The Memoir of Kerryann Westdale

((OOC note: When I create a new character concept I often like to write a short story or two to help me get into the character's persona. The following story is about my new death knight, Kerryann (well not new new, she's almost 85, but you get the idea!). This is written in her point of view.))

*A roughly handled leatherbound tome sits on a table in the Pig and Whistle. Across the first page is written "The Memoir of Kerryann Westdale"*

I sit here, a quill in hand and a fresh jar of ink nearby, contemplating what to write. It is said that a chronicle of one's life can teach you many things, or at least provide a legacy for you to pass on to others when you are gone. It can be an example to hold up, or a lesson to warn away the unwary. Which my tale will be is questionable. Certainly there are lessons to be learned here, but an example? I should hope not. Regardless, my tale, like all tales, has a relatively simple beginning. It is the end that becomes a curiosity, for it is not yet written I suppose.

My life was a good one. Born to a noble family of Stormwind, I wanted for nothing. This is not to imply that the Westdales of Elwynn were fabulously wealthy, only that my mother and father put in every effort to see to it that I wanted for nothing. Our family was relatively poor compared to the other Houses of Stormwind, and even compared to some of the wealthy merchant families, and yet still we had resources enough to see to it that I was well provided for.

I had lessons in just about everything you can think of. Art, dance, poetry, math, writing. The list of topics goes on and on. As an only child, all of the love and attention that my parents had was poured into me, as well as their hopes, dreams, expectations, and wishes. My father even went so far as to see me tutored in the things he would have given a son; I was skilled at horseback riding at a young age and am proficient with nine different types of weapons. I was a well accomplished duelist by the time I was in my teen years.

Doesn't this all sound wonderful? It was of course, but there was a price to be paid for this attention. I was expected to excel. Not just at one or two things, but at everything I put my hand to. I was the hope of the family, its future. When I was married, my family name would pass on to another House, hopefully one with a larger fortune. I was a prize hen to be given away you see. It created in me a pensive drive to achieve no matter what. Failure was not an option, mediocrity was NOT an option. I had to be the best. At everything. And I was.

Pride destroys us all in the end I would imagine.

In my teen years, it was discovered that I had a latent talent for magic. The few books on the subject I'd been given opened the doors to a new world, one that would bring further value to me in the great game of politics my parents played. I was sent to Dalaran to study and learn. I became an apprentice of the Kirin Tor. I remember my first glimpse of that magical city, so long ago. It was a life changing event. A crossroads of opportunity. Little did I know how fate would shape me there.

As with all things, I excelled in my studies in the arcane. My lessons kept me busy, but not so busy that I couldn't find time to meet others of my ilk. Noble children of the families of Lordaeron were often sent to Dalaran to determine whether or not they had talents in the arts. These sons and daughters of wealth often gathered together, and I found myself joining their jovial little gatherings more and more frequently when study and classes allowed.

It was idyllic. My mind expanded with the possibility of magic, and our circle of friends grew. We began to take rides into the countryside, meeting weekly in a larger group at a place called Sorrow Hill. Odd that we would choose a cemetery for our gatherings, but it was out of the way and we had no one to stop our discourse, which could become loud and go late into the evening. Every weekend our group met, discussing politics, magic, and of course the latest court gossip.

I will admit, there was a young nobleman there who caught my eye. I will not record his name here, for the dead deserve to rest in peace without the accusations of the living to hang over them. Needless to say his presence encouraged me to join these outings more frequently, and I found the time enjoyable. As the seasons passed and we became better at magic, we began to do what all children do when left unattended; we began to do things we shouldn't do. We experimented with magic that was forbidden, with spells that were hidden away. Anytime one of us got a scrap of something we shouldn't, it was shared with the group.

It occurs to me now that we were quite the little cabal of dark spellcasters. Maybe not by intent, but that is how events progressed. One amongst our number began regularly bringing fresh material, especially on the topic of necromancy, which was a type of magic none of us had heard of before. They claimed to have a patron, someone powerful who could give them more spellbooks and scrolls, and we were all delighted by this of course.

Naturally, as with all things, when I set my mind to studying this forbidden magic I became quite proficient at it. My earlier life and the pressure my parents put on me would allow me to be no other way, and I secretly delighted in learning something they would not approve of. Time passed and the others experimented in raising dead rats back to life, while I had already (in secret) brought a dog back to life. I smiled and played along, watching their efforts and listening to them talk of the future, of what this magic could bring. I already understood that it had consequences they couldn't imagine with their limited foresight however.

I don't know what first made the feeling come to be, but I started to become wary of the others. I began sneaking over to Sorrow Hill during the week, when they were not present. I would copy the spellbooks they had storied there, stealing key pages here and there very carefully, so that the others would be hard pressed to learn more. I'm not sure what made me do this. Perhaps there was a gentle warning in the back of my mind, or maybe I didn't want the others to be as good as me at the magic. Regardless of the cause, I did this for some months before everything changed.

