Author's Note: This story is a character study on one of my World of Warcraft toons done mostly as a writing exercise. I wasn't originally planning on posting it here as it's outside both my usual genre and fandom, but it turned out decent enough, so why not?
This story was written during the War Within expansion.
His name was John Tillman. It was the name he'd been given when he'd been born. It was the name he'd had when he'd been killed by the Scourge, those undead monsters that had swept across the Kingdom of Lordaeron like a tsunami. And it was the name he'd kept when he'd been risen into undeath and joined the ranks of the Forsaken, a group of his fellow countrymen who, unlike the Scourge, had retained their own minds and wills. John hadn't felt the need to give himself a new name like some of his freshly undead peers had. He hadn't seen the point of trying to cloak himself in a dark and brooding mystique. For better or worse, he had always been a boringly practical man.
Despite being undead, John was hardly a formidable sight. Yes, like all Forsaken his flesh was rotting, and an unnatural glow shone in his milky eyes. His hair clung to his head in dirty clumps, and his bones peeked through his skin in places. But anyone who could look past his monstrous exterior would quickly realize that he wasn't a particularly impressive physical specimen.
A few scraps of what had once been leather armor were strapped to John's body, and a helmet was set down in front of him, upturned and filled with a handful of silver and copper coins, scant charity given to him by those who had taken pity on him as they'd passed him by. He was seated against a wall in a quiet alleyway that split off from a bustling thoroughfare in this strange city he found himself in. It was called Dornogal by its residents, the Earthen—those strange dwarf-like creatures whose bodies were made of stone and metal. The high walls surrounding John were casting their shadows over his putrid skin, protecting him from the morning's harsh sunlight. It wasn't that the undead were affected by the sun per se, but even in life, John had preferred dark, out-of-the-way places. They'd always felt welcoming to him.
Like any newly discovered land in the world of Azeroth, Dornogal and the island it sat upon had been flooded with adventurers from all across the globe from almost the moment it had been added to the map. John had seen the pattern repeat many, many times now over the years. Adventurers would swarm over this island like wolves hungry for a fresh kill. They would plunder the land of its treasures, uncover its deepest secrets, and right whatever wrongs they judged were happening. Then one day they would simply vanish in the blink of an eye and set off to find some new land to master. However, this newest wave of adventurers hadn't been like the others, at least from John's perspective. This time he had decided to join their ranks.
In his life and un-life John had been a farmer, a soldier, a courier, a shop clerk, and a banker. It was in that last job that he'd discovered the absolutely fabulous wealth that adventurers seemed to effortlessly amass. But what really boggled his mind was that no adventurer he'd ever met seemed to understand the true value of the sometimes literal dragons' hoards that filled their pockets. They didn't appear to care about the gold, only the prospect of what adventure they'd have next.
John's plan had taken shape months ago. As soon as he'd been able, he'd traveled to Dornogal. He'd intended to adventure there for a season and then use the money he'd inevitably collect to live a modest, comfortable un-life. He didn't suffer from the same affliction that plagued his "fellow" adventurers. He wouldn't be lured in by the promise of more adventure once he had what he needed. But unfortunately, his clever scheme had quickly gone all wrong.
There hadn't been some disastrous event that John could point to nor a shocking moment of revelation that made him give up on adventuring. He almost would've preferred that had been the case. No, he'd simply come to understand that there was more to adventuring than finding a monster to fight and swinging a sword at it. Adventuring was an art, a calling even, and he lacked that certain something that would lend him to such a life. Unfortunately, by the time he'd figured that out, he'd already spent his last coin on traveling to this new land and purchasing supplies and equipment for himself. He had no money to return home to Lordaeron with. That was how he'd ended up in this alley, begging for handouts like the common vagrant he'd become. At least it was only temporary, he told himself.
The sun slowly crept across the sky as John sat in front of his helmet-turned-collection-plate, but the alleyway's walls were too high for the sun's rays to invade his sanctum. He knew he would've had better luck begging on the main streets, but then he'd have to deal with the city's peacekeepers. He also still had some modicum of pride left. He wasn't willing to put himself on display in front of the masses. Fortunately, he was Forsaken. He was undead. The one thing he had in abundance was time. Even in the alleyway, the silver would slowly accumulate. Then he'd return to Lordaeron and figure out what he'd do with himself next. He was toying with the idea of becoming a baker. That sounded like a nice change of pace.
