Cptgrudge/Torgras's Rebirth

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This article is fan fiction

The contents herein are entirely player made and in no way represent official World of Warcraft lore or history. The characters, places, and events listed are of an independent nature and are applied for roleplaying purposes only.

(currently a work in progress to fit more accurately with lore)

Torgras's Rebirth Edit

The first thing Torgras remembered hearing was laughter. It was far away, and he had the distinct impression that it was directed at him.

As the sound died away, he felt warm and very cold at the same time. Torgras began to stir, and upon waking, opened his eyes. He could see that he seemed to be in some sort of crypt, with his only companions the dancing torchlight shadows on the walls.

Was he dead? He felt different in many ways, to be sure. As he got to his feet he noticed some remarkable and startling changes. His skin had turned a pallid gray color. Chunks of his body seemed to be missing, as bones protruded, yet he was still able to move somewhat properly. He moved his skeletal hands up to his face; his jaw was still missing.

Torgras figured that it was safe to assume that he wasn’t alive anymore, at least in the traditional sense. Perhaps some sort of undeath? It was quite curious to him that he still retained mental control. Even though his knowledge of the undead was limited, he still knew that he should be some slobbering, unthinking, wretch of a thing. Not the cogent person he apparently still was.

There was something else too; a warmth deep down within him. Was this a part of being undead too? Where exactly was he, and how did he get here? Was this all a punishment for his deeds in life? Torgras needed answers, and they likely lie outside of the crypt.

Cautiously, Torgras walked up the cracked stone stairs and out into the cool night air. As he stretched, Torgras heard his bones creak, and he sighed, half smiling. Despite now being something looked on less than kindly by members of the Alliance, Torgras did feel rather good. And yet, he felt guilt and regret as well. In his previous, proper living life, he had missed opportunities and had treated his fellow man with little respect. He had not followed the tenets of the Light very well at all.

He shrugged off these feelings for now; there would be time for philosophical and religious musings later. At present, he needed some answers. As he started walking down the path that led out of the crypt, Torgras spotted what seemed to be another undead quietly waiting further along the path. As he warily approached, the undead man looked at him.

“Ah, another Forsaken added to our ranks,” the undead man rasped, wryly smiling. “I’m the caretaker of the crypt, here to welcome you.”

“Forsaken?” Torgras asked, squinting his eyes.

“Indeed, that’s what you are now. Keep following the path to the village below,” he said, pointing behind him.

“But sir,” Torgras pressed, “Am I dead?”

The caretaker’s ugly mouth broke into a smile once more. “No, you’re not dead. Not really alive, either, though. You’ll get your answers from others in the village.”

Torgras did as the man suggested. He was comforted somewhat; not only would he likely have some (if not all) of his questions answered, but there were others like him. At least he wouldn’t be alone. As he trudged along, pondering his situation once more, Torgras felt an odd surge of anger. His current predicament seemed to be one brought about by mortal means. He might have become a better person if not for the destruction of his town and his untimely death. He had never even been given the chance to better himself. Who was responsible?

"WHO?" Torgras screamed, and he suddenly stopped, looking around him. Turning off of the path a bit, he saw some sort of brown bat gliding just above the grass. His face contorted in rage, and he was consumed by an undeniable urge to destroy the simple beast.

He felt a hatred within him of all living things bubble up to the surface. The feeling of deep, intense anger mixed with an ecstasy of power, until Torgras could no longer contain it. A bolt of dark energy issued forth from his hands, and struck the creature in the side.

It screeched in pain, and began flying toward Torgras, obviously intent on doing him harm.

“It dares to retaliate?” Torgras whispered to himself, and he felt the hate and power rise up within him once more. A few more bolts of energy, and the beast was finished.

Angrily, Torgras stormed over to survey his handiwork. He paused as he approached the carcass, and could swear that he heard laughing. He pushed the thoughts away, and as his emotions calmed, Torgras took stock of what he had done. The beast had done nothing to provoke him. Where had the rage and hatred come from? And what of the dark energy he had produced, and the feeling of what could only be pure joy as he used it?

As he stared at the still form of the dead bat, Torgras thought back to his previous life. The only other time he could recall a description of such magic was in the trial of a dangerous criminal that his former master had overseen. In that case, a man had killed his neighbor in a dispute over cabbages, of all things.

In the investigation, it was found that the man was a practitioner of magic most foul, and was indeed a warlock. He consorted with demons and was fond of all manner of magical destruction and pain. It was quite troubling for Torgras’s employer, the Magistrate. The warlock had promised that all sorts of magical and demonic torments would be visited on the Magistrate and his family.

Naturally, he had not spoken to his wife and children of it, but the Magistrate had confided in Torgras for the duration of the trial. The warlock was altogether evil and unrepentant, even up to his eventual execution at the hand of a paladin.

But Torgras had never been one to do magic; he had never even displayed an aptitude for it. Why he should be able to summon this dark magic now was puzzling. Even more troublesome was the fact that if before he was unwelcome by the Light by virtue of his actions, as an agent of evil he would now be shunned, or perhaps even pursued by it. Torgras’s spirits sank, and again, he heard the strange far off laughing.

Torgras turned around, and started slowly back down the dusty path towards the town, alone with his dark thoughts. How could he have come to possess this new power? The crypt caretaker had said that they were Forsaken. Was it possible that it was common to all Forsaken? Torgras smiled grimly to himself and didn’t think it was very likely. Somehow, he doubted that with such powers a person could be contented to be a simple crypt caretaker.

The only other plausible explanation came in the last few minutes of his life. Torgras had somehow wrestled his body and soul away from a demon attempting to possess him, after all. Perhaps in the struggle, some of those demonic powers had been transferred to him. It was a disturbing thought.

As unbelievably good as it might feel to use the fel energies, Torgras resolved to avoid them, if it was possible. If they were demonic in nature, they would only serve to corrupt him, and in time, he would lose his soul as surely as if the demon had devoured him. If he had any hope of salvation in this new life of his, Torgras needed to walk a fine line indeed.

Torgras's mood lightened as he entered the outskirts of the village. Hopefully he would find at least some of the answers he sought. Being undead was bad enough, but would it even be possible to earn redemption in his current demonic empowered state? Torgras dearly hoped so.

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