He kissed her on the cheek one last time before jogging down to meet his group and get into position. Something terrible was coming and it was tearing up everything in its path. It was their job, usually, to stem the flow of something like this, but he had his doubts it would work. He’d heard the stories and it worried him greatly. Still, he had a job to do. He was one of the more seasoned, older fighters so he had to put on a front for those younger than him, more scared than him. He set his posture for battle and exhaled; he’d lived a life long enough to not fear death… right?
Wrong. It terrified him. He didn’t want to go. He had so much to do, so much waiting for him at home. He had to help clean up, help rescue, help… rebuild. He could see the ruins from his position on the slope, but with a hand over a gushing wound in his stomach, and unable to comprehend what all was broken, even the thought of getting up sent pain through his entire body. Everyone else around him was dead or dying, but he had the misfortune to be hanging on for dear life. No one would save him; no one could. He was too far forward. They were all deadmen.
He shifted a bit and yelped; he was so scared of the encroaching darkness, he pleaded with someone, anyone to help him. He let tears stream down his face as he cried out with his last breaths for someone to save him, but even he knew it was fruitless. He’d already lost so much blood and it had no plans on stopping. He tried to catch his breath before he died finally and his last, shaky exhale was a shuddering sob.
The darkness was starting to fade by the slightest of increments. Slowly, the void became black and eventually, after a long struggle, the black was traded for dull, mute and morbid colors. He was awake. Alive? No…
“Get up,” a raspy voice barked. He pushed himself up. “Fight or die again,” the voice demanded. A blade was thrust into his hands and suddenly three mangled corpses rose up to attack him. He slashed without thinking then again and again; three bodies hit the floor again and he stood straight, gaze forward. “Cleared,” the voice said, unimpressed. “Clean him, give him armor and send him straight out.”
He was ushered somewhere and told to wash himself up. He was shoved into some semblance of a bathroom and stared at the mirror. He blinked his eyes met the icy blue of his reflection. He noticed the dried blood on his lips, chin and down his neck and made quick to clean himself up before he took down his hair. Down with the clip came a scroll of parchment. He leaned down to pick it up.
“I am Khy’lar Duskarrow. I am a warrior and defensemen. I fight on the frontlines. My mother’s name is Ceere and my father’s is Varrenis. I am Khy’lar.”
He looked back at his reflection, blinking. He paused only a moment more before he put the scroll back in with his ponytail and pulled it all up high and tight. He left the bathroom and was ushered into the barracks. He fitted himself into the standard armor and picked up a basic bastard sword.
He trained in combat and in magic and at some point took up the name Rosenthal from a man named Kyle who’d valiantly aimed a bow at Khy’lar’s neck and foolishly died. He took up blood magic, he took up being a dark rider and became part of a cavalry. He got taller, stronger and managed to keep himself looking healthy and alive for no reason other than he could do it. He knew who he was. He knew who his parents were. He cut his hair as the blond was turning into bloody red; he kept it short and under a helmet.
When he was admitted into the Horde, he never bothered to try to find his parents. He was aware of the general reaction from those who saw only a Death Knight; he didn’t want to try his luck with his own blood. When the people became less vicious, though, he finally found his mother and learned of a tattoo she’d gotten long ago. He replicated it for himself, so as to remind himself of his roots. As time went on, he became less cold, but it never changed the state of his undeath. Khy’lar Duskarrow had died years ago. A corpse had risen from his place, taken his name and traded it for Rosenthal. He had died a High Elf and when he returned, his people called themselves Blood Elves because of all that had died.
All that had stayed dead?
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