As the morning hours slipped away, John withdrew into a torpid state, and the unnatural light that gleamed in his dead eyes faded somewhat. It wasn't an uncommon thing for his kind. When you'd escaped the ravages of aging it was sometimes pleasant in a numbing sort of way to pass the time existing as a simple being divorced from thought or will.
A loud clunking sound suddenly shocked John back to life. His senses returned to him, and he was amazed to see that a sizable number of gold coins had been tossed into his helmet. What was more, his apparent benefactor was still there. A pair of bare feet were standing just a meter away from him.
John lifted his gaze. At the same time his benefactor sat down cross-legged on the alleyway's paving stones in front of him. She was a Night Elf, tall and long-eared like all of her race. She was clad in a breastplate and bracers made of emerald-colored scales that contrasted pleasingly against her purple-colored skin. There was a bright smile on her face and a child-like gleam in her eyes. Eye, John quickly corrected himself. It was difficult to see hidden behind her long bangs, but her left eye was just as dull and milky as John's were.
John stared at the woman sitting in front of him. He had never been comfortable around Night Elves. Fortunately, he didn't usually have to deal with them. The Forsaken had allied themselves with the Horde decades ago, while the Night Elves had thrown in their lot with the Alliance. John wasn't even sure why he didn't like Night Elves. Maybe it was because he remembered a time not all that long ago when they would kill anyone who entered their territory without mercy or hesitation, to the point that what little had been known about them had been more legend than fact. This elf did seem cheerful, bubbly even, but John wasn't about to overlook the dagger strapped to the front of her belt or the spear slung over her shoulder.
"That's an interesting helmet," the elf said in a friendly tone.
John's lips scrunched together for a moment. The elf's pleasant demeanor was doing nothing to endear her to him. He really wanted to tell her to go away, but given that she'd just thrown enough coin at him to pay for his ticket off this island, and more, he supposed he could attempt to tolerate her for a minute or two.
"It's just a helmet," John said in his raspy voice.
"Where'd you get it?" the elf asked.
"Found it," John absently answered.
"Hmmm," the elf said. Then she chuckled. "You know, helmets like this are very rare."
"Oh yeah?" John said, feigning interest.
"Yes! They were only made when…. Well, you remember a few years ago when Sylvanas was named Warchief of the Horde?" the elf asked.
"The whole world remembers that," John said.
"Right!" the elf said, continuing to sound far too chipper for John's liking. "The Forsaken, that's you, were so proud that their queen, you know…Sylvanas, had been made Warchief that they decided to celebrate their newfound status as the favored children of the Horde. They had fancy new helmets made for their army, proudly embellishing them with the crest of the Banshee Queen. That's this, by the way."
The elf sharply tapped the front of John's helmet, hard enough to make it rock back and forth. The coins inside jingled.
John scowled. The elf was telling him things that were such common knowledge that he couldn't tell if he was being condescended to or if he was dealing with some young and naïve girl fresh from her parents' grove. That was the problem with elves. You never knew if the one you were talking to was twenty years old or two thousand years old. And sometimes the latter liked to pretend to be the former. Regardless, John looked down at his helmet. The crest on the front of it was turned away from him, but he already knew it belonged to Sylvanas, as the elf had said.
John looked back up. He asked the elf, "Yeah? So?"
"You see…" the elf said like she was recounting a funny story to her friends, "…it wasn't that long after Sylvanas became Warchief before she tipped her hand and, you know, accidentally declared that 'the Horde is nothing' right in front of everyone. And, well…."
An annoyed sigh slipped past John's lips. He really had no idea what the elf was getting at. He also doubted there was a single soul in all the Horde or Alliance that hadn't heard about Sylvanas's fall from power.
"After that, the Forsaken realized it wasn't…prudent…anymore to be so openly proud of their queen, ex-queen really, and quietly issued less flashy helmets to their troops."
"Thanks for the history lesson," John said with barely disguised sarcasm.
"History lesson? Oh no. Oh dear. You don't understand," the elf said, sounding like she was apologizing for her own shortcomings. She shifted her legs and neatly tucked them underneath herself.
"These helmets," the elf said, "were only used for a very narrow period of time. In fact, the only people who would have one of them would've been present at…the Burning of Teldrassil."
