I Was A Lot Of Things...

Barlowe puts the mug of ale down in front of him, the sounds of the night life of Stormwind City vaguely noticeable over the din of sounds emanating from the Pig And Whistle tavern in the Old Town part of Stormwind.

Before speaking, he takes a deep breath and visibly steels himself for the ordeal to come.

Looking the robed man in front of him in the eyes, his voice steadily drones away at the tale to tell...

"I was a lot of things... Not that I ever ranked specifically high in the hierarchy of the Death Knights, mind you, but that does not mean that my deeds were any less abominable, at that."

Taking another deep draught of his ale, Barlowe once again sets out to tell the tale that while not unique, is his, nonetheless.

"Before being recruited into the ranks of Arthas Menethil's unholy swarm, I was a no-good ruffian. You might say that I made a habit of committing to the wrong idea. Was it that I was born under an unlucky star? Am I unerringly and inherently wrong, or indeed, corrupted?

Once, a long long time ago, I was recruited into Admiral Proudmoore's fleet. I didn't join because I wanted to defend our kind from the vile Orcs, nor for any other cause than being awarded for my rough behaviour. My stint in that fleet may be the only time I ever served in a so-called good cause, if not for the right reasons."

Barlowe looks up at the silent man in front of him, weighing his silence against his conscience. Finding the situation to his liking, he continues talking.

"Well, then. We betrayed the Orcs' and Mistress Jaina Proudmoore's trust, and were punished for it. I must admit, that falling to their might is not something I remember, try as I might.

I vaguely remember waking to the sound of an unrelenting voice, baying commands over the din of the swords clashing against each other, the moaning of the walking dead and other abominations unto the Light.

For a long time, I was no more than a disembodied consciousness merely spectacting the goings-on of a miniature society which I seemed to understand and condone to, for reasons unknown to myself.

My next memory is being part of this society, mercilessly using my broadsword to gain my master's favour. For a long time, my entire existence consisted of nothing more than performing one act after another in the hopes of being accepted into higher ranks, of being Chosen above the others.

At one point or another, I found myself suddenly taken from the accustomed chambers of battle, and set out as a weapon against the Living. My moment had arrived, and it was my time to prove that the effort going into making myself a weapon had not been in vain."

Whilst telling you of his past as a servant to the Lich King, Barlowe has visibly paled, and beads of perspiration are standing out on his forehead. He hesitates for a moment, but regains his composure, and continues the story.

"Of the battle itself I cannot tell you much. Exhilarated, my weapon- an extension of myself, you see, took many victims. Time and again, I drew blood. I took joy from the pain I caused, while ignoring the wounds I was given by the defenders of the Light's Hope Chapel, since I was so lost in the reverie of battle.

I can only say that while the process of the battle turning against our favore must indeed have been a process, it seemed to me that it happened in a few short moments. Going from a position where I was standing above the prone body of a Argent Crusader with my blade poised to strike in the torso, to a situation where I found myself lifting my head out of a puddle of mud, my snarls matching those of my compatriots from every side. It seemed, that as lady luck had blessed us in battle, she had turned as fast against us. As it was, I felt the plated boot of a defender of Light's Hope pressed down on my back between my shoulderblades.

A grimace briefly passes across the hardened features of Barlowe's face, seemingly unnoticed by himself. His grip on the mug of ale tightens for but a moment, but as he continues his tale, the grimace dissapears from his face, and his grip once more lightens on the mug of ale.

"From there on, it wasn't long until we found out that we had all merely been trained, and used, for the one purpose of drawing out the Ashbringer. Trust me friend, going from the belief that you had been personally chosen for your abilities to lay waste to the Living, to the simple fact that you were used as a pawn, as mere fodder for the champions of the Light to draw out an important enemy of our Master....That was not easy to come to accept."

Draining the last of his mug of ale, Barlowe looks across the table at his silent companion. It is impossible to decipher if the expression on the face of the listener is intended to convey sympathy, boredom, or contempt.

"All the same to you, I say! You sit there quietly, judging me...But the judgement in your eyes, or in the watchful, contemptuos way you stare at me is nothing compared to the realisation of error I went through when we lost the battle of Light's Hope...

I realised now, that I was doomed. My entire existence had for longer than I cared to remember been only centered around the chaos, the pure gleeful slaughter and annihilation of all things living.

My memories of the time just after breaking free of the Lich King's hold are still muddled. I know only now, that I have to redeeem myself...I have to prove my worth once again to the Light, the Alliance...And myself.

I don't know if I'll make it on the path to redemption. But I know that I will give it my best...With the same eagerness I once used for killing, and for condemning myself unknowingly, I will prove that I have changed!"

Emphasising the last of his words by slamming the now empty mug down on the table, Barlowe looks contemptuosly at the robed man in front of him, having decided that he will not find any sympathy from this person.

He walks slowly out of the Pig And Whistle, with a determined look on his face.