Tales Of The Fallen: Memoirs of a Death Knight (Page One)

To Whomever has pried this tome from the Library in Stormwind or Stromgarde....

 I find it dificult sometimes, to think about what I have done. I often find that I stop in the middle of reading a book, or writing a letter, sometimes just eating and I think...What have I done? What have I done to others, what have I done to my family...to innocents...to myself?....

I suppose that I should chalk all of this up to superstition. To vivid memories of violence. But I cannot. I know exactly what I have done in my lifetime and I know that when I am called to be accountable for the deeds of my life....I will not be judged favourably. I have done...terrible things...in the name of Arathor..in the name of the Scourge...Terrible things. To have survived this long I believe...is the real curse of my deeds. That while others fall floundering by the wayside, to die..that I should survive, besieged by my own memories of what my life has wrought...My mistakes are many. But I cover them up with my triumphs, no matter how small a mistake it was. I admit that now, as I fear that I may fall within the next year and I wish to have my final thoughts known to the world if they wish to read them.

I was born into a Arathorian family. During the rule of King Trollbane. We were no rich, nor poor. But the middle class that makes up the lifeblood of society. My Father was a Knight of Arathor. He was not a paladin, but a simple Warrior. Who's only trade was that of death dealing. My Mother was a Tailor. My Father did not wish to spend excess money on special expensive clothes so my Mother would sew us outfits to wear every year instead of buying new ones from the shops in the city center. I had an younger brother, Fergus and a even younger sister Elencia. From an early age, My Father, Slagø Lightforge, would teach my brother and I military skills while my sister was learning the art of a tailor from our Mother. I lead a relatively uniform childhood, with a few close friends, some enemies, and some people I just knew only a little. When I was Sixteen, a Highlander of Arathor, one of the elite group of warriors of our nation, took me on as an apprentice. I trained for years, I didn't even return to my home until after the First War.

When I returned home, I didn't waste much time, I wanted to make up for the time I'd lost in the First War and in training. I was still a tad rash then. A few months after my return, I fell in love with my childhood sweetheart Isolde and we were married shortly after. Nine months later, my first two sons, Jåçk and Cynric were born, twins. I was overjoyed, filled with happiness. Another nine months later, I was blessed with another son, whom I named Lucius, after my Wife's Father in Gilneas.

My joy however was not to last. Shortly after Lucius's birth, the Second War began in earnest for Stromgarde and I was shipped off to fight. I don't care to recall much of what happened. But my worst memory was at the end.

It had come to my attention that there was soon to be an assault on Stromgarde near the end of the war. I made it back barely a day before it was attacked.

The fighting was brutal. Close Quarters all the way, running through burning city streets, I could feel my voice being lost in the thunderous sound of the panicked citizens running through the streets from their invaders, I fought my way to my family home, where I found to my dismay, the house had collapsed into two halves, with my son Cynric and brother Fergus trapped in one, and my Son Jåçk, collapsed with a head wound near the corpses of his Grandmother and Aunt, a Orc standing over them. I cleaved the orc nearly in two with my claymore and picked up Jåçk. I remember vividly that I had tears running down my face as I wielded my Claymore in one hand, cleaving my way through the enemy to the gates of Stromgarde with a few of my comrades.

I spent the next month either asleep or drunk in a medical tent in a refugee camp. When I had sobered up, I realized to my dismay that my son had suffered memory loss from his head wound and that for a while, he would think I was his uncle. I had lost almost everything, but my wife and son Lucius who were in Gilneas visiting my wife's family. So, I began to recover, slowly getting my strength back and helping the refugees with staying safe and alive. And just when I thought I was safe, it hit me.

I recieved a letter, shortly after the end of the Second War, saying that my Wife and Son had been trapped inside the Greymane wall.

I will continue my tale soon...