I remember it clearly. One of our number came to the little gathering and told us in an excited tone that their patron had seen fit to grace us with his presence. We were to be honored. The others all were gleeful of course, and I said the proper things and faked the same smile as I listened to the obviously mad student as he described the power we would all wield. He told us we would be given potions to further expand our minds, and that we would partake in a great ritual together. The others were pleased, but the gentle warning in my mind had become a shrieking call of impending doom. I knew that whatever came next would be unpleasant. I took steps. I studied hard for the next few weeks, preparing myself for what I suspected would happen.

I should note here that while all of this was going on, reports of strange illnesses spreading through the countryside of Lordaeron began to circulate. We thought nothing of it at first, but as all who live now know, it was a terrible omen of the fall of that Kingdom. If only we had known, perhaps we could have done something to stop it.

Three weeks. That's how long I had. That is when the 'patron' arrived. He was heavily cloaked and hooded, and his voice had an eerie quality to it, as if others spoke with his mouth. He told us of the glory that awaited us, of the power we would wield in his master's name. It would be simple. We would drink some potions, cast some spells, and then all would be revealed to us. I watched as the others greedily passed the potions around, drinking them down. Their faces were pale and black marks marred the skin around their eyes as the magic flowed through them. They stared, their eyes dull and lifeless, their wills crushed by what they had done to themselves and allowed to happen.

It came to be my turn. I refused. Of course, one does not refuse to join a cult, not once you are so far in to it. This was made clear to me as the 'patron' pulled his hood back, his dead face filled with malice. It was as I had suspected. He was not a man, not a mortal, but a creature. A death knight. One of those terrible creatures of myth, and something I had studied in the necromantic texts my friends and I had been delving into.

I knew what to do.

I'm sure the creature did not expect me to draw a blade on it. Me, a teenage girl and a student of the Kirin Tor no less. What a humorous jest it must have been yes? But the thing did not know who I was, or what I was capable of. I studied the art of the duel for years. I knew my steel. I knew my own strengths and weaknesses. I was also distinctly aware that death knights cannot use their foul magic if their heads are separated from their shoulders.

The creature must have been shocked as I flung dark magic at it. I'm sure it did not expect to have its own spells turned back and away from me. Certainly the look on its face seemed to imply surprise as its lifeless head hit the ground. The enthralled students around me wailed and cried out to see their new master fall, but what did I care? I had won, as was expected of me. I bent down to pick up my prize; its runeblade.

A side note here: Do not pick up runeblades. Not unless you know exactly what you are doing. I had read enough about them to know how to handle the object, and even so, it nearly destroyed me in that moment. It took all of my skill with magic to control the darkness within it, to stop it from stealing my soul. And yes, your soul can be stolen. And no, you would not enjoy the process.

Death knights are usually made from corpses. I know now why that is. Every second of holding a runeblade while you are alive is searing agony the likes of which I cannot describe. The Knights of the Ebon blade have a saying. They say 'Suffer Well'. These two simple words cannot define the hell of suffering that it means to have scourge magic course through your living body.

Yes, I still live. Sort of. I still breath, eat and feel. I can drown. I can dream, although I prefer not to.  I hover between life and death, the agony with me always, and something to keep me focused so that I do not fail and lose control of the power. So that I do NOT lose my soul.

There is little of interest to tell after what I have already written. Well, that's not entirely true. There are endless years of war, of hunting down the others of the cabal and slaughtering them before they could help spread the plague further. There are tales of using scourge magic against its makers, of slaying necromancers and undead things in the darkness. But none of these tales matter, because they are all what I consider to be my duty, my task in life. I took up darkness because I am better at it than anything I have ever applied my mind to before this. I took it up because I can use it against its creators, because I am better than they are. It is that simple really. There is no fine justification, no excuse. I have forever damned myself because I have the ability to do what must be done.

I have recently returned to Stormwind, and yet there is nothing for me here. My parents would not know me now, and I would not inflict the sorrow of seeing me on them. Let them think their daughter died when she went away to Dalaran. Let them think the plague took her, even though that is not possible now. Better that they think I am gone.

Even the Knights won't have me, not that I care for such things. I was not made like they were. I was not present at Light's Hope, and therefore I am not to be trusted. I don't need their confidence in me to continue though. There are many cultists that still roam the world, many evils twisting people to their will. There is much work for me to do yet.

And so my tale has no ending. Not yet at least. We will see what time brings with it. Reading this over again, I smile to think of the many foolish mistakes that lead me to the moment of this writing. Perhaps you, my dear fictitious readers, will find the lesson to be learned in all of this.

I hope that is the case. Regardless, as my would-be brethren say, suffer well.

Penned by my hand and will,
~Kerryann Westdale