A Musty Parchment Scroll, sealed with the Royal Seal of the Forsaken

[Erscydiol]

Darkness falls across the land,
From blighted lands, we will stand,
For every foe that dares to rise,
Doth thus ensure, their plagued demise,
Born of suffering, of death, of pain
With enemies blood, shall vengeance rain,
To enemies abound, be naught mistaken,
For now is the Hour, of the Forsaken

Dark Tidings to those who read this scroll,

I am known as Erscydiol Blackstone, do not ask of my name before re-birth, for it is as dead as the deepest recesses of my ichor-filled heart. I ... we, have been given a second chance by the Dark Lady and Warchief of the Horde, Lady Sylvanas Windrunner. She hath decreed since taking the mantle of Warchief that peace must be achieved for the Horde at all costs. To this end, she has sent her Champions across the whole of Azeroth in search of Mercenary and Military Guilds that uphold the true tenants of the Warchief's command. As a student of traditional arms and weaponry, this outfit was of course at the top of my list.

As requested, here is a bit about me, uninteresting as it may be.

Erscydiol Blackstone was of course, not always as she appears now, and was once the Squire to a proud Knight of the Lordaeron Military. As a young woman of 19, she had grown up a tomboy, always longing to be a formal part of the grand Alliance of Lordaeron that so gallantly fought off the Old Horde during the 1'st and 2'nd Wars ... but this was not to be my fate ... During the year 20 of our new Calendar, the Plague of Lordaeron struck, and struck with a ferocity more rancorous than any well-armed army of Orc Grunts could ever muster. Death swept through the land, and the Scourge descended upon the Kingdom of Lordaeron with the great betrayer at its helm. With the armies of Lordaeron in panic and confusion after the death of our once beloved King Terenas, I was sent to the front lines with my Knight, bravely carrying his glimmering steel short-sword and Shield of Lordaeron into battle for the first time ... well, for me at least. My Knight, Sir Andonis Crestfall, a veteran of many wars, his name long since forgotten to the annals of history, led our battalion into the heart of Scourge territory in what is now known as the Western Plaguelands. Leading our contingent northwards towards Hearthglen, we were stopped just before Northridge to see the area overrun by scourge, survivors attempting to flee the carnage being cut down as they begged for mercy from lifeless husks at the command of the Traitor. The screams ... even now, I will never forget the wails of the dying as they were torn to pieces by the Scourge. Sir Crestfall, without even a second thought, and overcome with both stoic bravery and fury, charged headlong into battle with our Battalion, his squire by his side.

Into the Maelstrom of death and destruction we went, flames roaring all around us as we attempted to break the scourge ranks with a frontal assault. For several minutes, this was successful, but part of the main Scourge army, a fact that we were unaware of, had already decimated Hearthglen and was marching south on our position ... we were too late. Waves upon waves of Undead swarmed our ranks, and one by one, our soldiers fell to the ravenous claws and slavering maws of the Undead Scourge. Then, in the distance, loomed a lurking abomination, slowly marching towards the wedge we had carved through their lines. Sir Crestfall gallantly and deftly swung his blade as if dancing through the air, bashing in the soft skulls of the Scourge who attempted to flank him with his Shield, but I could see desperation in his face ... he was losing strength, and quickly. Then, I heard him shout, fear gripping his voice, fear but not for him ... for the women and children that still remained in the village. "Get them to safety Aerscy! Get the women and children out; they still linger!" He paused for a moment and gasped as a scourged blade pierced through a gap in his breastplate; blood sputtering from his mouth, he gritted his teeth and lopped the head off of the decaying scourge soldier that had pierced his armor. "What are you waiting for!" Blood spewed from his mouth once more as he grasped the last remaining ounce of strength left in his body, dropping his shield to the ground as his left arm fell limp. He looked into my eyes for one last time and said "Go! You are now ... a Knight." With a valiant scream that I well never forget, he lifted his blade to the sky as if to ask for a blessing from the light, and charged headlong into the center of the scourge ranks as the last of his men fell one by one ... that was the last I ever saw of Sir Crestfall, but I would not let his gallantry and sacrifice be in vain!

