From the Mouth of the Skull

Chapter 1: The Start of It All

Past and Future Disclaimer: I do not own anything that Blizzard does.

A/N: This is a story I've wanted to do for a very long time, stemming from a picture I drew of a ghoul and a geist "reading" a book. I am very certain that I am taking quite a few liberties with the lore on this, but fan fictions are by nature non-canon. It starts off serious, but I can't keep anything serious 100% of the time. A serious subject with some good-natured fun and silliness.

As all stories must, I must start my own from the beginning. Only by starting from the very beginning of this whole affair might my motives me fully comprehended. I ask not that you, the reader, sympathize with me; I only ask that you understand. I no longer seek acceptance, I only seek existence. My story is a long one, at it is at times difficult to explain my feelings. Over the decades, my emotions have slipped away from me, but that is only natural. If it were not for my two faithful companions, I may have gone insane. Not the screaming, foaming insane, either. The bad kind of insane, where there is no emotion, no pity. Then I may have finally succumbed to my role and returned to my brethren.

I will not explain where I stand right off the bat; if I did, you might lose interest and abandon the volume before you. I understand fully the hatred that exists between my kind and all the other races of Azeroth, and have experienced it many times. I have even perpetuated it. Do not judge me, as there are no longer any who have the capacity to do so. My deeds and trespasses are too great for any one being, or committee, to comprehend to their fullest extent. I cannot even fathom my reasoning for some things, and have long since stopped trying. It only gives me a headache.

I was born on Draenor, as it came to be called, many years before it was torn apart, many years before Ner'zhul was deceived. I was an orc, once upon a time. I lived peacefully with my clan, I had a wife and a marvelous daughter. I have since forgotten their names and faces, but that fact has long since stopped bringing me grief. I am no longer who I was back on Draenor, and I will never again regain that special kind of magic. I no longer dwell upon it.

I was a shaman at one point, but the special magics contained in water and ice captivated me. Water was so dynamic, so alive. I could feel its movement in my hands, I could feel the urgency it had, to nourish. It could take any form, any shape. I studied it to its furthest extents, and found new form of destruction in ice. At first, I was frightened by it. I was shocked at how much destruction ice could cause. I lived in a very temperate area of Draenor, and our weather did not fluctuate much, so I was unfamiliar at the time with ice and snow. The destructive power of water surpassed that of even fire!

I studied by myself, and slowly passed that line that separates a shaman from a mage. I sought out other spell casters, to learn more, to refine what I could do. I was excited to learn that there were others out there who had discovered the same thing. I had not heard of them previously, as I lived in a small isolated village, and my chance discovery had lead me to strike out on my own, forsaking my family in my thirst for knowledge.

Perhaps that is my greatest fault. Nearly everything I have done has been to learn. I gave up my idyllic life in that sheltered valley for knowledge. I gave up my sense of self for knowledge. I fought against my brethren, against my Lord, for knowledge. I tore through small armies and aided those in need for knowledge. Information is indeed a corrupting energy; knowing too much can be just as deadly as knowing too little.

I eventually found my way to the central hub of the Orcs, and was introduced to our leader, Ner'zhul. I admit, my memories of those years is not very good. I remember learning with other spell casters in his confidence, touching on pieces of my shamanic tendencies that I had almost forgotten about, but always circling back to ice. I feel that Ner'zhul tried to return me to the path of a shaman, but in my short-sightedness and eagerness, I most likely ignored him. Perhaps that just means that I would have made a terrible, terrible shaman.

It was not long after that things began to change. The arrival of the Draenei many years prior was not met with much resistance; no one minded as they were peaceful and kept mostly to themselves. We did not know what was chasing them, what they were seeking refuge from. Although, if we did know, the outcome would probably have been the same. The orcs were peaceful then, and would not have driven them from the planet.

Yes, the orcs were once a somewhat peaceful, shamanic species. It never ceases to amaze me how few people are aware of this. We enjoyed a good fight as much as the next, but we never had any outright war without good reason. Groups of warriors roamed the country sides, searching for game to test their mettle and hone their skills. However, through the machinations of Kil'jaeden and his soon-to-be protégé Gul'dan, the orcs were twisted and ripped away from their humble roots and augmented by fel energies, becoming howling barbarians driven by bloodlust. It is an unfortunate end to such a grand race, but once again, it was inevitable.

