Diary of a Forsaken: The Last Dance

Reflections by Ailia Reant

Northern Kalimdor

The sounds of revelry filled the tavern as raucous laughter mingled with drunken shouts from the dance floor. Across the table, the priest glowered disapprovingly.

Ailia offered her a tankard, “Lighten up, Britta. The war is over; this is a night for celebration.”

At her friend’s urging, Britta relented and accepted the drink. “Alright, but don’t expect me to join in any drunken revelry.”

Grinning, Ailia rose from the table, “You don’t know what you’re missing, my friend.”

Vlod fixed her with a stern gaze, “The war may be over, but until tomorrow I’m still your commanding officer. Don’t make me escort you out again.”

The woman turned wide eyes on him. “You know the incident last night wasn’t my fault, right? The man attacked me. I was only defending myself.”

Britta laughed outright, “You deliberately provoked him, knowing full well the row that would ensue.”

A mischievous sparkle danced in the warrior’s brown eyes. “Damn it, Britta, I can’t get anything past you.”

She nodded to the paladin, “Alright, I promise. No fighting tonight.”

He watched her go with a hint of a smile. “It’s good to see her back to her old self.”

Britta grunted, “I spend more time healing her than the rest of the company combined. I swear that woman attracts trouble wherever she goes.”

His smile broadened to a grin, “She does indeed. Still, I’d rather see her brawling in the streets than lost in grief.”

Britta’s expression softened. “Aye, Muldov was the closest thing she had to family. For a while there I feared she would never recover from his death.” She lifted her tankard and took a long drink.

Vlod glanced around the crowded room. “It’s hard to believe tomorrow this place will be empty. Most of the company is going with Jaina to establish a new Alliance base off the southern coast.”

“Have you told Ailia of our plans?”

He grimaced, “No. I didn’t want to face that battle tonight.”

Britta nodded, her thoughts drifting to the night word arrived that the war was coming to an end. The camp had been a flurry of excitement as people shared stories of home and the life they were eager to return to. Through it all, Ailia had remained uncharacteristically silent.

When they questioned her privately about her plans, she shared her intention of returning to Lordaeron.  She spoke passionately of the desperate war waging in her homeland where the remaining survivors fought a losing battle against the Scourge. Britta and Vlod had not tried to dissuade her, but they had no intention of letting her go alone either.

If the horror stories told by the refugees fleeing that forsaken land were true, there wouldn’t be many opportunities to celebrate in the days ahead.

Shaking off a feeling of foreboding, she glanced across at Vlod and followed his gaze to their friend. She had set aside her armor for the evening and wore a simple dress of finely woven mageweave. Her long hair, usually concealed beneath her helm, fell in ebon waves across her shoulders and back. Her movements were more energetic than graceful as she danced to a rhythm all her own. Her face was flushed with pleasure, her eyes sparkled with merriment as she laughed and twirled, completely oblivious to the glances of amusement around her.

Free of inhibition, the woman displayed a passion for life that was infectious. She would balk at their decision, but in the end, she would have to accept it. For months they had fought through hell together.  They weren’t about to leave her now.  Whatever fate awaited them in Lordaeron, they would meet it together.

Sharing a smile, they rose and walked, arm in arm, onto the dance floor. 

Diary of a Forsaken: Ailia’s Story

Written by Ailia Reant

It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that I have begun my story in the middle. Should someone read this diary after I am gone, they would know only Reant, the Forsaken.  I was not always thus.  I was human once.

Born in a small fishing village on the outskirts of Stratholme, Ailia spent her early years playing along the banks of the Darrowmere Lake. She was six when the winds of war swept across Azeroth for a second time. When the Orcs invaded Lordaeron, her parents fought alongside the other villagers defending their homes. They were simple peasants, unskilled in the ways of war.  The blood crazed Horde slaughtered them without mercy. The child’s slight form, hidden among the bodies of the fallen, went unnoticed.

From that day on she embraced the life of a fighter, learning from any who would teach her, relentelessly pursuing the destruction of the Orc race.  Many years later, an unlikely friendship with an Orc named Skelto led to a change of heart and she turned from the path of revenge. 

