Memories of the Twilight

Prologue

Pain

That is all what is left in his life or being more precise – in his desecrated existence. He clearly is not amongst the living anymore.

Agony

But he still can feel the pain. He can still suffer. This is his last connection to humanity. His body and his spirit were rendered after he had died. Poor tormented soul

Wrath

The on-going agony feeds into his rage. Anger dwells within what was once his spirit, not leaving a single clear thought behind. He longs to end this torment.

Hunger

His wrath makes it easier for him to overcome the pain and the agony alike. He can ease the suffering by eating, eating living flesh and drinking warm blood to replenish his own.

But if he does not give in to the hunger, the ache grows endlessly within only a few hours. It is an unholy existence, cast out from the light, embraced by the shadows to devour the living. His very being is mocking nature. And his vitals conceded their duties a long time ago, leaving his flesh to rot as he keeps on wandering the surface of the planet.

He does not fully know who he was or what he did. Neither is he able to comprehend what has happened to him. Only so few things remain...

His personality was easily overthrown by the rage, the pain and the hunger.

And now his feelings remain to be numbed by the agony, nothing left to hold on to except for endless suffering.

Could there be no way to end all this?

What about the voices? He does not hear them anymore, not the gentle and calm voice, nor the furious one driven by same rage and endless wrath that he too feels. Where are they now? Didn't say they'd stay with him forever? Make him their unholy child? Didn't they promise to give him strength, to give him more powerful than ever before? Or did he refuse their offers too often. Did he refuse at all?

He can't remember.

Only few things are certain for him, one of them being how he is drawn to somewhere.

He has been walking continually for days or even weeks. He cannot travel too fast as it proves hard for him to move at all. He is staggering and his limbs, they sometimes stiffen. He does not know where he is going to and neither why. He is just following his instincts, nothing more and nothing less.

Other creatures fear him. As he takes his path directly through the woods even the wolves and bears of the plaguelands try to avoid him at all cause, but he? He does not pay any attention to this. He just keeps on walking.

His eyes are dull and clouded, without the slightest trace of life in them. He is oblivious to his surroundings. His body though, is still in a rather good shape, he did not suffer many wounds and it didn't start falling apart yet. He even still wears the same clothes that he died in. It's a long, severely damaged, crimson robe with the emblem of the Scarlet Crusade on it. Ironic how his own blood mixed into the color he once worshipped even as doubt had fallen upon him.

With every step he takes, no matter clumsy it may be he comes closer and closer to the place he is drawn to. He does not know why, but he can feel it.

Is it the hunger? Or maybe the pain he already feels, telling him where to go to?

Soon it would turn unbearable again, he needs to eat.

The creatures in these forests are too fast for him so he just keeps on walking. But they would satisfy his hunger either, no need to bother with them as time turns ever more precious.

It will all change at his destination. Something inside of him tells him he would be able to ease his pain.

The Tirisfal Glades are as dark as usual, the trees not letting a single ray of light to the ground. The wind is appropriately cold, though hardly tangible for a skin without feeling. The full moon is already shining brightly down from the heavens; eternal nighttime.

Step by step he creeps through the woods. Successfully he avoids the roads, making you wonder whether he might still able to think enough to do this on purpose or not. As he reaches a hill side, a small town is lying in front of him the lights of torches are glowing everywhere.

Brill

Something tells him that his journey finally has come to an end here.

Without too much care he makes his way down the hill, hatred growing in his shattered mind; hatred for the living. You cannot tell if he really feels this emotion or if he even realizes the reasons behind it.

Might it be envy? Might the reason for his pointless hatred be envy? Envy that those alive could still choose their way of life freely and without bonds? He had died full of regret, regret having been as useless as he was. He could not achieve a single thing he wanted. And even a friend was killed by his own hands.

The silent hatred he once felt for himself, he now reflects on others.

Yet, most of these things have vanished from his mind in their entirety, the memory eradicated.

His spirit restless, he wanders further towards the city.

The place he wants to go to is somewhere around there.

Soon he finds himself standing directly next to the inn. Somebody is talking inside and you can hear footsteps coming from the town hall to his right. The sounds of the living let his body crumble.

He just stays there for a couple of minutes, swaying back and forth. A wagon is standing between the town hall and the inn offering a frail hiding place. He stops behind it, his instincts in control as the pain grows further. From here he is almost at the street, the first two guards in front of the town hall are already in his view.

Blind hatred is again pushed aside by hunger. The things closest to thoughts within in his mind are all screaming at him. Everything that is left in this moment wants him to end the pain he suffers at all cost.

Nothing is holding him back.

All of a sudden he leaps from the frail shadow of his hiding place and jumps at the guard standing nearest. Paralyzed by the shock and surprise he makes easy prey.

Without a single moment of hesitation he sinks his teeth into the neck of the guard.

The man is screaming. By now the other people around them have realized what was happening and the other guard charges at this emerging monstrosity, trying desperately to take him down.

He on the other hand tastes the blood of his victim. The pain diminishes, but not as fast as he had hoped. Something is wrong about his prey. Still sitting on top of it, the other guard tackles him away.

As he pushed away backwards he sees that the flesh he was feasting upon is just as rotten as his own.

It is hard to say if he really is able to comprehend something like this, but a feeling of despair creeps up into his decaying mind. His rendered spirit is in fear of the pain awaiting him if he would not eat. But this rotten flesh would do hardly any good.

A pair of bony hands seizes him at his shoulders. His mind immediately exploding in rage, he tries to shake the hands off by all means.

Another guard jumps into the fray trying to aid his companions. They seem successful as he is now pinned down by two men. His mind consumed by the wrath, he is trying to escape. He writhes like a wild animal being pushed into a corner, an unknown strength gathering in the dead limbs.

A third guard appears in his sight, this one holding a sword.

His mind overflows with rage and fear yet again. He shouts out something incomprehensible, it sounded like a beast roaring at its enemies.

The guard takes the sword with both hands and raises it into the air over his head.

Can this feeling really be despair? Isn't this the moment he always wanted, he always longed for in life as in death, being able to rest in peace? Yet his instincts tell him otherwise. They tell him that he wants to survive; that he needs to survive.

The sword cuts through the air digging deep into his chest. He does not feel anything, not the cold steel, nor his flesh being ripped apart.

All he feels pain.

The pain from not having been able to eat properly...

His existence has been cursed, cursed since the first day of its unholy subsistence.

The rage is finally fading. Slowly everything grows blurry around him. His muscles relax, the movements die away. Is this the moment his soul is set free?

His eyes close.

Now he is just resting on the ground, the guard pulls his sword out with one swift act of strength. They feel safe and want to dispose of the body as soon as possible. The injured guard won't suffer from anything more than the sting of the wound.

Now there he lies in his robes that have been torn to shreds. His body and soul once claimed by the Lich King, he fell to the sword of a Forsaken. Yet one enemy should be about as good as the other, shouldn't it?

Slowly the icy grasp around his soul is fading more and more.

He is not dying.

The wound from the sword will surely stay on his chest and try to tell the tale of this day if he lets it.

His mind comes to ease, even the pain slowly disappears.

The freedom he sought will still have to wait.

It seems as if he is falling asleep... He is able to dream again.