5.16

Even in death, digging through piles of dung is a disgusting event. If my stomach worked, I would have vomited. Outland is a very peculiar place.

After getting my hands dirty and reporting back to the Hold for further training (Today I learned to kill my own ghoul in order to repair my injuries. Finally, he can be of some use in the battle field!)  I returned back to Stormwind to gather up more tomes for my studies.

Some fellow Knights may think me insane for spending so much time nose deep in dusty tomes, but what do they know? Most were mindless sword wielders before their death, why should their second life be any different! They don’t know the powers that are etched into their blades, they can’t fully comprehend the might that lie in the simple symbols of runic magic! Mindless they are, brute force! Cannon Fodder!

My studies as a mage have aided me in my search for what lies in the intricate carvings of the runes we Death Knights use in order to fight successfully. The power that lies behind these are that of the Ley Lines, each rune correlates to a crossing of those lines somewhere in Azeroth. I have just scratched the surface of my studies, though. I know I will discover more as I continue. Not like I need to rest from long hours in the library.

Along with my studies, I have picked up the trade of inscribing. It’s mindless now, but the trainer won’t let me delve into the interesting scrolls and glyphs until I’ve created enough petty scrolls and weak inks to last me an unlifetime. Collecting the herbs is the worst part. Tedious work, but I don’t have the coin to buy all the herbs I need. Hopefully in my travels for petals and weeds I will uncover more information on my focus of study.

In other news, Duke seems to be holding together quite well, but he needs some attention to his paws. I found him limping around the inn in Outland this morning, holding his paw in his mouth like he would a rodent. I should invest in some play things for him.

First Entry

I was called a hero, though I do not know how much of that I would actually believe. A hero is a knight in shining armor, whisking the princess away from the dragon. Not a mage who cared more for thin pieces of paper than she did for actual living beings. Regardless, they called me a hero, so a hero I was.

I don’t remember much of the death, I believe that to be a good thing. I remember my work in the Plaguelands, the Argent Dawn banner, the scourge the wandered around aimlessly with no real motivation but that of their master’s. I remember the ambush, I remember the Kaldorei scout at my side and I remember him disappearing as soon as things got too close. I don’t recall the death, the calming feeling one finds when their spirit breaks free of their mortal coil. I don’t think I was dead for too long before the magics took hold, corrupting the Arcane that lay dormant in my body. All that power! All that knowledge! Wasted in some awful attempt to bring me back to wield a sword in the master’s name. I was never good with a weapon, he should have known that before making me one of his “champions.”

I recall much of the searing pain that came with my training as a Mage corrupting it’s self into dark magics, unholy and unfit for the world I fought hard for. If I wasn’t a walking dead, I would have died from that pain alone. I recall bits of training, the engravings of my first sword, the women and children who fell at my feet. I remember the smiles on my fellow brothers and sisters faces. I had the same one, I am sure. The training was murderous, the acts I did under his will were unspeakable. I may have been mindless then, but the sounds of the dying children linger in my mind to this day.

I saw a child unsure of which direction to call for his mother because her body and head were in two separate places.

Then we broke free. A battle, a struggle, a fight that ended with us returning to the city I once had my lessons at. When it was all over with, I hid. I was a coward, I was never a hero. To think I was called one! Laughable! I tried to become what I was before. An Arcanist, a mage. I ran back home, eyes covered, body perfumed. I hid in the abandoned home of my father for weeks, afraid to show myself to those that were once friends. In the dead of night, I dug up my old friend. The unholy magics are much more suitable for raising the dead and I think Duke looks much better since he lost all that fat and fur.

No longer am I a Mage of Stormwind, the powers I learned as a child are tainted. I am dead, a walking abomination to the Arcane. To summon a familiar is to raise a ghoul from the ground. To conjure food leaves me with nothing but dirt and worms in my hands. I am dead. I am not breathing, I am not sleeping, I am never hungry. I do not crave the human emotions of love, romance or passion. I have seen things that would leave a paladin in a catatonic state. I have done things that would make a warlock shudder in disgust. I can not turn back the hands of time and change these things. To think I could go back to being the girl I was back at Light’s Hope is laughable.

I fight now, in some world I’ve only heard stories about. They say I fight because I was built for it, reborn for it, but what vengeance is left when the man who wish to kill has been slain? I fight because there is much left to learn. That and I need the coin. I don’t think the librarians are happy with me spending every evening there.

If I knew we’d be freed from the Lich King’s grasp, I would have looted that poor mother for her jewelry to sell. Not like she was going to pass it to her kin after her death.