She served the Alliance during the Third War, earning a name for herself as a warrior. At the conclusion of the war, she returned to Lordaeron where she fought to defend her homeland against the Scourge invasion. Eventually her efforts attracted notice from the Scourge leaders. With the help of the Argent Dawn she evaded them for many months, but the Scourge’s power grew daily and the defenders strength waned as their fallen brothers joined the ranks of the undead. It was only a matter of time before she fell into their hands. I cannot bring myself to set down the events that followed. Suffice it to say, death came as a friend.

How easy it is to summarize the events of a lifetime in a few sentences.  How difficult it is to convey the essence of that life. 

Hot-blooded and headstrong, her temper would have ushered her into an early grave had not her blade been as quick as her tongue. Living each day in the face of death, she was free of the inhibitions felt by those who hold life dear.  Reckless, her friends called her, their warnings falling on deaf ears.

It was in battle that she was most alive, every sense heightened by the blood rage that coursed through her veins.  In its grip, the world faded in a haze of fury, instinct guiding her hands, lost in the sounds of battle and the feel of her blade.

My story is in no way unique.  There are hundreds, nay thousands, who could give a similar account.   So many  men and women, unsung heroes who stood against the darkness and with their deaths bought time for others to rise.  Most are forgotten now.  Some fell never to rise.  Others, like me, were raised in death to serve the Litch King.  I have no memory of the time I spent bound to his will.  For this, I am grateful.  I have seen others of my kind who can never recover from the memories.

Ailia was not a  great hero.   She was not noble or wise and most of her valorous deeds were spurred by recklessness more than bravery.  But – she was alive.  She knew passion in the arms of a lover.  She knew joy at the laughter of a friend.  She felt the gentle carress of the breeze and savored the soft kiss of the sun on her face.  She heard music in the lonely call of the night wind sweeping across the planes of Desolace.  Reant exists now as a shadow of the woman who once was.  Living, but never truly alive.

Unable to accept this existance, some Forsaken pine away, lost to the world in their grief.  That will not be my fate.  Ailia is gone, but Reant remains. I am stronger now than ever I was in life.  No longer do I require rest or nourishment.  No longer do I fear death or pain. No longer are my days numbered by the beat of my heart and the air in my lungs. I am content to wait.  Patient. Vigilant. My hour of  vengance will come.

Da Doctas

Written by Ailia Reant

Day Twenty Two:

I spent a good part of the afternoon thinning the population of Thunder Lizards in the area surrounding Camp Taurajo. Not the most exciting job I’ve ever done, but it paid well. Completing my work there, I headed back to the Crossroads. Upon my arrival, I noticed a large crowd gathered around a tent on the north end of town. Curious, I drew near and inquired of a guard what was taking place. He explained that a group of healers had set up a temporary clinic in town.

I soon learned this group was from Da Doctas, a school for healers and an organization dedicated to keeping the Horde healthy in body, spirit and mind. Once a week they take to the road, traveling from their campus near Sen’jin to the Crossroads and other locations throughout Kalimdor providing free medical care. Throughout the evening, a steady stream of patients arrived. Each one was quickly ushered into the hands of a healer under the watchful eye of the *Head Protecta, a Forsaken the others called Arrens.

Arrens is the first Forsaken I have encountered since I left Brill. There are many questions I would have liked to ask, but he was a bit preoccupied defending the camp against Alliance attacks. Judging from the respectful manner in which the others address him, it is clear he is an individual of some importance at the school. I’m a bit curious how he came to be associated with them. A skilled fighter and strong leader, I would expect to see him leading forces in Northrend, not working with the sick in Kalimdor. There is nothing in his manner that strikes me as particularly altruistic or compassionate, so perhaps they pay well for his services. The guard told me they return every week, so perhaps I will have an opportunity to speak with him in the future.

