He's alive.

So many things crash together assaulting his senses. His mind attempts to make sense of them all. His body slowly awakens. Everything hurts. His eyes struggle open. He lies still allowing his vision to adjust and focus in the dim light. The stone ground is cold, hard and unyielding beneath him. The lighting is dim and flickering with occasional flashes of yellow and blue which cause different sensations within him, ones of anguish and pain that are not his own. With each flash the smell of putrid flesh grows stronger. With each flash of light another awakens. Some are strong and alert while others are lacking. He can hear their cries. Gritting his teeth he growls deeply resisting the urge to lash out at them for being weak.

His eyes narrow. His surroundings slowly come in to focus. He's lying on his side. His eyelids feel heavy as do his limbs. He's lying amongst other bodies. He's stripped bare. He has nothing. They too are stripped bare, same as he is. No clothing, no emotions, no name, no shame.

Voices are speaking nearby. One is commanding, others obeying. He strains to hear. He strains to understand. He whispers to him. He beckons. He must not show his pain. He must learn to suppress any weakness. He must obey or be destroyed. He is the master, the maker. He is his, mind and body. Who he is or was doesn't matter. All that matters is him, his calling, his will. He is his tool, his weapon, his warrior. They dance to his song. These ideas, these thoughts, this knowledge flits through his mind as others awaken around him.

Exhausted, he inhales deeply filling his lungs with the cold brisk air. The aromas assault his senses with rotting flesh, soil, and mold. Water is thrown over his body and those around him again and again. The cold embraces him. The flesh on his body reacts immediately as his senses awaken becoming more alert with each passing moment. He takes stock of things, flexing his muscles, swallowing, opening and closing his mouth. Slowly he tries moving his limbs, testing them. They move slowly yet gracefully with unknown strength lying dormant within him. He raises his upper body slowly to a sitting position. His hands are firmly flat on the stone ground supporting him. He feels woozy from the movement. How long has it been since he used his muscles last? How long has he been dormant? How long has he been dead? Long white hair hangs loose, wet and limp around his face and shoulders.

"This one." Harsh tones reverberate around him originating from somewhere to his right. His voice is not the one which beckons. It is the commanding voice he heard earlier. That same flash of light fills the surrounding area as a body stirs beside him.

He lifts his eyes to watch her. Her body lies unnaturally. Her pale blue skin is tinged gray like the stone she lies upon. Her arm is twisted behind her. Her legs are sprawled in opposed directions. She rolls over on her back straightening her body curling her tail beside her. Her matted black locks fan out beneath her. Her eyebrow twitches once and is still. She gasps sitting up. Her chest rises and falls with each lungful of air she takes. Her hand suddenly darts out and grabs hold of his hair pulling him to her as she growls and bares her teeth. Her hot breath fans his skin. The stench is repulsive and foul. Her fist tightens around his hair pulling his head back further. "Dark energy courses through me…" Her voice is gravely, lilting, accented and reverberating. "Such power! I hunger for more!" Her lip curls in to a knowing sneer. A growl escapes him. She releases his hair growling back. She lifts her eyes to the man who commands, kneeling before him.

Instructor Razuvious nods approvingly at the naked woman. "Amidst the wretch, a champion has been found. Place upon it the trappings befitting a herald of Arthas."

Immediately by his side is another. His voice is also strong and sure yet with no reverberation. "Right away, Instructor."

The necromancer motions for the woman to follow. She immediately finds her footing and stands. Pausing for a moment looking at her body, she tests her hands and arms. Red angry welts of hastily healing gashes mar her torso. A small cold calculating smile graces her features. She turns on her hoof and follows the necromancer from the room.

"This one is awake." Instructor Razuvious points at him. He looks up at him in confusion. "Come present yourself."

He pauses at his command. He must obey. He must not hesitate. He moves immediately, pulling his long legs beneath him. Crouching he pivots to face him. He pauses only long enough to gain the ground beneath him before standing. His legs threaten to give out. He wills them to stay strong and support him. They do his bidding and he stands slowly. Long awkward muscular legs stand straight, leading to his narrow hips which shift stiffly as he moves his weight from one foot to the other. Testing, always testing and pushing his limits. His waist and midriff elongates as he rises. His stomach is flat and tone. Raising his right hand he flips his hair from his view. He stands at last of his own accord. He takes a calming breath and looks at the one who commands him.

