Kerithgar looked over the Charred Vale, pondering it and its sister forest to the North. The northern forest was healthy, vibrant, and full of life. There one could almost hear the trees sigh in contentment, as the night elves, and the children of Cenarius cared for all who dwelled there. It was as close to paradise as one could find in the realm of the living.
But the Charred Vale was dead, naught but a shadow of its former glory. It, too, had once been a paradise, but such days had long since passed. Nothing aside from tall, black towers of charcoal that had once been trees stood as reminder of the time when this forest echoed the same sighs heard in its sister. Now the forest was silent. Silent and dead. It had all died, and left the world to mourn its passing.
Kerithgar had died once. His last memory from before was of being cut down by the Scourge, Kug fighting by his side. He had been happy to die so honorably, but that had been torn from him. Kerithgar hated what that damned Lich King had made him, denying him the peace of the grave.
More than that, though, he hated the faces that haunted him. He knew they were from his life, but he knew not who they who they were. One face in particular insisted upon dwelling in Kerithgar's thoughts: a face like his, but younger. A vague notion of a name, but nothing he could put is finger on.
After fighting for another minute to grasp the identity that so eluded him, he shook his head and gave up for the day. He mounted his ugly, beautiful horse, and rode away from the burnt forest, silently vowing to himself that the Scourge would never touch these lands, and make them like him.