Late in the evening after the patients had gone, I struck up a conversation with a young blood elf. I had observed her earlier caring for a sick child. Her hands were gentle, even for an elf. Her eyes brimmed with compassion for the child and distraught mother. Remembering the Alliance attack two days ago and my inability to help the dying Tauren, I expressed my appreciation for her efforts and we soon fell to talking. She had only recently come to Da Doctas where she serves as an apprentice to one of the school instructors. Her luminous eyes shone as she shared her passion for healing children and recounted stories of her work at the newly constructed pediatrics clinic on campus. A bit of her enthusiasm infected me and, at one point, I actually smiled. It was a strange sensation.

She introduced me to several associates and I spent the rest of the night in their company. It felt good to be with others. When it came time to leave, she invited me to visit the campus sometime and see for myself the clinic where she works. I would like to learn more of this school. Perhaps, when my work here is complete, I will travel to Sen’jin and take her up on the offer.

I do not know what my future holds, but I know that tonight, for the first time since I woke in Deathknell, I felt alive.

*Upon inquiry, I learned that a protecta is a guard employed by the school for the protection of the instructors and students.

Enemies

Written by Ailia Reant

Day Twenty:

My visit to Ratchet this evening was interesting. I spend the better part of an hour perched on a hill overlooking the town observing those going and coming. Eventually, I threaded my way through the crowd and entered the inn. Most of the tables were occupied by gaudily dressed blood elves, the men fawning over the women while the wine flowed freely. To my relief, none of them paid any attention to me. I found an unoccupied table in the back from which I could observe those around me in relative seclusion. At one point, a friendly troll approached and attempted to draw me into conversation. Even in life, I was not particularly skilled in the social graces. I am afraid what little ability I had in that area has already been lost. He soon gave up and left me alone.

A subtle movement to the left caught my attention. In the corner nearest me sat two figures leaning into the shadows. There were plenty of couples, sitting close together, carrying on hushed conversations. But, there was something different about those two. An unexpected benefit of my undead state is the ability to see through shadows. Upon careful observation, I ascertained one of the figures was a Troll Death Knight.

The other figure was cloaked and presented a mystery. Too small to be a Tauren or Orc yet too short to be a Troll. It didn’t have the gaunt form of a Forsaken either. A human perhaps … but what would a human be doing here, and in the company of this Death Knight.

I turned my attention back to the Troll. There was something in his manner that set my senses on the alert. Attempting to tune out the raucous laughter and shouts from the drunken Blood Elves, I strained to hear their conversation. I could make out little, but at one point, the cloaked figure’s voice rose sharply and a woman’s voice spoke the name, “Caltrains” .

I heard nothing more and they left shortly thereafter. I remained for a time, mulling over what I heard. Eventually I rose and walked out of the inn. I started to make for the gryphon, but decided to walk back instead.

Upon returning to the Crossroads, I found the ground littered with bodies. Another Alliance raiding party had come through only moments before. A young Tauren lying nearby moaned in pain. I withdrew a roll of bandages from my pack and knelt beside him. My hands were clumsy, but I did what I could to staunch the flow of blood. He smiled feebly, gratitude in his pain filled eyes.

I remained with him until at last he drew a shuddering breath and lay still. I’m not sure how long I knelt there, oblivious as others came and went around me. I have killed countless members of the Horde. I never once felt regret or compassion. Strange that I should feel it now. I see the hate in the eyes of those around me. The lust for revenge. I understand it, but I know the truth. The enemy is not the Alliance, nor the Horde. We are mere pawns pitted against one another while the true enemy grows strong. While we destroy each other, he watches and laughs.

I will be a pawn no longer. I will not lift my sword against either Alliance or Horde save to defend myself or another. In the last days before I fell, I devoted myself to the protection of my homeland, Lordaeron, from the onslaught of the Scourge. That calling is still left to me. Now, I fight not only to defend my homeland, but to defend all those who still walk among the living. I would not have another soul, be it Alliance or Horde, share my fate.

Crossroads

Written by Ailia Reant

Day Fourteen:

I visited Orgrimmar today. It is curious how life (or death) takes you down paths you never imagined you would walk. I spent most of my life utterly devoted to the annihilation of the Orc race. Now, I walk among them.

I paid a visit to Warchief Thrall. He did not recognize me. I am a bit … changed … since our last meeting. He remains the same. A bit older and more care worn, but I still found understanding in his eyes. He supplied me with contacts in various surrounding areas and, from there, I traveled to the Crossroads.