Instructor Razuvious watches shrewdly. Carefully he places one foot before the other, each muscle screaming for him to stop. He grits his teeth to keep from screaming, swallowing the pain using it to make him stronger. Stepping towards the instructor he carefully makes his way over the other bodies. He stands tall, his head held high as his eyes take him in. Razuvious is taller than he is. He is forced to look up to gaze in his eyes. Razuvious' short cropped white hair is immaculately in place. His armor shines in the dim light. Their eyes clash, icy blue runic eyes challenging him, daring him to look away. He will not back down. He does not lower his gaze. "He will do."

Relief washes over him. He falls to his knees, kneeling before him exhausted from the effort. His chest is heaving as he sucks in lungful after lungful of tainted air. A humorless smirk tugs at the corner of Razuvious' mouth. "For now…"

He looks at him through his hair. It has fallen once more over his face and shoulders. Silently he vows Razuvious will find him worthy. They all will. Razuvious' attention is drawn to others, dismissing him without a word. He looks to where the other was taken.

He looks around at the form stirring beside him. Slowly another raises her head, shaking it to clear her thoughts. She groans running fingers through her pink hair. He tilts his head looking at her familiar form, the long ears, the purple tinted skin, the muscular arms, firm breasts and tight stomach tapering to a small waist. He looks at my own body and notes the same coloring yet they are different. "You." She looks up sharply, her eyes narrowing. Her eyes take in the sight of the man who calls to her. She rises wordlessly, stepping forward with her chest out, her shoulders back looking up to see the man speaking to her. Her hands instinctively ball in to fists. An amused grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. "She will do…"

Once more his attention falls to those around him. Some are long, some short. Some muscular, some merely bones with flesh and skin still attached. A few have hooves, horns and tails, others have tusks or claws. They have different shades of pink, purple, green and brown skin and fur. Their forms are familiar. Their races are familiar. Yet he doesn't know why. They are brothers. They are sisters. They are one. He feels them. He knows them. They vary in sizes, shapes and gender. They all answer the call. His call.

There are others. They are mewling in pain and fear. There is no point in those presenting themselves. They show their weakness while crying out for mercy. Mercy is for the weak. He watches as a pink skinned bald male gasps and cries from the pain. "I hurt… suffering unbearable… end my pain… I beg of you!"

"Another failure..." Instructor Razuvious looks down at him with contempt. "You have been measured and found wanting…" He turns to the necromancer beside him with a sneer of disgust. "Dispose of it."

"Yes, Instructor." He watches in fascination as the necromancer raises his hand commanding the undead and summoning the scourge to his will. "Rise, minions. Rise and feast upon the weak!"

From the stone emerge the necromancer's minions. Each one hungers. Each one is a mindless ghoul. Three in total surround him. Snarling they attack, ripping at his flesh, biting, gnawing and feasting. The butchery is fast and efficient leaving bones and blood with bits of flesh in their wake. He can feel the hunger of the minions. He can feel the pain of the one who was torn apart. He closes his eyes taking it in, licking his lips as blood lingers in the air.

Instructor Razuvious has turned towards another giving instruction during the carnage. As the ground opens once more, the minions obediently descend and await the call of their master. Razuvious glances in their direction watching their reaction with satisfaction. "Take them, prepare them."

"Yes." He lifts his eyes to see who speaks. She's much shorter than the Instructor. She's much shorter than he is. She is a broad woman in a red robe that covers her completely. Her hands folded before her are covered by the sleeves. Her head that is bowed is hidden in the shadows within the hood. Her voice is husky, harsh, and gruff.

She turns to face their small group and without a word walks towards the exit. They understand her meaning and immediately fall in to line to follow her. Flashes of light, sounds of screams and the stench of putrid flesh are left behind them. Slowly, unsteadily they are herded onward.

He watches his feet with fascination as they proceed. They move so effortlessly as if he has been walking for years. Perhaps he has been. How many years, he will never know. He can't seem to remember anything that may or may not have happened before awakening today. Prepare them. Those two words echo in his mind. With every step his legs are stronger. Every step he takes is more confident. He feels stronger in mind and body. Prepare them… A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. Prepare them for him. He has a use for them. Each in the group is eager. They hunger. The anticipation is palatable.

