My name…my name is, nay, was Fredrick Nathanial Jamenson, born only son to Nathanial and Theresa Jamenson who had bore three daughters prior to my conception. My life prior to my enlistment to the Scarlet Crusade was a simple, yet happy one; I had courted and married my wife, Maria, before I had celebrated my twentieth birthday. In my twenty-fourth year I witnessed her give birth to our son, and a year later, another boy. We seldom experienced the joys of wealth, though through the grace of the Light food had always found it’s way onto our table. By trade, I was an author- this now serves as painful irony as I write this, and perhaps before such an occurrence would have provoked laughter, though now I find no will to laugh.
My family’s good fortune was maintained for several years, Maria often stating that our sustenance was brought from luck rather than the meager royalties my few published works brought to the household. Always humble, she would never accept the acknowledgement that her prowess as a healer had made our children fat and gay and my gratitude toward her for it. I loved her dearly, so much so that when Lordaeron fell I followed her blindly as her rage over our children’s deaths sent her into the arms of the Scarlet Crusade.
Upon enlistment, we soon found ourselves separated. Where they sent her to, I still do not know, nor do I know if she is alive, dead or has found herself as I am now. As she had proven herself in our quaint roots, she soon proved to our superiors her exceptional ability and dedication to the Light; in comparison I was underwhelming, my knowledge of firearms only extending to a bi-weekly hunt with Barnaby, a boxer hound my youngest had found beneath the house as a pup that had taken quickly to hunting crow and deer. Barnaby and I had remained in Tirisfal Glades, my paltry skill set ensuring our survival as the years passed and proving that I was just a good enough shot that I should receive pay and be kept should someone ever be required to be thrown at the damned.
Unlike my compatriots, I harbored few opinions of the walking nightmares that lay siege on the compound. They had horrified and haunted me for nearly a decade, yet the desire for vengeance had left me as Maria had several years before. I killed for necessity, and remained for the knowledge that the tabard I dutifully wore would make me a pariah should I return to the human kingdoms, and such a thought terrified me wholly. So much so that as it stands, my cowardice to leave them proved to be my ultimate undoing.
As the earth beneath our feet shook and roared, and the long standing foundations of the library cracked and threatened to crumble, I vocally cursed my employers, spat at my wife’s name and prayed to the Light, Shadow, and Old Gods that I should survive to make my way to Stormwind and live to see my parents pass and see my nieces and nephew to adulthood. As the words escaped my lips, the quake left and the structure stood- though my fellow trackers looked upon me with fresh eyes and saw me for a weak man rather than a faithful zealot.
I recall with perfect clarity the hatred in Peter Rauchester’s eyes, and his name for he had been my most memorable acquaintance and perhaps, even a friend to me. I recall the look so easily, for it was not a look of betrayal but one which mirrored the same, sightless judgment my wife had so often cast between the falling of our home and her deployment. Throughout the years, I had struggled vainly to dismiss their faith and attribute my own actions as that of a desperate man who had to do what he must for survival; but now, as Peter lifted his hand and cried for them to seize me, I saw in perfect light what I had served and become. I saw in Peter myself, and myself was nothing short of a monster.
This realization left me paralyzed as they dragged me from the Monastery and stripped me of my armor before taking me, hapless and naked, heels dragging over stone to the gallows. My thoughts seldom turned to my inevitable fate, but instead to Barnaby, who had to be restrained as they drew my form onto the platform. I did not fight as they jerked my hands behind my back and bound them, nor did I speak as Peter yelled obscenities in my face.
He thought me defiant, I’m sure, though that was not my intent for then I had no intent. Instead, my eyes settled on the dog as they tied him to a nearby pole. I recall thinking them fools for believing that a dumb beast fought against his rope with such ferocity because Peter had begun to strike me repeatedly on the jaw, for I knew Barnaby well. I knew that his prey over these long years had turned from the gamey meat of fox to the rotting flesh of the walking dead. I knew well that he barked so only because a raid neared, and this brought a smirk to my face which Peter promptly ensured was beaten off.