What a strange collection of creatures I discovered there. Taurens, Trolls, Orcs, Blood Elves and other Forsaken all gathered together finding work and fellowship. I have found plenty of work, but so far have avoided fellowship.

Day Seventeen:

I witnessed an Alliance attack today. A raiding party swept across the Barrens killing and injuring many not only in the Crossroads, but also in Camp Taurajo and Razor Hill. Memories of the destruction at Brill prompted me to take up my sword in defense of the town.

I entered the fray and saw a giant cat dart to the right of me. Blood flowed from a gash in his dark flank, hate shone in his feline eyes as he snarled at the defending guards. The druid did not see me move behind him. I raised my weapon intending to drive it into his spine.

I couldn’t do it. The guards made quick work of him and I turned away, unable to watch.

I am no longer one of them. But I cannot yet bring myself to shed the blood of those I once fought, and died, beside. For now, the memories are still too fresh.

Day Nineteen:

Last night I *dreamed of my friends. We were gathered around the campfire, laughing and sharing stories as we did on so many nights. Vlod and I eventually fell to sparring while Muldov lustily belted a Dwarven drinking song. Britta glowered at us all disapprovingly and Skelto just watched with that bemused expression the Orc always wore when observing our strange ways.

Reluctant as I am to admit it, I crave companionship. I am unaccustomed to being alone and, even in death, I miss the fellowship. I was in Ratchet today and heard the inn-keeper mention a gathering tonight at the tavern. Perhaps I will attend. If nothing else, it will give me further insight into the customs of these races of the Horde.

I have a long road ahead of me, it is time I take the first step.

***

*OOC Note: Oops, I forgot that Undead do not sleep. I’ll try to catch that in the future. For now, lets say she was remembering, rather than dreaming about, her past life.

A New Beginning

Written by Ailia Reant

I am not a skilled writer. In truth, I am far more comfortable wielding a sword than a pen. Nevertheless, I have resolved to commit my thoughts to parchment so they will not be lost to time. When I write, I feel a connection with my former life. In this one way, I retain something of the woman I was.

Day One:

I have awakened in a nightmare. My limbs feel stiff and awkward. I burn with insatiable hunger that food does not allay. I am weak as a young child, barely able to lift my crude weapon. I am told the Lich King’s control over me is broken. I am told, I am free. I take little comfort in the thought. Perhaps, in time, I will grow accustomed to this existence. Perhaps, in time, I will grow accustomed to the sight of those around me. I do not know whether to hope for these things, or be afraid.

Day Six:

Today I fed on human flesh for the first time. It was a woman, a member of the Scarlet Crusade. The taste of her flesh alleviated my hunger even as the thought of what I did made me retch. When I returned to Executor Arren with my report, he seemed pleased with my progress. I fear I am losing myself.

Day Nine:

I visited the Undercity today. More than once, I reflexively drew my sword at the sight of the Abominations, Guardians of the Undercity. They must be used to such things, for they paid me no heed. The memory of my old life is still fresh. I no longer belong in the land of the living, but I don’t yet belong here either.

Day Ten:

When I returned from the Undercity I found Brill devestated by an Alliance attack. I entered Gallows End Tavern to find everyone dead. Or, whatever it is that happens to us when the dark magic that animates a corpse is broken.

I knelt beside the body of Coleman Farthing. Yesterday he asked my help in taking revenge on the family that brought him to this fate. I understand his desire for vengeance. I will honor his request.

A Blood Elf entered the inn and saw me kneeling beside the fallen. I suppose he thought I was grieving. He opened his pack and drew out some supplies; a healing draught, a weapon and some food. He gave them to me, along with a gold piece. I was reluctant to accept the gift, but in the end practicality won out over my pride. I will repay him someday.

Soon, I will leave this place. I have the resources now to travel, and I need to find a safe place where I can train and regain my former strength.

My thoughts unwittingly drift to Skelto, Shiori, Muldov … those friends I traveled with in life. They would not know me now, nor would I want them to see what I have become. I will not write of them again. It is best not to remember.