Dropping my round buckler and picking up his shield, the crest of Lordaeron glistening brightly in the rays of sunshine that pierced the dark clouds, I focused all of my attention on finding and evacuating survivors. While the last of my comrades fell to the Scourge, I rallied as many of the survivors as I could find, cutting down Scourge that had broken through the lines with my blade, and using every ounce of training that I head learned from Sir Crestfall to bash away at the others with my shield. After I rounded up as many civilians as I could find and sent them running towards the South, doing my best to cover their chaotic, panicked escape, I heard it ... the herald of my end in the form of crying children. Racing towards the sound that came from inside of a nearby barn, I kicked down the door and leapt in to find a pale, wounded woman, her left leg broken in several places, festering with plague. I stopped for a moment, peering at her leg in hopelessness before focusing my attention back to the two children, a boy and a girl of about 7 and 8. "We have to move, now!" I barked, but the children were frightened and would not leave without their mother. I don't know why I did what I did, but I loosed as much spare equipment as I could and placed the woman under my arm as I lifted her up off of the ground, all the while she screamed in bemoaned agony from her wounds. The children now followed closely behind as we made our way out of barn.

Fires still raging, I turned to the left (North) to see an ominous sight - a scourge abomination was mindlessly hacking away at something on the ground, and where my brothers and sisters in arms once stood, a massive, unending army of ghouls and plagued scourge surrounded the bodies ... and desecrated them, utterly, feasting on the flesh of those who fought and bled at my side. Then, all sounds stopped, except for the low, dull howl of the wind, and the sharp crackling of the roaring fires dancing upon thatched rooves. The mindless Scourge, all in a perfect unison of all the unholy powers imaginable, slowly ceased their ongoing horrors and slowly turned their attention to us, and the children. For a moment, all was quiet, all was calm. Then, after what felt like an eternity, an unearthly cacophony that I will never forget rose from an abysmal, guttural depth, as the might of the Scourge descended upon us at point blank range. "Run!" I told the children, but they were frozen in fear and terror. "RUN!" I screamed again, this time noticing the despair and terror in their eyes. The girl clung tightly to her mother, but the boy attempted to flee. I turned to face the Scourge, the mother pushing my arms away as she fell to the ground, attempting to crawl after her son. The girl stood behind me and squeezed my leg tightly. Then, the Undead charged full force, with the weight of a thousand tons of plagued, flesh and diseased blades.

The girl screamed, the mother wailed, and the boy bawled in anguish as he fled, pursued by the accursed and mindless Scourge filth. I fought. I fought will every ounce of energy that I had, until there was nothing left, and the screams had faded. Searing, burning, pain; unrivaled agony of the physical form; ripping, tearing, slashing; my body, hacking, slashing, bashing ... silence. Darkness took me, and as I stared towards the sun, the world became hazy ... searing, fiery pain, then, warmth ... finally ..... the cold. I drifted through space and time in darkness and confusion until ... she came, our savior, our Queen - Sylvanas.

I made my vows.
I swore revenge.
I disavowed all mortal and former attachments.
I became,
Forsaken.

During a lineup and inspection of new Forsaken recruits that Sylvanas herself personally attended, I will never forget the dark, dismissive kindness that She showed me with a cold heart and quick tongue. As I stared, downtrodden, off into the distance of emptiness, still coming to terms with my new form, ichor dripping from my upper jaw, she approached. She stood within inches from me, staring deep into the empty recesses of what was left of my soul before using one armored finger to lift my head by the upper jaw, then glared and squinted as if analyzing my entire history without asking a single question, or speaking a single word. An ever so subtle smirk came across her face that I will also never forget, as it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She turned to face her Deathguards and the Apothecaries accompanying her inspection; my eyes now finally lifted off of the ground, awaiting her words. All that came out were surprisingly simple words of dark empathy: "Get this one a new jaw, will you? Something ... cold and menacing, she seems lost without it; a simple fix." She turned to continue down the line, making the occasional comment here and there, a relatively brief affair, but the first act of kindness that anyone had shown me since ... since, well, to be honest, since a time that is now just a vague echo; a whisper in the cool evening wind.