An opening in the wall looms before them. They draw nearer to the darkness. It is their current destination. The robed figure walks silently beside them. Two rows of three silent figures walk together. The only sound they make is the muted slap of bare feet against the stone floor. The dank room is darker than the one they awoke in. Along the stone walls of the curved room are torches. Within the room are buckets and troughs of water, soaps and combs. Collectively they move forward eager to be rid of the dirt and grime upon their bodies. He pauses at the entrance. The robed one watches him expectantly. He meets her hooded gaze. She does not move or react. She does not acknowledge him further. She simply walks away.

Left to wash, he joins the others. His eyes scan the room with anticipation and eagerness. Soap, water, brushes, cloth, short stools everything they require to cleanse their bodies. He has simple needs, cleanliness, sustenance, vengeance, power. The water is refreshing against his cold skin. Taking the brush in hand, he scrubs his skin clean of the mud.

The small woman beside him lets out a sigh of high-pitched contentedness. She drops her brush on the stone floor before pouring water over herself shaking her head causing her bright pink hair to flap around. A smirk plays on his lips. Simple needs. Simple joys.

The stool is low to the ground making it easier to scrub his feet. There is an odd comfort to this repetitive scrubbing. The soap bubbles turn a peculiar greenish brown. His skin returns to its color. His head tilts, eyebrows furrow. Is this his original skin color? He rinses his body and stares at the skin on his legs and arms. He runs his hand across his torso noting the large angry scars. It doesn't matter what color it was. The thought is tossed aside.

He feels suddenly uneasy. His eyebrows furrow as his eyes search for the area. A woman is staring at him. He glares back sneering. She scoffs and lowers her gaze. The grip on his scrub-brush tightens. Weak. She thinks he's weak. A smirk graces his face yet it dies quickly.

"She watches you." The gravely reverberating voice is deep, hollow yet oddly lilting.

His eyes flicker across his face to his shoulders and chest. His head tilts as he takes in his form that is so different than his own. He is male to be sure yet missing parts of his torso, arms and legs leaving bones bare. He tries to speak, yet his voice fails. He reaches out and touches his face. His fingers slip along his jaw. "Where-" His hand flies from his jaw to his own lips. His voice is much like theirs, deep, reverberating and strong. He's filled with more questions.

The man chuckles and takes his hand placing it back on his face. He urges him to touch the thin wisp of his jaw line, and the pearly white skin stretching across his skull. His laugh is deep and throaty. He finds it peculiar yet pleasing. He is mostly bones and skin. He must be strong or he would have been destroyed immediately. "I am Forsaken."

He nods slowly as if he understands. The man isn't fooled. The question is plainly in his eyes. He chuckles again. He enjoys the sound of his voice. "I am… not."

He releases his hand and shakes his head slowly. "No, you are not." His thumb caresses the man's cheek. His finger tips slip along his jaw before he drops his hand. The Forsaken picks up a comb from the ground and hands it to him. "You are Kal'dorei."

He takes the comb and nods. Slowly he works the comb through his long white hair mulling this new word over in his mind. Kal'dorei. He is Kal'dorei? No. "I am not." He looks at the Forsaken and shakes his head. "I am his weapon."

He grins then and nods. "We are his champions."

"Come." The hooded woman returns for them. Without question, without discussion, they go to her.

She leads them out of the bathing chamber and to the adjoining area. Just like the last alcove this one is open to viewing. Armor fills the alcove from wall to wall, from ceiling to floor, capes, bracers, gloves, pauldrons, chest plates, leggings, boots, and helms of various sizes to accommodate each of them. Without a word they walk amongst the armor finding something to fit. His fingers glide along the soft fabric of a cape. He moves on. A man stands beside him. This one is much broader in the chest yet shorter than he is, much like the hooded woman. He can see his eagerness to wear the armor awarded to them. He pulls from the wall a chest plate and holds it to himself. The Kal'dorei shakes his head and grabs another. He stares at it wordlessly. He puts the other back and takes the offered one looking at it blankly yet understanding fully.

