Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft. All property besides OC's in this story is copyright of Blizzard.

I used to have a different life. I was a fierce warrior who took great pride in her class-in cutting though enemies with steel, downing her enemies on the battlefield. I fought loyally through the world's trials, answering the call to enter the Dark Portal and brave Outland.

During my childhood, I had a friend. Emala Longstalker. But when it came time for us to decide on our chosen paths, the issues began. Emala didn't like to fight hand to hand, and it is doubtful she's changed her mind. In addition, she loved working with animals. She made the decision to become a hunter.

I chose the path of a warrior. I suppose that really shouldn't have made a difference in our friendship. If anything, it should have made it better, because a warrior and a ranged fighter working together is often a good combination. Much to my regret, that is not what happened. Instead, we started to fight as opinions formed and the differences in our personalities were drawn to light. We both left Mulgore for the first time and then separated, not even looking back. Although it is certain to me that Emala went to Outland, I'm sure she did her best to avoid me-and I her.

Perhaps if I hadn't done that, but tried to repair the bond we once had, I wouldn't have suffered in Northrend. I'm certain she was there too. The one thing that had remained mutual between us was that we both were loyal to the Horde, and would obey the call to arms.

I went there, expecting several things-undead, cold tundra, dragons, ruined kingdoms and shadows. And the Lich King. The one thing everyone knew for certain was that he was there, waiting at the frozen throne at the roof of the world.

I expected it to be like Outland. I thought that if I had waded through hordes of damn demons, I could handle the undead the same way. At first, that was how it went. I defeated undead after undead, fighting beside the other warriors of both Alliance and Horde that I had been told to work with. Until that fateful hour when I foolishly wandered away from the line, stranding myself away from any form of aid. Then they came, waves of Nerubians, zombis and ghouls. I fought and fought, determinedly fighting for my life. My sword was everywhere, cutting through limbs, chests, necks. The undead wailed harshly as they fell, only for more to arrive in their place. It seemed like it went on for hours, and it probably did, as the fight began at noon, and by then, the sky was darkening.

Then came the point where I couldn't fight anymore. Exhausted, I hardly registered it when I fell heavily onto my side, my sword slipping from my numb fingers. Or a blade sliding into my side, piercing my heart.

I awoke to cold, the kind that went deeper than physical sense. It chilled the spirit too, clenching my mind within cold claws.

Where was I?

Wasn't I supposed to be dead?

Why couldn't I remember anything?

Those three simple questions resonated in my head like echoes in a cave, my sight black and dark. Then a light came-a frosty, cold light that didn't seemed both malicious and inviting at the same time. Inexplicably, I was drawn to it.

It was as if I was clawing my way out of deep, black water, coming back from another world. I didn't know then that I had, indeed, been thrust into another reality, in my mind.

The voice was heard first.

Rise, my loyal knight.

I blinked. My sight realigned. I beheld a dark, cavernous hall. Signs of the dead, skulls and skeletons and ghostly fire, bedecked it. Shadows clung to them, creating a ghastly pattern of details, making the bones look alive. The space seemed to ring with voices, howling and screeching in their torment.

Something in me shifted. Something changed. I knew a part of me was gone forever, and it was never coming back.

My eyes went to the imposing figure that stood above me in his cape and dark spiked armor, holding the enormous runeblade Frostmorne parallel to the ground. Glowing blue eyes, casting off blue trails of mist, gazed down at me from the eye holes of the spiked helm. The only emotion in them was cold cruelty, devoid of anything else.

I hadn't realized it, but at some point I had stood. I now knelt, humbly bowing my head. Any voice that decreed otherwise was silenced, muted by the insistent mental whispering of the Lich King.

I knew that he was now my master, the one who commanded me. I was one of his most valuable assets, a weapon of the Scourge.

I was to do his bidding.

The next few days passed in a blur, of blood, frost, riding through the Plaguelands on the undead gryphon I had learned to summon. The long black claws dug into the earth of the plagued environment. I had been given a set of orders-simple in concept, but not in morals. At the moment, I had no morals...

I arrived, reining the dark horse to a halt. My cold gaze swept over New Hearthglen, already spatially razed by the Scourge forces sent ahead of me and the other Death Knights. I dismounted the horse, allowing it to fade back into the realm of shadow it had come from until I wanted it again. Then I unsheathed my runeblade, swinging it leisurely at my side and I stalked forward. I began to cut down the denizens of Hearthglen. I felt no remorse-i did not falter, did not even think of what I was doing.

Until I came across a baby. A helpless thing, the mother already dead with her arms frozen around the youngling as if to leave it one last shred of protection. Something in me, a innate ideal that the Lich King had attempted to bury, arose. I knew by instinct that at some point in my life, I had sworn never to kill another sentient being that couldn't fight back.

Especially a baby.

Just like that, a flow of memories was triggered. I remembered Mulgore, my parents and their deaths fighting in the ever constant war between the largest two factions. I remembered my childhood friend, how she tried to be as comforting as possible even though she was never the best at it. I remembered that fateful fight, and then Outland. I felt a cold claw clentch around my now silent heart as I realized just how badly my huge amount of pride had affected me.

I felt the chains break, and one last echoing howl as control was lost.

I knew without thinking that I would be killed, or captured in a attempt to brainwash me again. I made a split second decision. I drew forth my gryphon from the realm of shadows, the undead creature appearing in the fraction of a second. I scooped up the baby and took off, fleeing as long and as far as I could.

The last thing I wanted was torture-or re rehabilitation into the Lich King's ruthless ways.

Once I was well past the border of the Plaguelands, I dropped the child off at the doorstep of a farmer's house. I threw a rock at the door from a distance. I saw the gleam of light as the door opened and the outline of a woman as she picked the child up. I was gone the next instant.

I was never entirely sure why I had done that. The chances I would ever see the baby again were so mediocre they were nonexistent. On top of that, I would no doubt fight and kill plenty of other humans for various reasons. I supposed I had doe it to put my mind at rest, as a small compensation for the pointless murder I had down in New Hearthglen.

My next course of action was unclear, but I knew one thing. I would need a guise. I would end up sentencing myself to traveling on foot in a hooded cloak for the majority of the time, but it would be worth it.

The other unspoken and certain goal: locating a new place for me in the world.