Had John's heart still beat in his chest, it would have stopped. His stomach knotted up and the alleyway suddenly felt uncomfortably cold. Teldrassil was, or rather had been, the colossal tree that the Night Elves had built their capital city in. It and most of its occupants had been burned alive in the opening moments of the Fourth War between the Horde and Alliance, the war that Sylvanas had almost single-handedly started.
John's eyes cautiously scrutinize the elf much more closely. Her face was still the picture of friendliness and cheer, but John wasn't fooled. He knew for a fact that he was in danger.
"I already told you," John said, managing to project a façade of calm. "I found the helmet. I wasn't there when…. And even if I was, it was Sylvanas who burned that tree down! May she rot in the Maw."
"Well yes, of course," the elf said matter-of-factly. "Sylvanas sparked the flame. But did anyone there object? Did anyone try to stop her? Tell her she was going too far?"
"Would you really expect warriors of the Horde to tell the Banshee Queen, the Warchief, no?" John asked. He muttered, "Mindless brutes."
"Perhaps not," the elf said. "But would they have even thought to? Or did they quietly cheer, celebrate even, when Teldrassil burned? Wouldn't it be thrilling for them to see their enemies, soldiers and civilians alike, die horribly for their crimes?"
"Crimes?" John asked before he could think better of it.
"Yes. The heinous crime of not being one of you," the elf said. Her cheerful demeanor suddenly seemed to melt away, and she spoke in an unnervingly even, trance-like tone. "Fire's a strange thing. Everyone thinks they can control it. But they can't. Fire has no master and serves no purpose but its own. To consume. But it doesn't want to consume. It doesn't even need to consume. It has no drive to destroy or survive. No motive or malice. It simply must consume. Without thought or choice."
John's eyes briefly darted toward the mouth of the alley where it opened back up to the city. He could see all the foot traffic going by on the main road. Safety and freedom were right there waiting for him mere meters away. But then his eyes slid across the dagger on the elf's belt and the spear on her back. Fear gripped him and held him firmly in place.
The elf continued, "But what if fire did have thoughts? What if it had a mind and understood morals? What is fire to do then? Simple. It must defy its nature and make a choice. A choice of what to consume. Of who to consume."
The elf's eye suddenly focused directly on John. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And who she chose was those who made her. You see, I was in Teldrassil that day. I saw the fires as they spread and grew. It's been years now. They say the fire is out. But it's not. Because I'm still here. I'm the inferno that still consumes. And bit by bit I will burn away the guilty until only ashes remain. And then, eventually, inevitably, someday they will all be gone. There will be no more fuel for me. And then I can finally…finally extinguish."
John's lips were trembling, but he steadied himself and said, "That's all very…poetic. But what does any of this have to do with me?"
The elf blinked a few times, and her cheerfulness abruptly returned. She said, "Oh, I'm sorry! I haven't done a very good job of explaining things."
The elf reached into a satchel that was strapped to the small of her back. She withdrew something from it and placed it on the ground directly in between herself and John. It was an iron-clad bomb, complete with an extra-long fuse.
What was left of John's eyebrows flew skyward. His eyes flicked up to the elf's face, hoping beyond hope to catch some sign that would indicate this was all a sick joke. Unfortunately, in that brief moment, the elf lit the bomb's fuse. John didn't even see how.
John scrambled backward in a panic, trying to escape, but his back instantly hit a wall. Acting on reflex, his hand flew out to grab the bomb and throw it away, but before he could even get a finger on it, the elf drew her dagger with terrifying speed. She thrust the blade downward and stabbed it straight through John's outstretched hand. John's palm hit the ground with a dull thud, and the dagger's blade slipped in between the cracks of the paving stones, pinning John's hand in place.
"Aaargh!" John cried out as a sharp pain radiated up his arm. He shrieked, "What are you doing, you void-spawned lunatic!? You'll kill us both!"
"Really?" the elf asked like she genuinely hadn't thought of that. "Well we don't want that. You'd better do it then."
John's head snapped up. He howled, "Do what!?"
"Agree to put on the helmet," the elf said.
"What?!" John asked as he tugged at his arm in a vain attempt to pull himself free. Each time he did, his hand throbbed in pain as the blade stuck through his palm bit at his flesh.
"Agree to put on the helmet," the elf repeated. "Prove you weren't at Teldrassil. You said you found the helmet, right? Then it won't fit you. It'll be too big or too small or the ear holes will be in the wrong spots or something, right?"
