Elf. How he hated that word. He was no longer one of those. He was simply a mindless being, driven insane by the thrist for magic. Killing whitout care, just to get a small taste. This addiction, this horror, he hated it too. But even he, could not deny how good it felt to have the magic flowing through his veins, even for a mere moment. Then it drove him for more.
Yet he still had a small piece of sanity, which some part of his desperate brain clung onto. It felt remorse, for all that the addict was doing. Occasionally it surfaced, saving a victim from there death. Still, that small portion of his sanity could not even deny the fact that magic was his mistress now. Magic was what he breathed, and would live upon, until his body breathed its last breath.
He spoke, "I am a Blood Elf." And continued to mourn.