"BONGGGGggggg...!"
Eyes fluttered open with the bell's toll, flashes of light and darkness flickered through his mind - racing one another for dominance.
"BONGGGGgggggg...!"
His head buzzed like bees... bees? In a nest, recently kicked and disturbed. He sniffed, eyes staying open as the familiar smell of rot and decay invaded his senses.
His fingers stretched, flexing them toward his palm. They were stiff and cracked with each effort.
"BONGGGGGgggg...!"
He saw trees, mist and a ghostly white figure overhead. Licking his lips, he tasted dust mixed with flaky moistness. It stuck to his tongue. It tasted...
"Arise!" a soft, sultry voice commanded from behind - whispering from the white, figure floating overhead. There was a name associated, said by the voice, however it did not stick in his mind.
He sat, more compelled than from choice, legs dangling from the hard surface - failing to touch the ground underneath.
"BONGGGGggggggg...!"
"Welcome back to the realm of the living!" the voice whispered, louder this time, as more images came into focus - namely the gray tinge of flesh hanging from his hands in the form of fingers. They were bejeweled with rings.
"With the blessing and power from the Dark Lady," the voice continued, moving around to face him. "I have freed you from death's grip."
He rolled his hands over, inspecting them as if for the first time. He sneered, feeling a crack in his jaw when he did, staring at the tattered pants that barely covered his legs. He wore a rich, purple shirt laced with gold trim; though the shirt itself was tattered with numerous holes.
"Looks like death still be havin' me," he muttered, hearing an alien voice emanate from his crackling mouth. Something was loose inside. "I reckon I should be thankin' ya, miss ghost."
He looked up toward the winged spirit, a brief yet futile thought popping into his mind before fleeing. "Am I your zombie now? Will I be walking the world, gobbling up strangers and eating their innards?"
Why these questions came to mind he had no idea, yet as sure as he'd risen from the grave, so had come the words.
The she-ghost showed no amusement, simply replied - much to the zombie-person's dismay.
"You are no slave, Clarby Devonshire," she said, causing him to crack a smile as the name he heard stuck. Sounds like a king's name, he thought, listening to the she-ghost continue.
"You are free to follow whatever path you choose from here. If you choose to serve the Dark Lady Sylvannas, you may speak to Undertaker Mordo. You will find him behind me, in the graveyard."
Clarby looked near his waist, where a gem-encrusted belt held up his rotting trousers. "Is she my Queen, miss ghost?"
The Val'kyr's eyes widened, a slight smile forming on her ghastly lips. "If you wish it," miss ghost said. "She is the Banshee Queen."
"Excellent!" Clarby said, bringing his moldy hands together in a wet, thudding clap. "A King needs a Queen. This I know." He thumbed his rich, purple shirt then tapped his rings.
"I was surely a king in my previous life, and if she is my queen, then I shall go and claim her."
"NO!" the Val'kyr cried, wriggling in her misty form - the voice high-pitched and near scream. "You are not her King! You are merely a servant of the Dark Lady, you are not her King!"
He smiled, nodded and began walking away from the Val'kyr, ignoring her wails completely.
"Oh yes," he said, "Look at the way I am dressed. Only a King would have a shirt such as this, gems likes these." He waved, not looking over his shoulder.
"Thank you, Miss Ghost lady. I will go find my queen, and make her my own!"
"Good day to you!" he said as she chased after, stopping when he disappeared completely. He had no idea how he did it, just knew that if he tried to think about being a ghost, he became one.
He wandered down the road, through the zombie-infested town - watching as others like himself ran haphazardly around like chickens without heads. Most appeared stupid, but all had something he did not - weapons.
"I bet if I ask," he said, causing an axe-toting warrior type missing a lower jaw to stop and look, as if a voice had appeared from the sky. "Someone will surely provide a King with a weapon."
"Hey!" Missing-Jaw said. "Who be sayin that?"
"It is I," Clarby said, stepping from his ghost form, appearing in front of the walking dead. "King Clarby Devonshire." Extending his right hand, he turned his palm down to expose a very large, golden ring.
"You may bow and kiss my ring."
"Ere, now," Missing Jaw said, ""I might fancy a ring like that for me own hand." Clarby smiled sadly, as if the man had no clue to whom he was speaking.
"Ow bout I cut that hand off, an be takin it for me self."
"I am your King, sir," Clarby said, crossing his arms as the man lifted his weapon. "And the Dark Lady is my Queen..."
Missing Jaw swung his single-bladed axe, aiming a blow for the crown of Clarby's white, bald head. Clarby suddenly appeared behind Missing Jaw, who missed so badly, that his axe hit the ground with a crunchy thud, and clattered from his hand. Clarby's fist punched through MIssing Jaw's skull, and crumpled him to the ground.
"That is no way to treat one's King," Clarby said, lifting the axe, and hooking it onto his bejeweled belt. "I shall take your axe in payment for your offense." The body quivered on the ground, as green ichor oozed from the collapsed skull.
"I suggest you visit the Ghost Lady, my good subject," Clarby said, walking away from the corpse. Zombies had seen the body and were moaning their way toward the feast.
"She shall be able to give you a new head, then raise you afresh."
With that, King Clarby Devonshire continued along his merry way, chopping spiders and whatever else managed to cross his path - never realizing the skills he exhibited were retained from his former life as a rogue. Instead, it reinforced the idea of his nobility.
=========================================
Three large, Black Wolves carrying Orc soldiers pounded through the town of Deathknell, thundering through the newly raised - coming to a growling halt in front of the Val'kyr known as Agatha.
"Mok'ra, Val'kyr!" one said, pounding his steel-armored chest with a fist. It rang with a clinking thud.
"We have come for Captain Clarby Devonshire!" Another Orc said, saluting the Val'kyr and speaking as soon as the first was finished.
"He is to be delivered to Orgrimmar immediately. Has he been raised?"
"Several have been raised," the Val'kyr hissed. "I do not remember their names once they awaken. They make their way to the Dark Lady on their own accord. They are not slaves."
"Where are the bodies?" the third growled. "We have our orders!"
The Val'kyr motioned toward a pile of steaming, rotting pile of human bodies lying in the back of a wagon. "That is the most recent load to be delivered," she hissed. "Search through there for your man. If you find him, I will raise him next."
The Orcs growled, dismounted and rummaged through the bodies of Humans, waving flies from their faces as they tossed body after body to the ground - inspecting each to ascertain identity.
"He's not here!" one bellowed, turning toward the Val'kyr. "We were told the crew of the Lady Thera came here, yet there is no Devonshire among the bodies."
Another's eyes lifted, widening in horror. "You've raised him already! Where is he?"
"I do not know, Orc," she hissed, sneering in anger. "I can ensure that you join him, however, if you continue to hinder my operations. I have a race to build." She dismissed them with a wave of her hand.
"Begone, cretins," she stated. "Lest I report you to The Dark Lady, and send you to see her myself!"
The Orcs mounted and raced away from the angry Val'kyr - thwarted and angry at missing their opportunity. There would be few means of recognizing him now that he was raised. Unless he retained his name, of course. Which they highly doubted.