That's all there is to it for this humble Warrior.

I pledge myself, as is the Warchief's command, to the execution of any and all organized plans, whether it be through mercenary, auxilliary or formal military attachments, regarding the eradication of Alliance filth from our lands. Such as it is, simple.

By the Warchief's Command! I am yours if accepted, but I strongly advise you to do so.

Dark Lady, watch over you

Erscydiol Blackstone
Warrior of Darkness, Champion of the Banshee Queen
War Axe, War Hammer, Bastard Sword, Mourning Star and Shield
Southshore, Hillsbrad, Eastern Kingdoms
Local Mailbox 367

[Erscydiol]

((Sorry for the initial minor grammatical errors, they have all been fixed appropriately. Best! - Eryn <3!))

[Gavril]

The hefty scroll inexplicably found itself to Gavriil's room in the headquarters, neatly and deliberately placed in the center of his desk. He lifts it with some effort, regarding the seal with something resembling mirth in the yellow pinpoints of his eyes, and snaps it off, unrolling the obscenely long sheet of parchment which cascades nearly to the floor.

He blinks, slowly, glancing over the epic tale. He flicks a digit to a nearby quill, which springs to life and scrawls a note of its own accord as he finishes reading the Forsaken's letter. He carefully and tightly rerolls the scroll as though it were a heavy linen bedsheet, and tacks his own note to it before re-sealing it with the Shattered Mask and ensuring that it finds its way to the High Inquisitor's office.

Magister,

In spite of all manner of trauma and betrayal this one has endured, their memories remain as crisp as winter air long after their death. That speaks well of their potential, I'm sure you would agree.

I imagine you may get two lines into this epic before being tempted to light it afire -- I saved you the trouble. I'll vouch for her myself.

Besides, who knows, I may have had a personal hand in her death given her personal ... timeline. Let's call it a step towards redemption, in the name of the Mandate.

Peace through Annihilation,
G.N.

[Qabian]

Qabian sat down in his ridiculously high backed chair with an unceremonious thump and read over the note attached to the thick scroll with tired eyes. "What?" he said out loud, though there was no one to hear him. That he knew of.

Despite Gavril's insistence that he didn't need to read the epic, Qabian did read it, every word, and yes, Gavril had correctly judged what the mage would think of it.

Qabian sighed, elbows on the desk as he rubbed his temples. "Fine," he said to himself as he dipped his quill to pen a response.

First to Gavril.

I'd be shocked if you or any of us are in the market for redemption. Cute.

~Q

Then to the author.

Erscydiol Blackstone,

You seem to have a taste for words. Despite all the ones you sent us, however, I have further questions.

We meet Friday evenings at the sixth bell in one of the ruined homes on the edge of Dalaran's old crater in Hillsbrad, not far from where you're taking your mail. Find us there, and we'll see how much truth there is in your intent, nevermind your story.

Magister Qabian Grimfire
High Inquisitor of the Grim

((If you can't make Friday the 11th at 6pm server (9pm EST - War Mode ON), let me know and we can arrange another time for you.))

[Erscydiol]

Magister Grimfire,

When it comes to drill, you will find that my experiences have made me quite agreeable. I should note that I am a Historian of sorts, studying with the local independent archivists and librarians, my focus being the Eastern Kingdoms. The many essays I penned re-training myself to write in my new form have made me a bit ... expressive with words, and the parchment is ... therapeutic, although I do apologize for the length and hope that I did not cause your eyes to bleed. That being said, I graciously accept your invitation and will await you in the ruins outside Dalaran Crater at the sixth bell.

Dark Lady, watch over you,

Erscydiol Blackstone
Weapons Specialist
Southshore, Hillsbrad