The dim light of a waning moon pierced through the decaying rafters of Deathknell's chapel. Blightmaul stirred, his senses groggy and foreign, as though pulled from the grasp of a thousand-year slumber. He rose from the cold, splintered table where the undead apothecary had assembled him, his gaunt, pallid hands curling into fists. Memory teased him like a distant echo, but his name-Blightmaul-remained etched into his fractured soul. "Rise, warrior," rasped Executor Arren, his voice like the grinding of bone against stone. "The Dark Lady demands strength, and you have been chosen." Blightmaul straightened, his ruined armor creaking with the motion. The tattered remnants of a once-proud tabard clung to his chest, its sigil now unrecognizable beneath the stains of rot. A rusted greatsword lay nearby, its edge jagged and pitted like his memories. He grasped it instinctively. It felt familiar, as if it had once sung in his hands. "What am I to do?" Blightmaul's voice croaked like a dry wind through a dead forest. Arren smirked, his hollow eyes gleaming. "You are to prove yourself. The Scarlet Crusade still festers in Tirisfal Glades. Their fanatics butcher our kind, clinging to their delusions of purity. Go now, and show them what remains of humanity's might." Blightmaul stumbled into the twilight, the desolate village of Deathknell his first taste of the Forsaken's world. Rotting houses sagged beneath the weight of despair, their windows like empty sockets staring into nothingness. Forsaken citizens meandered through the streets, their movements jerky and deliberate, but their gazes steady with grim resolve. He felt out of place among his kind. A warrior’s spirit burned within him, defiant against the decay. Memories surfaced in fleeting flashes-a battlefield bathed in crimson, the warmth of sunlight on his face, a banner he could no longer recognize. That was the past. Now, only the cold certainty of undeath remained. His first encounter with the Scarlet Crusade came at dawn, when the rising sun did little to pierce the mists of the glades. A lone Crusader patrolled the edge of their camp, muttering prayers and gripping his mace with white-knuckled determination. Blightmaul watched from the shadows, his grip tightening on his greatsword. He stepped into the light. The Crusader froze, his face contorting in a mix of horror and fury. "Abomination!" the man spat. "I shall cleanse you in the Light's name!" Blightmaul said nothing. Words felt empty in the face of the rage that swelled within him. He swung his blade, its rusted edge cutting through the silence and the Crusader's hastily raised shield. Sparks flew, and the man staggered back, his faith wavering as Blightmaul pressed forward with relentless strikes. The final blow came with a sickening crunch, the Crusader’s prayer dying on his lips. Blightmaul stood over the lifeless body, his chest heaving with exertion. For the first time, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. Not joy, not pride, but the faintest sense of purpose. When he returned to Deathknell, Executor Arren greeted him with a nod. "You have done well, Blightmaul. The Dark Lady shall hear of your deeds." Blightmaul looked at his bloodied blade and the grim faces of the Forsaken around him. They were not heroes. They were not champions. They were survivors, bound together by the curse of undeath and the will of their queen. And yet, for the first time, Blightmaul felt a kinship with these broken souls. "I will serve," he said, his voice steadier now. "Not for the Dark Lady, but for what we can become." Executor Arren’s smirk widened. "Then you may yet find your place among us." Blightmaul turned toward the horizon, where the sprawling ruins of Lordaeron waited beneath a darkened sky. His journey had begun, and he would carve his place in this shattered world-not as a man, but as a Forsaken warrior.
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The dim light of a waning moon pierced through the decaying rafters of Deathknell's chapel. Blightmaul stirred, his senses groggy and foreign, as though pulled from the grasp of a thousand-year slumber. He rose from the cold, splintered table where the undead apothecary had assembled him, his gaunt, pallid hands curling into fists. Memory teased him like a distant echo, but his name-Blightmaul-remained etched into his fractured soul.
"Rise, warrior," rasped Executor Arren, his voice like the grinding of bone against stone. "The Dark Lady demands strength, and you have been chosen."
Blightmaul straightened, his ruined armor creaking with the motion. The tattered remnants of a once-proud tabard clung to his chest, its sigil now unrecognizable beneath the stains of rot. A rusted greatsword lay nearby, its edge jagged and pitted like his memories. He grasped it instinctively. It felt familiar, as if it had once sung in his hands.
"What am I to do?" Blightmaul's voice croaked like a dry wind through a dead forest.
Arren smirked, his hollow eyes gleaming. "You are to prove yourself. The Scarlet Crusade still festers in Tirisfal Glades. Their fanatics butcher our kind, clinging to their delusions of purity. Go now, and show them what remains of humanity's might."
Blightmaul stumbled into the twilight, the desolate village of Deathknell his first taste of the Forsaken's world. Rotting houses sagged beneath the weight of despair, their windows like empty sockets staring into nothingness. Forsaken citizens meandered through the streets, their movements jerky and deliberate, but their gazes steady with grim resolve.
He felt out of place among his kind. A warrior’s spirit burned within him, defiant against the decay. Memories surfaced in fleeting flashes-a battlefield bathed in crimson, the warmth of sunlight on his face, a banner he could no longer recognize. That was the past. Now, only the cold certainty of undeath remained.
His first encounter with the Scarlet Crusade came at dawn, when the rising sun did little to pierce the mists of the glades. A lone Crusader patrolled the edge of their camp, muttering prayers and gripping his mace with white-knuckled determination. Blightmaul watched from the shadows, his grip tightening on his greatsword.
He stepped into the light. The Crusader froze, his face contorting in a mix of horror and fury.
"Abomination!" the man spat. "I shall cleanse you in the Light's name!"
Blightmaul said nothing. Words felt empty in the face of the rage that swelled within him. He swung his blade, its rusted edge cutting through the silence and the Crusader's hastily raised shield. Sparks flew, and the man staggered back, his faith wavering as Blightmaul pressed forward with relentless strikes.
The final blow came with a sickening crunch, the Crusader’s prayer dying on his lips. Blightmaul stood over the lifeless body, his chest heaving with exertion. For the first time, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. Not joy, not pride, but the faintest sense of purpose.
When he returned to Deathknell, Executor Arren greeted him with a nod. "You have done well, Blightmaul. The Dark Lady shall hear of your deeds."
Blightmaul looked at his bloodied blade and the grim faces of the Forsaken around him. They were not heroes. They were not champions. They were survivors, bound together by the curse of undeath and the will of their queen. And yet, for the first time, Blightmaul felt a kinship with these broken souls.
"I will serve," he said, his voice steadier now. "Not for the Dark Lady, but for what we can become."
Executor Arren’s smirk widened. "Then you may yet find your place among us."
Blightmaul turned toward the horizon, where the sprawling ruins of Lordaeron waited beneath a darkened sky. His journey had begun, and he would carve his place in this shattered world-not as a man, but as a Forsaken warrior.