The Undead set down his blades on the grassy knoll with but a moment of hesitation in his movement, a slight hiccup in the natural martial flow of motion. This was one of the few times he allowed himself to be completely defenseless. No doubt his many enemies would be ecstatic to find him in such a state, but he felt it'd disturb the memories of the area to bring such tools of butchery; like wading through a pond to kick up dirt. He crested the hill, and at the top, like a lone soldier standing vigil, was a grave marker. It was unremarkable in every sense, made of simple stone. In a way, the simplicity added to significance. On the side that watched the sun rise, “Here lies Galevin Nelson” was carved with obvious haste, as if the mason couldn't be bothered to add more to the epitaph. Yet the words burned in his mind's eye with all the fury of Deathwing's rage. He reached out a single talon, tracing the words, feeling each subtle curve, the contrast of chisel and stone. Every year he came here, on the anniversary of his death, to relive the memories, to reaffirm his resolve.
Every year Galevin stood at his grave, a prisoner to memories that had set him free. He smiled as he remembered a few bits and pieces of his old life. The look his partner would flash him right before they pulled down their masks, the heists, the flights of panic as the Stormwind guard pursued them along the canals, the narrow escapes. It had been a simple life of debauchery for the two of them. Always hitting and running. But they had both discovered that the faster you ran, the faster you arrived to the end of the road. The crown had caught up to them eventually, and they were given a command in the form of an option: Work for us or lose your head. The choice had been rather simple for the pair.
The crown took their talents and directed them to clean the city, to do the less savory of tasks. It was there that Galevin had learned the baleful truth of the world. The subtle difference between justice and butchery was that one was done in the light, while the other slunk about the shadows. And he was good at it. He killed, and stole, and butchered until his hands were stained crimson, and the entire time he had believed in what he had done. The higher ups became more nervous with each successful mission, and it was here, upon a nondescript hill within Tirisfal, that the dagger had slipped into his back, delivered by the one person he trusted most in the world.
As his fingertips lingered on the last part of his epitaph, his mind was far away. He turned as his lungs rapidly filled with blood, his mouth trying to form the question that was on his lips. His partner's eyes were clouded, as if he was trying to hold back tears, but the hand with the bloody knife never wavered. “I'm sorry, Galevin, but you've become too dangerous.” He said, dropping the knife, “They made me an offer that I couldn't refuse. They said I could be free...and all I had to do was kill my best friend. I'm so sorry.” He remembered the way the grass felt on his face, the musky smell of earth as his friend walked away, as the last vestiges of life left his body. His dying thought had been the slightest whisper of “why?”.
It had not been a pretty way to go. So it seemed fate had a macabre sense of humor as he woke up within the Sepulcher, giving him the chance to payback old “debts”. But his partner had vanished, and now he was stuck here, looking at his old grave.
He punched the headstone hard, the crack of dead flesh and bone ringing out over the silent countryside. Galevin spent another long moment looking at his grave before standing, sighing. He didn't look back as he went back down.
It was time to become the butcher for another long year.