A profound silence settled over the alleyway. The only sound that could be heard was the hissing of the fuse as it burned. John stared at the elf with his mouth agape and a wild look of disbelief in his eyes.
"Why are you hesitating?" the elf asked. "You know you're innocent. So prove it."
John's gaze turned down to look at the rapidly vanishing fuse. For a brief moment, he considered calling the elf's bluff and seeing if she really would let the bomb explode. But in the end, his desire to live won out.
"I'll do it! I'll do it! Just get rid of the bomb!" John shouted. He squirmed in place, still pinned down by the dagger.
When nothing immediately happened, John looked up again. The elf's lips were turned up in a disconcertingly wide smile.
John frantically asked, "What are you waiting for!?"
The elf's tongue slithered out of her mouth, and she made a show of licking the tip of her thumb. Then she slowly brought her thumb down and snuffed out the burning fuse seconds before it would've detonated the bomb.
John started to sigh in relief, but he was interrupted when the elf roughly ripped the dagger pinning him to the ground out of his hand. He let out a second pained scream and yanked his hand back, cradling it tightly against his chest.
"Well?" the elf asked.
John hesitantly gave the elf a glance. She had produced a small cloth and was casually wiping off her dagger's blade. Once she was finished, she slid the dagger back into its sheath. She looked at John expectantly.
John sat there, still as a statue. He had no idea what to do.
"Come on!" the elf said encouragingly. She picked up the helmet that was sitting in front of John and turned it right side up. The coins that had been inside of it went pouring out onto the paving stones, clinking noisily as they bounced and rolled every which way across the ground.
The elf set the helmet down in front of John. He didn't move. A sickening feeling was gnawing away at his gut, and it was made all the worse by the mirthful exuberance shining in the elf's eye. He briefly considered attacking her, but she'd already demonstrated that he was no match for her. Maybe she would let him go if he told her he'd bought the helmet second-hand? He doubted it.
The elf pushed the helmet closer to John. She said, "Go on. I believe in you!"
John's arms felt like they were made of jelly, but he finally reached out and took hold of the helmet. Slowly, he lifted it up. Then he slid it on. It easily slipped onto his head and sat snuggly in place.
"Oh! Look at that," the elf said with genuine-sounding surprise. "It's a perfect fit. Isn't it? John Tillman."
Overwhelming, abject dread gripped John the moment he heard the sound of his name on the elf's lips. He had never told her his name. Too late he finally understood what was happening. He hadn't been pleading his innocence before a self-appointed judge and jury. The elf had already decided his guilt. His fate had been sealed the moment she'd sat down in front of him.
In a panic, John scrambled to his feet. He ran with all the speed he could muster for the alleyway's exit, for the safety of witnesses. The bright light of day rushed up to meet him, but just before he could touch it, a chain whipped out from the darkness behind him and wrapped itself around his neck.
John let out a gurgling sound as the chain yanked him off his feet. He went flying backward, but his flight was abruptly ended when the head of a spear burst through his chest from behind.
John's limbs instantly went limp, and a thick, black sludge that passed for his blood oozed out of him. His senses were rapidly fading, but he felt himself being gently lowered to the ground. Then a calm, motherly voice whispered in his ear. "Shh-shh-shh. This is a quick death. A clean death."
The voice suddenly turned harsh and hissed at him, "It's far less than you deserve! But unlike you, I'm not a monster."
The light in John's eyes faded. Then, just as before all those years ago in Lordaeron, there was nothing.
It was a bright and sunny day in Dornogal. The sky was clear, and the weather was pleasant. The streets of the city were bustling with life as the Earthen went about their daily tasks with characteristic focus and the city's many foreign guests happily sampled all that Dornogal had to offer. Amidst all of this, a lone Night Elf quietly slipped out of an alleyway and seamlessly joined the flow of pedestrians walking the streets. There was a smile on her face and a spring in her step, like she didn't have a care in the world.
Author's Note: Well that's it. I'm not sure if I'll do something like this again. But I certainly don't have any shortage of toons with backstories, so never say never.
As always, I welcome constructive criticism. Please feel free to leave a review. And if you like what you've read, taking the time to favorite and/or follow really helps me out. You can also find me on tumblr (electronicyarn) if you want to send me a message or be notified of updates.