This a short and rather tragic story I nailed together after I heard some random sad song on Youtube. I dithered for a while and finally decided I might as well post it here. xD It starts out pathetic, but it ends up... better. The viewpoint character is not me or any of my Warcraft RP characters; he's just a random human from the nation of Lordaeron. Some people think the Forsaken are universally sad and depressed about what happened to them, but for a lucky (or unlucky) few, Sylvanas' rebellion is the best thing that ever happened to them. I'd love some brutally honest critical advice and comments. I won't be annoyed even if you tell me my writing sucks and that I should go drown myself; then I'll known I'm going wrong! Gief!
Cracked cream walls. Dusty glass. Wood with holes. Rickety bed frame. White sheets. Threadbare rug. Cobwebby ceiling.
I take in all the details of my prison as I wait to fall asleep. The same way I wait because I have nothing else to do every other night, morning and afternoon of the week. It seems that sleeping is the high point of my day because I can't register boredom. Dreams are the best thing in my world and even nightmares are much better than the depressing, sad little thoughts that any waking moment might surrender me to.
I wonder again how it got like this. How did I end up locked in this cursed little house? I don't understand it. There are no chains to hold me here, but I can't muster the will to move and leave. Is it because there's nothing to do outside? Is it because I'm afraid of what I might find there? Maybe it's because there's food and water here, at least. Couldn't I just leave and then come back for it? No. Then there's nothing do while I'm out there but wander. I have no friends anyway.
I wonder again why I sustain my miserable existence. I tell myself again that no matter how many days of living death I have to pass through first, there must be something at the end of the line.
There has to be.
I watched all day as the guards tried to hold up the gate and keep the invaders out. I didn't huddle with the others like a worried sheep or make preparations to run away. They can't run, anyway. We're surrounded. I couldn't care less. They've had their **** fun and now it's the end of them. More than I can say for myself.
Then they broke in. The gate fell down with a thump I hardly even noticed, and the dead people poured through. I barely blinked as they watched their rotting, skeletal forms shamble down the road through the window. Most people were screaming. I fail to care.
Then they broke down the door and flooded in. I didn't even scream as they killed me. I'd been ready to die for a long time. Shouldn't I have been sad about all the things I would miss, and worried about what came next? Shouldn't I have noticed the pain? Shouldn't I have been afraid?
It's the end of the world.
I know it as I walk along, carried by the voice in my head. I hate it. It's using me as a puppet and that's exactly what I am. A useless, animated toy who walks around for the amusement of others, not because he has anything he cares about or anything he wants to do. And I can't do anything about it. This is the third time in my pointless little life that I've felt so rebellious. I want to break free, turn and run and find a height to leap from to make sure this ****ed echoing voice can never take me back.
But I can't.
He's too powerful. And now, because of those sadistic mages, I'm cursed to be used like this forever. I once had the had the chilly resolution that I'd be freed by death in the bitter end, but now that's been stolen from me too.
Oh how I wish I could make them all pay. Not just the voice, but the living too. It's not fair that they have lives of their own. It's not fair that they have a way out if it's all too much. They should learn what suffering is like.
Then the voice comes again as I draw level with the purple city and people in robes come into view.
Kill them all
I can't help but agree.
I was struggling.
I could feel it getting weaker. Was I winning? It had been losing power for a while now. Maybe it was time. Soon I could take my own life back and then away again. Soon I would be beyond the grip of the voice. I'd shut it up forever. I slumped against the wall of the dilapidated farm building and shook again as I fought to rid myself of the cold sound. I was so preoccupied by my efforts that I didn't hear the door opening.
A voice surprised me. "The Lich King is faltering. You know this. Why don't you break free?"
I turned around slowly and looked into the fiery red eyes of the Banshee Queen. I'd seen her a few times while under the control of the Scourge. I wasn't afraid of her. She was like me. She hated what she had become, but I suspected she'd been just fine before she'd been murdered and raised from the dead for trying to stop the Scourge. I couldn't believe how brave she was. Who could have dared to stand before an army of the dead?
Lots of people who weren't me, I gather.
"Too weak." I grunt out slowly. I'd regained the power of speech (a skill I hadn't found much use for before my death,) a week earlier. "I can't escape."
She surprised and comforted me by disagreeing. "No. You are stronger than him. Push him out. Crush the chains that bind your soul and free yourself. You have the strength."
To my shock, I believed her.
To my amazement, she was right.
I try to compare myself to the sad little creature that haunted my home like a living ghost weeks before as I follow her. I find it impossible to do. I've changed so much. Gone are the simple clothes I used to wear, kept in good condition despite my lack of interest in the world. Now I wear armour. And it's bloody and ripped from all the fights I've been in. But I won them all!
She's amazing. Sylvanas whirls through the masses of Undead and Demons. It doesn't matter to her. She blasts the mindless weaklings back with sprays of those deadly black arrows with a smile on her lips. The demons are a different story. They attack her bellowing insults, full of confidence. She said to us that they're very old, and have fought in more wars than we know about. They shouldn't be afraid of anything.
But they are. She defeats them one by one and then she kills them. She lets them run away before she finally puts them out of their misery with one last bowshot. It's satisfying to watch. Here are the filth that transformed us into slaves. Now they're the helpless dogs. All because of her. I smile with feeling for the first time in so many years.
The Demons and the Scourge. They run like hell to get away from us, but we follow them. We do not tire and we do not give up; we hunt every one of the filth down and we cut them into pieces. "Every one of the filth"? ... That's not the way I thought when I lived. What has this fearsome Banshee given to me?
I don't know what to call it, but it's like having a fire inside me and I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay her for this kindness. But I'll try, and I'll follow her to hell if she asks me to.