Darkness is all that awaited her. All she can see is the inky nothingness before her. All she can feel is the cold embrace of death. Her memories slowly begin to fade into oblivion, thoughts slowly growing more and more simple. The final thing things cohesively is "Why have I not become a ghost?" before emptiness consumes her.
~~~
With a shock of pain, cold and wrongness, a Draenei bolts to a sitting position from her lain pose before, gasping for breath. Her pupil-less blue strain in the dim light of her surroundings, ears ringing subtly. Soon, words reach through to the ears of the exile, calm, somewhat reassuring words.
"Hey, are you with us, Initiate?" It asks, a little gruff, filled with mildly-concealed pain, "Come on, wake up!"
Her vision slowly begins to fade in, revealing to her two faces: One, the owner of the voice, is the grotesque, decaying face of an older undead, who's hand is poking and prodding her flesh, making sure she's quite alright. The second, some ways behind the first, is an inhumanly large man, squared-off orange hair atop his head, his body clad in deep blue armour.
It is then, before she can answer the posed question, that this man speaks, his voice large, filled with reverberation and power, and the slight echo of a soul speaking through a body not its own. "Rise Initiate, our Lord has words to speak with you personally." He states, a slight tinge of begrudging flavouring the words. Without thinking, and much to the zombie's surprise, the Draenei sets herself to her hooves.
A snap of the giant's fingers sets a team of ghouls to fetching things. Within moments they have returned with a multitude of things. She had been nude before, though she felt no cold, and the undead swarmers set to clothing her. A robe, black as a panther's coat, is wrapped around her, cinched closed by a belt of moderate-quality saronite. Spaulders of the same metal are shimmied over her shoulders, and light bracers slide onto her forearms. The rest is laid open, though a hood is attached to her robe, which she slides up and over her head, holes allowing her horns through so it may settle. Properly adorned, she shifts her body casually, allowing each piece to settle naturally to her form.
One of the man's huge, armoured hands lifts, gesturing towards a large opening to her left, through which can be seen orange-green sky, and another, huge figure. This new one is shrouded partially by a huge, furred cloak, but the outline of an ornate helmet can be seen, as well as the plate armour of his let arm. The giant speaks once more, "Go, our Lord is there, overlooking preparations for our target." And he then lumbers off.
With a silent nod, and a deep bow as he turns, the Draenei steps off. Her hooves echo off of the stomework below them, her eyes slowly scanning over the rest of the area. Throughout the large room, various undead bustle about their business. Abominations lift and move heavy freight about, skeletons toil amongst themselves at their crafts, and ghouls skitter about hither and thither, seemingly useful in their own way. All are seemingly unaware of their newest recruit, moving about with a single-minded purpose.
Barely moments pass before she is at the base of the steps leading to the balcony, and the imposing figure. She hadn't noticed before, but the closer she came to this person, the louder faint whispering in her head became. What once were distant breaths, easily mistaken for breeze, now were warnings of evil, cries for help, and other pained voices. Yet despite all of this, the Draenei felt comfort in these things, they gave her a feeling of respect for this entity.
As she finally approaches, this looming man, for he is a man, stirs slowly, turning his great, armoured weight towards his subject. He is clad in massive, saronite-bone armour, skulls dotting the metal plates in various places. Strapped to his waist is a blade teeming with dark magic. Long and two-handed, the blade cascades from the jaws of a simulated ram's skull, acting ass the cross-guard. Finishing his intimidating attire is his helmet: A thick, black greathelm, shadowing his face. A crown of blackened spikes spear from the top, creating a king-like visage before her. All that can be seen behind it are a pair of blue, glowing eyes, wreathed in the mists of souls long-passed.
Mere meters away from him now, the Draenei settles her own weight down onto one knee, kneeling before him, offering a silent fealty. His cold gaze looks her over, giving an appreciative look to how comfortably she wears her armour. After but a moment, he speaks, his voice echoing with those of the thousands of souls trapped within the blade.
"Yes, you are precisely what the Scourge needs, Death Knight. Strong and agile, you will carry our banner to the destruction of this Scarlet Crusade." He pauses for a moment, his head turning to gaze over the room before them, eyes narrowed slightly. "Rise, Knight. Rise before your Lich King and present your name, so you may properly be heralded to your brethren.."
The Draenei slowly rises to her hooves, swelling with pride before him. With a voice not dis-similarly soul-layered than the giant human's, she speaks one, simple word: "Phylin."