Ner'zhul was deceived by demons pretending to be the spirits he sought council with on occasion, and was driven to mass genocide. He was convinced that the Draenei would destroy us, or something along those lines. I forget exactly. Those days were frenetic, and my memories are sketchy at best. I forget exactly how many Draenei I have slain, how many women begged me to spare their children, how many men tried in vain to defend their wives. I would say that it makes me sick to think about it, but again, those are memories that no longer evoke emotion in me. Those thoughts haunt me in the dead of night, but like having a nightmare every day for a month, they cease to have the same poignancy that they once had.

The demons attempted to coerce Ner'zhul to give control of them, but our leader denied them. I will always hold some respect in my heart for our poor leader. He tried to hold out against the demons as best he could, even after having practically given them the orcs. Unfortunately, his last stand was in vain. Kil'jaeden would not be denied. He reached down into the ranks of Ner'zhul's confidants, and found his apprentice, Gul'dan.

Gul'dan was similar to myself in many ways back then. We both were enticed by the power we had been introduced to, and we both hungered for more. However, that is where the similarities end. I would never have done what he did. He abandoned Ner'zhul's teachings outright and focused solely on the demonic powers Kil'jaeden had showed him. He quickly mastered them, and his sudden rise to power was frightening, but awe inspiring.

One memory I have quite vividly of those days is Gul'dan himself coming to me, and asking if I would like to learn what he had. He offered me a chance to help him build his Shadow Council. He gave me time to think about it. I finally decided against it, my instincts telling me that he was delving too deep, he had tapped into something he could not control. I denied my place among his followers and stuck close to Ner'zhul, watching in horror as Gul'dan's cohorts swept across the clans, coercing those in his wake, and when he could not coerce, he subjugated.

Somewhere along the line, Ner'zhul was subjugated himself. He was our leader in name only; Gul'dan was now the true leader, pulling the strings behind the curtains, as the saying would go. He could only watch in horror and sadness as his people were turned into instruments of war, and used to invade another planet. I, personally, was not on Azeroth during this. I somehow managed to stay on Draenor during the wars, and was unaware of the battles and twistings and turnings of the "horde," as the orcs came to be called.

I was even unaware of Gul'dan's death, until Teron Gorefiend came to speak with Ner'zhul. He spoke to him of artifacts that could open up portals to other worlds to conquer…and escape to. By now, I was in over my head, and unable to get out of what I had somehow fallen into. He gathered artifacts, including the Skull of Gul'dan. I watched in horror as this bleached skull slowly tormented our leader. My memories leading up to the opening of the other portals is scant. I do not remember how he obtained the relics, only that he did and opened up the portals, and urged us through it. Only one protested, Obris, and was struck down by Ner'zhul's power and left for dead. I remember quite vividly looking over my shoulder right before entering and seeing him lying face down in a pool of his own blood.

Then we were in the Twisting Nether. It is an experience that is hard to describe. There was no ground on which to walk, but we stood. There was nothing to see, but each other. We stood for a moment, hanging in limbo, uncertain of what to do and where to go, until we were captured.

In hindsight, it was so obvious that we would be captured. Ner'zhul was not particularly subtle on his gathering of the artifacts, or on his motives. He became driven by power, by some inner need that I cannot know. We were surrounded on all sides by demons, and Kil'jaeden's impressive form appeared before us. He laughed at us. Laughed! The lord of the Burning Legion laughed at us, as though he expected us. He took up Ner'zhul and tore him apart slowly in front of us all. The begging of our leader cut into our very souls, but there was nowhere for us to run. He was twisted and bound to a helmet of all things, and encased in a tomb of ice.

He then focused his attention on us, and once again, my memory fades. You would think that I would remember the day that I was turned quite clearly, but alas, I do not. All I remember is a searing, overwhelming pain, then darkness. I do not know how long I was out, or what happened during that time. I have vague recollection of sudden awareness, of feeling necromantic power surging in my very bones, but there are no images that are linked to those sensations. All I remember is finding myself again on the frozen glacier of Icecrown in Northrend, wondering where I was, what I was.

I did not have much time to discover. Ner'zhul's mind had been amplified a hundred-fold, no, a thousand-fold by his wraith-like new form, and his thoughts were oppressive in my mind. We quickly conquered the Nerubians, using them to build a fortress to house our new Lich King. We slowly expanded through Northrend, and developed a way to raise undead minions without the need for direct necromantic magic, the Plague of Undeath. Over the course of the years, we developed a hierarchy that was never challenged, never altered. I was comfortable in my role, commanding my little sect of nerubians and the odd reanimated Vrykul that had tried to stand up to us. I quickly mastered my new powers of necromancy and honed my control over the power of ice that had once so enthralled me.