As I had expected, a small troop appeared to the southwest and approached- their guns blasting before my overzealous captors had removed their hate-ridden gaze from me. I laughed as the Forsaken overran them, effortlessly ripping them apart and most memorably breaking Peter Rauchester’s skull in. Then, the irony had not been lost on me, for it was waved blatantly in front of my face as their leader turned to look me in my un-swollen eye. I met his gaze- at least, I believe I had, for by now the pain of laughing with my dislocated jaw had sent me into a placid delirium- and held it for sometime before he turned from me and let out a guttural, chill inducing cackle to his comrades.
As they too made this horrifying sound, my own hilarity faltered as the eyeless nightmare turned his rifle to me and held it a mere inch from my face. The sight of the barrel was sobering, so much so that the tremors of hope drained from my body as the Forsaken spoke in a strange, distorted tongue before wrapping his clawed finger round the trigger and pulling.
When I woke, there was no grave to pull myself out of, no coffin to desperately claw away at, nor the process of opening my eyelids to greet the dull dawn of the Glade. Any of these would have been far more merciful and kind than the experience I faced. Torn, ripped, sundered, shattered, or broken. Any number of these words could describe the wrenching that one feels as they are torn from graceful nothingness, and yet there still remains no word in existence that could accurately describe the thoughts one thinks as they are suddenly and brashly met with the vision of a Val’kyr hovering above them.
For several moments I thought that I had gone mad as many Scarlets before me had done, in fact, it was anything but uncommon to see an initiate emerge from their trial raving that they could no longer feel pain or experience joy before sticking themselves with their own swords. After the thought had passed, I stared motionless at the hovering creature before she moved off out of my eyesight. Hesitantly, I willed myself to turn my neck to follow the ethereal creature.
As I did this, the realization dawned on me in the mental equivalent of being thrown off a turret as my gaze set upon the rotting corpse of none other than Peter Rauchester. Had I not recognized the tattoo on his right forearm depicting the object of his dedication, I would have mistaken him for the man who’s head was now sewn upon his body. I waited for the horror of this sight to set in, expecting that at any moment the rush of adrenaline to pump through my veins or a traitor scream would emerge from my throat, but to my shock, neither happened. Instead, I found myself standing slowly like a babe just discovering he could walk.
Looking down at myself, I would have imagined my brow raised and I looked horrified at the protruding bones, withered muscle and sickly gray skin that was poorly hidden beneath crude leather. Turning my hand, I had lifted it to eyelevel and turned the claw several times as I gawked at the transformation and began to wonder how long I had laid in the spot before I had returned to consciousness. Moving my hand to my jaw, I attempted to feel out the shape but found this was a futile process, as all senses in my fingers had left me. While knowing that I was indeed performing the simple action, I could not equate the knowing of lack of sensation to anything I had experienced in my past.
Slowly, I began to realize that the graveyard around me was anything but silent, instead I acknowledged the quiet moaning of the newly risen as it met my ears. I tried to blink, and found my vision was never blocked. At the time, I could not confirm whether or not I still had eyelids or even eyes for that matter- of course now I know that I have neither. Next I attempted to produce a sound, but found that what met my ears was nothing but a strange gargle with tonal syllables that formed no cohesive word.
I am unsure how long I stood there attempting to rationalize the form that moved as I willed it to, uncaring to the odd looks from the older forsaken. Perhaps it was five minutes, or several hours. All I know is that when I finally looked up from my claws I was met with a very familiar face. From his impatient posturing, I had quickly decided that he had been attempting to speak with me for some period of time.
Once more, he spoke, the language garbled and terrible as I struggled to listen, causing me to think to lean closer. My behavior seemed to spark some realization in him, as he repeated himself slowly in his next attempt. This time, the strange gutterspeak met my ears with a familiarity of my native tongue as the words resonated in my mind. These words I shall never forget:
“You are no slave. You are free to follow whatever path you choose from here.”
In that moment, I knelt down and pressed my fist above where my heart had once beat. For now I had a marked purpose and knew the likeness of conscious gratitude as I silently pledged myself to the Dark Lady Sylvanas.
