The drops of rain fell from the skies above the cold wastes of the north, the passing rainstorm departing the vicinity of a cold oasis where some creatures had taken their shelter. In the trees of that small haven on the edges of the wastelands, two shining eyes peered into the dusk. His breath created small wisps of white in the cold air. The faint smell of rotting reached his nose, the stench annoying him greatly. His sight pierced the growing darkness, searching out the source of the disgusting odor. In moments he found it, originating from a small group of ghouls, servants of the Scourge. His eyes flashed, a pale flame gathering around his hands. The ghouls were stupid, the lowest of the Scourge's minions. The dark warrior withdrew his weapons, a pair of double-sided blades. The azure fire embraced the weapons, of shimmering elven-made steel. The ornate rune-spells faintly inscribed on the blades of his weapons enhanced the magic of his blaze even more.
The small group of five ghouls twitched, for by now even those nearly mindless killing beasts could sense his power. He fearlessly strode out to confront them. The crunch of his boots on the rocky, snowed-on ground caught their attention. His lithe shape dashed forth, leaving barely detectable tracks on the earth. With a vengeance his blades ripped into them. A right-hand slash tore through the torso of one ghoul, while with his left he sliced through the midsection of another as he spun around in a pirouette. He was a maelstrom of banishing death, sending the cursed souls back to the grave and beyond. They could not stop him; such was his mastery of his weapons, and of his own strengths. In mere seconds, the five corpses dropped to the ground, never to rise again with spirits of their own, by their will or by others.
The warrior sheathed his weapons, putting them back. His breath barely grew heavy from the momentary exertion. He grit his teeth, forcing down the magic his first martial training has instilled in him. It faded quickly, as it always did nowadays. He could still use its benefits without succumbing to the finality that the Demon Hunters had attained. He shook his head. What am I? Who can I call myself? He knew not the answer to that question. He raised his eyes to the night skies, the stars glittering in the darkness. He looked to see that time had passed, hours, as he thought those thoughts. The elder folk turned from the undead on the ground, and trod upon the path back to the forests of his brethren.
Note: This is but a prelude to the rest of my tale. If anyone can supply me with more official info. About the WarCraft world, I will gladly appreciate it.