That is probably what I miss the most. I have tried many times to regain that sense of wonder, that feeling of life between my fingers. Now, it is commonplace, ordinary, and no longer alive. I do not touch liquid water anymore; it feels just as inert as a stone in my hands. I no longer have a connection to life, and I can no longer hope to touch the shamanic powers I once could. The corruption of the Burning Legion on us had been absolute; we were forsaken by all the elements of life, and embraced by the entropic and corrupting elements of death and undeath. The dynamic, destructive element of water had now been replaced by the cold, unrelenting chill of the grave and the howling winds of Northrend.

We broke free of Kil'jaeden's grasp soon after that. The failed siege on Hyjal shattered the Burning Legion, and Ner'zhul jumped on the opportunity to sever ties with our demonic masters. The severance was a high point in my undead life. I could feel the will of Kil'jaeden flowing through the will of Ner'zhul prior to that. When the Lich King suddenly freed himself, it was as though a hole in the world sealed shut, and we once again became autonomous and self-sufficient. We silently exulted in our newfound freedom, and strove to make this world ours, for ourselves. Ner'zhul sent out his will to the other continents of Azeroth, seeking out necromancers and those striving for power.

He eventually found Kel'thuzad. I would find myself cursing that name under my breath in coming years, as he would seemingly come out of nowhere and quickly rise to power, knocking all of the rest of us down one peg.

I suppose this is a good opportunity to come clean about my identity. I am a lich. Yes, the enormous, skeletal figures in overdone robes with horns and tusks and chains and ice. I used to be rather high on the scale within the Scourge, but I have long since severed ties. The petty machinations of my kin, the constant whispering behind my back, the disdain I got from my inferiors and superiors alike for my particular eccentricities that undermined my achievements finally drove me to throw up my hands in disgust and excise myself from the wound that was the Scourge. I say "was," as I have not felt the urgings of the Lich King as much in recent years. I have heard news that he was defeated in Northrend, but I do not feel that is true. The Lich King is no longer a creature of the mortal coil, and must always exist. Perhaps he still does, but has been somehow weakened or contained? One day I will have to investigate myself.

Liches are an interesting sect of the Scourge. Unlike most of the other creatures, we operate almost completely autonomously. We are free to do as we see fit, so long as the end result fits what our King wishes, and we always reach those goals. Thus, we developed a rather intricate society among ourselves. We have a penchant for pageantry. We work long hours prettying ourselves up, and often hole ourselves up for days, trying to think of new and imposing-sounding names for ourselves. I played along for a while, and got pretty high on our little personal hierarchy, until that damnable Kel'thuzad came in.

How I hated that man! I hated him with a passion, even though I hold a silent respect for him. He was a very charismatic individual, even as a lich, and only he could have helped the Scourge gain such a strong foothold in Lordaeron. Still, how quickly he gained confidence with out master made me angry. I had been there with Ner'zhul since before Kil'jaeden had touched him, and now this human was suddenly his favorite? I was not alone in this thoughts, either. Several of my compatriots privately stewed over this new development, but there was nothing we could do. We eventually resigned ourselves to his leadership, and developed at least a cursory respect in his genius.

I soon was sent overseas to Lordaeron myself. It was there that I found my first (un?)lifelong companion. I was put in charge of a rather large regiment of ghouls and abominations, in charge of razing the countryside. I found that I did not much care for the abominations, and would much rather have my nerubians back. The ghouls, however, fascinated me. I found them oddly endearing, their arms flopping to and fro and their little growls and gurgles. One in particular I found rather amusing. A funny little thing with an arrow stuck through his head that went by the name of Toof. I actually chuckled when I first heard the name. He was a toothy little thing, so the name was quite fitting to me.

What was doubly surprising was how well this little ghoul operated. He quite quickly showed that he was of a higher caliber than his kin, often performing complex tasks without a second thought, and adeptly flanking foes and pushing his fellows into more tactical assaults. I praised Toof, probably outrageously, but I had found something that had truly sparked my interest in the first time in a long time. We quickly traveled through the country, burning and destroying, and building our little army all at the same time. Whenever a settlement was destroyed, I raised the occupants as soldiers. Whenever a regiment tried to stand in our way, we destroyed them and I did the same. Our little band quickly grew, and I started getting a little bit creative with my raising techniques.

