Mortael

Mortael woke with a start, knowing full well that were he still capable of sweating his body would be drenched. His hand instinctively reached beside him, feeling the comforting presence of the hilt of his sword. Leaning his back against the damp wall of the cave he chuckled at the thought of all the time he had spent training to defend himself, and to kill. All that, all of the bloodshed he had seen and dealt out, and he still found himself terrified of going to sleep. It was the only thing that scared him anymore. Knowing that everything you had and lost would replay in front of your eyes every night for the rest of your existence was enough to drive anyone mad. Mortael wasn’t certain that he wasn’t mad. Do the insane really know they’re insane? Does it even matter anymore?

The dreams start out innocently enough. Donald Tysis wakes early, like he always does, kisses his wife and checks in on his son before he goes out to gather herbs. The day is normal and he finds himself thinking of the work he did on his parent’s farm and how it gave him the motivation to spend the majority of his time outside. Being an apothecary wasn’t something that he had always intended on doing, but the prospect of having a bit of extra money now and again sounded nice. His parents had just scraped by. There was food on the table every night, but just that. Donald still kept a small garden on the plot of land that he had inherited from his parents and grew a bit of food. Not everything he needed, but enough to act as a comfortable addition to the meals that they ate. He walks alongside the stream where he met his wife Ella 9 years ago. He smiles as he remembers that day and the rapid courtship that followed. The year after they were married they had a son, his only son, Mikhail. They were a family, they had what they needed, they loved each other….they were happy.

That’s when everything turns sour. Mortael knows he’s dreaming, but at this point there’s nothing he can do except ride it out.

Donald Tysis returns to his small cottage to find it in complete disarray. The door is lying off its hinges and there are no sounds coming from inside. He drops his backpack, now heavy with herbs and races to his home. His heart is beating in his chest and he thinks to himself, just a fleeing thought, that this must be what its like to have a heart attack. Inside he finds what he knew he would find and his entire existence is shattered in a handful of seconds. A lifetime to create his perfect world and seconds to destroy it. His wife is lying bound and naked on her bed…their bed. The wounds and her position leave nothing to the imagination. He knows what happened. He kneels on the floor and retches for what seems to be an eternity. When he is finally able to regain his feet he looks for his son, hoping without much faith that he ran. He knows better…his son would have died before leaving his mother to be hurt. He finds him scant seconds later. His tiny body is crumpled in a corner of the cottage and blood has pooled under him. His arms and hands are sliced to ribbons…he died fighting. In the back of his head Donald knows that he should feel pride at this…but he can’t feel anything.

He wanders to his feet…eventually…and just leaves. He walks aimlessly towards the nearest the town, Goldshire. Everyone there is out en mass. Through his haze he manages to overhear that a raiding party, carrying the banner of the king, had made its way through the town. He knew that things like this happened. He never believed the stories that the Alliance were pure of heart and purpose and the Horde were vicious, bloodthirsty beasts. He was never that naïve. But for this to happen to his family…by HIS OWN PEOPLE! He snapped then, knowing that the important parts of his mind were gone. He vowed vengeance to himself and set out wandering. He would find a way to punish those responsible; if he had to go through the entirety of the Alliance then so be-it. His travels took him nearer and nearer to the Undercity. Word reached him, though now he can’t remember how, that the Royal Apothecary Society was conducting experiments with their own version of the plague that was responsible for the Undead. This sounded like a perfect opportunity.

He was tired of his mortality and ready to shed his allegiance to the Alliance; Donald Tysis offered himself up to the Forsaken. He was more than willing to become a test subject for this new plague. He was more than willing to become one of them. It worked like a charm, though the pain was excruciating. He was reborn. He looked down at his now rotting arms and legs knowing that soon enough that flesh would be gone. Donald shed his name that day, and in doing so rid himself of his past. What he was mattered nothing to him. All that was important was finding those responsible for taking away his life.

The next ten years of his life…unlife at this point….were spent training under the guidance of the rogue guild in the Undercity. His familiarity with herbs had sealed his calling and his blood thirst drove him deep into his practice. During this time he became acutely aware of the political matters within the Horde. It surprised him to learn that Thrall was looking for peace. After his training was complete he set out in search of a chief that was worthy of his service. He could not serve Thrall…Thrall wanted peace…Mortael wanted blood.

Mortael heard of a faction of like minded individuals; a group of Horde who shared his ideals. They were known as the Blacktooth Grin and they were led by a merciless Orc named Gorfrunch. With the promise of retribution in sight Mortael eagerly signed on.

The recent campaign of assaults against the Alliance served to rekindle the blood lust in Mortael. No matter how many fell under his blade or the magics of his fellow Grin he wanted more. He would find those responsible for the death of his family and he would make them suffer untold horrors. Fueled by hatred, but not by lack of reason, Mortael plots and thinks and watches and listens. He’ll learn soon enough who needs killing. Maybe once their gone he can rid himself of these damnable nightmares.