His bright green skin dulled in the dim light contrasts the Kal'dorei's as his fingers linger across his shoulders when he brushes past him. His excitement is added to theirs. Each of them wordlessly pulls gear for either themselves or for others. Not one is satisfied without the other knowing, each finding precisely what is necessary. The woman much like him hands him boots. He takes them without hesitation or question slipping his foot in knowing it will be a perfect fit.

Collectively they are one. They are dressed in armor befitting the perfect warrior. They stand before the one who commanded them as he looks them over one at a time. None flinch, none worry. Together they stand tall assured they are properly outfitted. His voice fills their heads, fills the room and they listen carefully. "The single most important piece of equipment to a death knight is the runeblade. It is through the runeblade that a death knight commands the powers of frost, blood and the unholy. The runeblade also acts as a vessel to store the death knight's runic power.

"The time has come to create your first runeblade. Search the weapon racks on this floor and locate a battle-worn sword. Once found, take the sword to a nearby runeforge and use it to create a runeblade."

The group forms before rows of swords. Large unyielding dull swords displayed before them. Each one walks silently through the rows of swords staring before them waiting for their sword to speak or sing to them. One by one they reach for their sword. One by one they are united with their future. His eyes scan across the dwindling swords when suddenly one shines more so than the rest. It calls to him. His hand instinctively reaches for it brushing against another. They stare at each other in our confusion. How does one sword sing to two? Again it is the woman much like him. His eyes narrow, his hand firmly wraps around the hilt of the sword. Her blue eyes widen and flare with sudden anger. All heads turn towards them expectantly.

His lip instantly curls, challenging her for the sword. She refuses to back down. Foolishly she reaches for it. A guttural growl rips from the cold center of his being. Lifting the sword he holds it ready to slay the fool who tries to take it from him. She is his sister, she is one of them. She will fall to his blade if she is weak. The realization is in her eyes, she knows. She must for he has set the challenge before her.

His voice whispers to him. "Kill…"

He bends his knees bracing his stance, baring his teeth to her. He knows she hears Him. How can she not hear His song? Foolish woman grabs a sword and faces him. She will be his sister no longer. One of them will fall. He speaks to him again. "Show no mercy."

His eyes watch her every movement, he anticipates her approach. She moves to her right. He brings his sword down upon her slicing at her. The tip of his blade delicately slides across her midriff below her chest plate. Her blood drips from his blade. The blade rejoices as he lifts it in preparation holding it parallel to the ground.

She clenches her teeth against the pain. He can feel it within her. She glares at him and she lunges with a loud growl. Side stepping her he brings his sword across her back. She lets out a cry of frustration. Silently he moves back to his stance waiting, watching, anticipating. At long last she settles her anger and mimics his stance.

Their swords clash again and again, the clanging metal upon metal rings throughout the room. The sound thrills him. He can smell her blood in the air. He can taste it. His tongue licks at his lips hungrily. His blade sings to him urging him on, begging for more of her blood. Parry to the left, she moves to his right. She thrusts her sword at him, slicing the skin on his right side.

The warmth of his blood is sticky at his side. He refuses to allow it to slow his movements. Her own movements are slowed with the loss of her own. The dance of death lingers between them until at last he sees her weakening. From some where deep within him, he hears his body. He feels its response. He lures her in. Not understanding, nor questioning he reaches his hand out towards her and from his finger tips comes forth the icy touch of his champion. She howls and staggers. The disease quickly washes over her seeking her blood, entering her body and ravaging her.

His blade sings as he swings it around fully. The weight of his body and momentum is too great for her. She opens her mouth to cry out her anguish. The sound is lost as her throat is cut. Her body slumps to the ground before him. The clatter of the sword falling from her grip is the only sound made in the room. He looks at her. Her vacant eyes stare back. He grips his sword and silently follows the others to the runeforge.

They take their time to care for their swords. The methodical movement of sharpening his blade is soothing. He finds the motion comforting. They learn how to prepare their sword for the runeforge. Soon they will be taught how to set runes upon their weapons. His mind tumbles over the two different types they will currently learn. With each stroke of the whetstone he deliberates over his choices; Cinderglacier and Razorice.

"What troubles you?" His lilting voice carries across the sound of the scraping whetstones.

"Nothing." He lifts his blade, sliding it across his forearm peering at it, searching for imperfections. He glances at him over the blade. "I'm… thinking."