I found that I could raise up skeletons, and have their arms sharpened into swords, eliminating the need to give them weapons of their own. Toof even got several together and made a wonderful little construct that tore apart four different groups of soldiers before finally being overcome. It was not long, though, before I started feeling bored again. There was not much to do in Lordaeron other than destroy, but I felt no great urge to return to Northrend. By now, Kel'thuzad had been killed and elevated to the form of a lich by bathing his remains in the Sunwell. Arthas soon to be on his way to Northrend to meet with Ner'zhul, and I felt an odd sort of detachment from him.

It was unsettling on some level, since I had followed him faithfully for the better part of my life. Now, there was a distance between us that didn't exist before. He was no longer the Ner'zhul I had loved, either. Proof of that came in visions he shared with a few of us on occasion, those who he trusted the most, who had been with him since the beginning. Disturbing images of dark laugher, roiling waters, living mountains, and odd-colored deer.

One vision in particular inspired me. There were undead roaming around, but free of the iron will of the Lich King. Free from domination. I remember when that image came to me. I stood still for a very long time, unconsciously holding onto the chain that we had all wrapped around ourselves as a symbolic expression of our undying will to the Lich King. I looked down to see my hand on it, and I was perplexed. Why would I be doing such a thing? Was I scared by the idea? Was I trying to figure out how that would happen? Did I want to be free?

Those questions disturbed me. I thought that all of us would be having those thoughts, I thought that we would all have the same level of self-awareness that I had. I was proven very, very wrong when I returned to Northrend. I tried to speak to those I had once considered friends, those few liches who had also seen the visions, those few who I had studied and learned with for so long. The looked at me as though I were a foreign creature, something they had never seen before. Similar to the look we all had given the first Draenei we saw. I laughed and tried to play it off, instantly and painfully aware that I alone had somehow retained my morality, my mortality. That was the beginning of the end for me. My position in the hierarchy quickly fell, I was disgraced. I stayed away from the Citadel and avoided other liches, but I was plagued by their scorn.

It was in this time of dismay that I met my other companion. He was a surly sort, and quite obstinate. Surprisingly, I found him smoking behind a plague wagon.

"Why are you doing that?" I asked of him. The geist looked up at me, removing the hand-rolled cigarette from a small gap in his hood. His eye did not show any remorse; he looked at me with a challenging stare.

"Why does it matter, master?" He said the last word with a deep amount of scorn. I thought about that.

"It doesn't," I replied. "I am just curious."

He looked at me for a while, taking a draw on his cigarette. I found it amusing on some level, since as undead, we do not have the need to breathe, and the cigarette would have no effect anyway. Perhaps it was just a carry-over habit from when he was alive?

And where in the world did he find tobacco in the middle of Icecrown?

"You aren't going to punish me?" the geist asked after a while. His harsh and gargling voice was suspicious. I crossed my arms.

"I see no reason to," I replied. Of course, that was a blatant lie. He was supposed to be performing whatever task was set to him like a mindless drone. However, I once again felt that prickling of interest that I had felt when I came across Toof, which stayed my hand from pushing him to work. He shrugged and returned his attention to his cigarette.

I left after that, and didn't see the geist for nearly a week. It was a Thursday, I believe, when I was walking along the wall of the Citadel, Toof at my heels. I passed by the plague wagons being lined up to move out to Zul'Drak, purely by chance. I noticed a rather surly figure tied to the end of one of the wagons. Sure enough there was the geist again, looking for all the world like he would rather be dead. I paused and looked at him. He looked up at me, then looked away.

I don't know why I did it. It wasn't out of pity, nor was it out of compassion. Maybe it was some strange sense of righteousness, but I don't even know for sure. All I know is, on that day, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of wanting to leave. Something nagged in my skull, urging me to get out. Perhaps it was an overactive sense of self-preservation, but I ordered Toof to untie the geist. He looked up at me, confused.

"I'm leaving," I said. It sounded strange when I first said it, and I almost wavered, Ner'zhul's voice echoing inside my head, urging me to stay. They were hollow words inside my head, and I felt no draw to them anymore. "You can come with if you like. I won't demand any strenuous responsibilities, only that you listen to me if I ask something of you."

The geist's confusion turned to suspicion. I crossed my arms, tapping my finger against my humerus irately. He finally figured that whatever I would ask of him would not be worse than whatever fate was in store for him in Zul'Drak, and agreed. I nodded and motioned for him to follow.

"Come along then, Geist."

"Johann," came the response. I paused and looked back.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Johann," he insisted. If I could have, I would have grinned.

"Alright then, come along, Johann."