the Kurenai. And a strange dwarf was hiring people to slaughter wild animals. I avoided becoming entangled in the never-ending squabbles between the Aldor and the Scryers; with the Shattered Sun Offensive over, those two factions were back to sniping at each other, fighting over the crumbs left behind by the raiding guilds. I thought they were pathetic.

Ratshag was right. Here, in this alien wasteland, I have learned to support myself, to operate independently, to choose my own path. The screams in my head have been fairly quiet, satisfied by the death and carnage I have created for, as Ratshag would put it, "thems what pay me."

I have replaced almost all of my gear here in Outland. From reading Kinnavieve's posts (yes, I have been checking up on her) I know she hated how this plate armor looks, how revealing it is. Obviously, it is immature. But I feel very comfortable, not wearing the signature saronite armor that we death knights all had at Light's Hope. Now, unless people look at my eyes, they cannot immediately recognize me as a death knight, and hurl insults or hide their children. And in this outfit, my eyes are the last thing most people look at. It will be good, however, when I go to Northrend in another season, that I am not bothered by cold weather, the way the living are.

Vyprania's Story: Northrend, Part I

After several months in Outland, I felt I had sharpened my skills as much as I could. There was still work to do there – the scattered followers of Illidan, Kael'thas, and Vashj continued to maraud the contryside, along with ogre tribes and other assorted miscreants. However, this would continue for years, until the populations of that world recovered enough from the decades of war to police their own lands. This was not my problem. I had other fights to fight.

I caught a boat to Northrend in Stormwind harbor. The main armies had left weeks earlier, the vanguard even earlier, but the recruiter at the dock assured me there would be work for soldiers-for-hire like myself still. From his eagerness to get me to sign, I assumed either casualties had been much higher than expected, or he badly needed the agent's fee he would collect. Either way, I didn't care. I was going to where Arthas was, the creature who had shaped me into the monster I was, and I would finally get to face him again.

As my boat wound its way between the shear walls of the Howling Fjord, I could see that things had gone badly. I was not surprised to see boats which had been lost early in the invasion, their hulls ground to splinters by repeated rising and falling tides. But some of the wrecks were recent, massive harpoons embedded in their hulls and fresh corpses on their decks. One ship was still burning, having been attacked only hours earlier. As we pulled into the dock, harpoons began to fall around us, fired from forts high above us. The crew was very anxious for us to disembark quickly so they could turn around and get out of there, and most of the soldiers and quartermasters on-board were more than happy to comply. But I would not be rushed. Northrend was my destiny, and I would not enter it like a frightened rabbit.

Over the next few days I found that the strength of the Alliances had pushed on towards the center of Northrend, to rendezvous with the troops landing in Borea and strike at the heart of Arthas' empire. I was eager to join them, but clearly something needed to be done about these Vrykul who had appeared and made such a mess of Valgarde's harbor. I found that the skills I had learned in Outland had more than prepared me for the task at hand. The local commanders quickly learned that if they assigned me to take out a harpoon station, it got taken out. Quickly, and with many flames and barbarians dying screaming, and with much less soldiers captured and tortured. I will admit that the time I returned home surfing on a ship-killing harpoon I had fired myself as the village behind me burned was a little dramatic, but I could hear the voices in my head screaming with excitement as I flew through the air.

In the wasted land of Dragonblight I caught up to the Alliance army, under the command of Bolvar Fordragon. They were preparing to assault the southern entrance to Icecrown, known as Wrathgate. A Horde army was camped nearby, and the leaders of the two armies had made plans for a joint assault. I was assigned to reinforce a company of heavy infantry from Darkshire. These humans were brave and well armed, and eager for the fight. On the morning of the assault, we were on the right flank, at the potential weak joint between the two forces. We were hit hard when Arthas unleashed an elite wave of undead Vyrkul to try to split the Alliance from the Horde, but despite losing nearly a quarter of our strength we pushed them back. By the afternoon, we thought the battle was won. Arthas' troops had been broken, and the ghouls were fleeing back into the citadel. And then, there he was. Arthas himself strode out onto the battlefield, and at first it appeared to be a desperate gambit to rally his troops. I readied myself, eager to join the final charge to wipe him from the face of Azeroth. But then suddenly the young Horde general was down, his soul ripped from his body by the dark magic of Frostmourne, and the corpses of our own troops were beginning to rise and fight us.

“Did you think we had FORGOTTEN? Did you think we had FORGIVEN?”

These words rang out over the battlefield. Looking out over the heads of the soldiers around me, I saw strange vehicles with catapults mounted on them, up on the cliffs above the Horde camp. Leading them was a bent and twisted man, one of Sylvanas' Forsaken, wearing a robe over some strange, exotic armor. There was such rage in his voice, such burning passion. When he cried out “Behold now the terrible vengeance of the Forsaken!” I could not stop myself. I raised my fist and cheered. Yes! The voices screamed with me, for vengeance! Against Arthas, against the Scourge, against even those putative allies who looked on me with scorn and contempt and distrust. I wanted to join him and his apothecaries, to hurl those cannisters of green death down upon them all, the undead and the living.

But as quickly as they had risen up in my head, the voices faded, and I became aware of the horror around me. As the plague clouds spread through our to armies, people were screaming, gasping, falling. I spun, searching for a way to safety, to get the troops I was supposed to be helping out of this trap. I caught a glimpse of Arthas stumbling back into his citadel and the gates slamming shut behind him. Justice would have to wait for another day. Next to me a soldier, still a boy even by the standards of the short-lived humans, fell to his knees, horrid gurgling sounds coming from him. I dropped my mace and hoisted him up onto my shoulders. My eyes burning, my lungs feeling like the were filling with mud, I struggled to the rear, fighting to keep my feet as I was bumped and shoved by those fleeing around me. The ground was by now covered with the bodies of the dead and dying, and I worried I would trip and never get up. The dense green gas was everywhere now, swirling around my feet, wafting up around me, obscuring my view in every direction. My mind went numb, overwhelmed by the pain in my lungs, my legs, my heart. All I could think was that I needed to get this boy I was carrying to safety.

I don't know if it was hours later or only minutes that a patrol found me, stumbling across the frozen plain, still carrying the boy. By now he was quite dead - stiff and cold. They told me later that I was not far behind him. I spent two months in an infirmary while my body healed, my lungs and other organs having to reknit themselves after being nearly devoured by the plague. I found out that the Forsaken apothecary whose words had stirred something in me was a traitor, not only against the Alliance but the Horde as well. Kinnavieve had been part of the small team Varian Wrynn himself had led into the sewers of Undercity to execute him. He was a monster, who hated everyone who was not like him, and had plotted for years for the right moment to slaughter thousands.

So why did the news of his death make me feel so sad?

Ratters, to much crying and gnashing of teeth... Has left WoW blogging...

So he will not be continuing this story...

But I might, if he lets me. I am going to try and communicate with him, see if he'll allow it.

I'll letcha know.

-Asaoirc