"Thinking?" The Forsaken chuckles. A shiver involuntarily runs through his body. It does not go unnoticed. He squats beside him, placing his own weapon across his thighs. His fingers slip affectionately along the blade as he speaks. "Affixing runes upon your weapon alters it. Increasing your damage, increasing your attack, causing vulnerabilities and dealing Frost damage… this is good to think on."

The Kal'dorei finds it hard to ignore him when he speaks. His words speak to his soul. He gazes into his soulless eyes. "Which do you choose?"

"Razorice." He grins as he scoff. "Why trust in chance? Cinderglacier's damage is greater than Razorice. I'm sure you've thought this through yet listen to what I say. Razorice is constant rendering your foe vulnerable. Cinderglacier-"

"Has a chance of inflicting much greater pain than Razorice and while I appreciate your wisdom…" He sighs as he snapped at him. He had no intention of being so flippant. "I appreciate your words. I hear them. It is my path to take. It is my choice to make."

The Forsaken nods at him. His gesture is obviously stiff and forced. Yet he feels no remorse for standing up to him and taking this choice back to himself. To allow his words to sway his decision is a sign of weakness. He is many things. Weak is not one of them.


Night has come. The cold lingers. The dim lighting remains with an illusory calm. It is time for mending. Many of his champions are grouped together throughout the area. Some rest. Others speak. Some seek pleasure, comfort and release.

His mind is allowed to wander with no demands set on him. Sitting on the bare stones of the floor, he extends his legs before him, leaning back on his hands. The Forsaken lies beside him propped on an elbow watching as others rid themselves of their garments in order to lie together. He lays back, his hands behind his head and a small grin playing on his thin lips.

"You seem to know more than I do. I find that annoying." The Kal'dorei pulls him out of his private thoughts. The Forsaken stares up at him. He chuckles remaining silent much to the Kal'dorei's frustration so he continues. "I see things that I should know."

"Memories." The Forsaken speaks at last. He is staring at the ceiling again.

He sits up at the mention of memories. A simple word yet it carries much significance. He nods slowly as the word rolls over my mind again and again. Memories… "Do you have… memories?"

"Some. Flashes of things I know to be true. Other things… I just know." He glances over at him. "What is it you want to know?"

He hesitates not wanting to admit his lack of knowledge. "You say you are…"

"Forsaken." He prompts.

Forsaken, Undead, once Human… he nods as this clicks in to place. "And you say that I am…"

"Kal'dorei." He finishes his sentence. Oddly it doesn't bother him when he does this.

Kal'dorei, Elf… Night Elf. He looks at others around them. His voice lowers with shame. "I know the shapes of these others yet…" He growls out of frustrations. "I cannot name them. It is as if I know, yet it is just beyond my grasp."

The Forsaken lifts his torso once again propping up on an elbow bringing him closer so he can hear his low soothing voice. He points out others. "Orc, Troll, Human, Dwarf, Orc, Gnome, Draenei, Tauren…" His voice drifts off.

The Kal'dorei looks at the one not named and glances at him. He has an odd look on his face. The Forsaken looks… confused. "Human?"

The Forsaken shakes his head slowly. "No. Humans don't suddenly change to an animal as that one has, with fur and claws…" His voice is different, strained. He nods towards the one he left off with. "That is a Worgen."

Worgen. His eyes are on those that have come before. They are strong. The two fall quiet again. Still voices and noises surround them; low and hypnotic sounds with an occasional outburst.

Just this morning he was in eternal sleep. Now he will never sleep like that again. The Kal'dorei lies beside the man with the soothing voice.

"Do you have a name?" The Forsaken's voice whispers.

His eyebrows furrow and he stares blankly. "I… I don't know."

He nods silently. "I am… or once was… Reynolds."

He closes his eyes. Reynolds. It seems rather fitting. "Reynolds…"

Reynolds grunts and lays back, his arms crossed over his chest once again staring at the ceiling above.

The day's events play over for the Kal'dorei. He evaluates his actions, reactions and words. He shivers as a realization comes to him. The woman who wanted his sword. His eyes tighten seeing her face again. He remembers standing before the dead body. He looked to where her head fell over. The gap in her neck caused it to lie at an odd unnatural angle. Her dead eyes stared sightlessly at him. He knew her.