After the Defilers left the Gilnean battlefront, there were some unfortunate casualties. This is the story of one of them.
Father Corpse is a blind, jawless man who relied entirely on the shadow to do anything. Some thought this was an amazing gift, but the truth of it all is that he couldn't truly see, speak, or feel. He never knew what was his realm name, but because of his friendliness he was called uncle corpse by the local forsaken.
Beginning:
Just another 1st generation forsaken fighting against the twilight's hammer, trying to avoid the total destruction of the world, to stop the hour of twilight. We all know what happened, and we will never know for sure how many of the lives were taken by the destroyer's flames. This tale begins with the death of this forsaken priest.
He died, so his remains were brought down to Deathknell just like the time before he was a forsaken, and he was given a proper burial.
<The events of cataclysm, MoP, and early WoD happened>
The drums of battle echoed Tirisfal Glades, He was risen again by Sylvanas' valkyrs.
He was alive once more. His real face was burned off alongside most of the features in it. He didn't seem to look like anyone in particular so once again they didn't give him any real names. He muttered an incomprehensible word so the Undertaker just said "Oh look, here is your uncle or something, give him a new set of eyes, and a metallic jaw." His nerve ends were numb. He tried to pinch his arm, and felt nothing. His faith in the cult shadow was the only thing that remained the same.
He trained, and casted a number of spells once again. The light burns the undead, and so he tried to do the only thing that made sense at that time. He casted the light once again, he hurt himself to see if he could still feel. That slight phantom burn, an echo that reminded him of his death. The only thing he could feel. He remembered his previous life as a forsaken, how he was a priest, and it was good. One can't get picky when at a drop of water in an endless desert, humble like other priests, he accepted it at the time.
Oh but the light, relying only on the light cut his connection to the shadow. Strange as he was taught that they were both sides of the same coin. He remembered these words from Shadow Priest Sarvist in deathknell. He visited his old mentor, and both cherished the short lived meeting. They both spoke of better times, and got caught with current events.
“I need to help our people, in any way I can.”
“There is many who could use your previous experience. You might be a veteran, but with times changing, you'll need to gather with like-minded allies.
I recommend helping those undead who call Arathor their home. The Defilers”
Impressed by the words of praise his mentor spoke, he tried contacting them.
One dreary night inside the black halls of undercity he met up who was at the time their High Executor. A man wearing purple robes, a man who had a terrible aura. Teirvel.
After that moment, he knew he had to do something to step up his game. He saw the light as a simple toy, and he knew he had to call back his previous mastery of the shadow if he wanted to be any help to the army of Gallen Trollbane.
A small problem arose. He couldn't fade into shadow form. Annoyed by this, he simply blamed it on his new set of eyes and fake jaw. He tore them off his face, without even flinching.
Those newly patched eyes, and that steel jaw had to go. Goodbye colorblind slight.
A week of two after this, he was able to use his shadow form again. Small void tendrils grew on his robes, but it was nothing to worry about, or so he thought. He could be useful to his people once again.
He grew, and alongside the Defilers he helped risen who needed a place to be. Many adventures were shared at their side, and with them he rose up to a higher rank. He became a Dark Priest for a small town in Silverpine. Pyrewood.
Pyrewood:
Oh Pyrewood, the dreaded place where it all began to go downhill. Living on the edge due to the frequent attacks of worgen, those same worgen who fell before the might of our Deathguard. He tried using mind vision to see once again, used the shadow to communicate. it was very taxing on his mind so he often secluded himself in solitude. Desperation to help the numerous battlefronts made the old man make rash, irrational decisions.
He developed a sadistic love for the light, and often used it whenever risen approached him, just to test their “resilience against enemy paladins”. He tried researching the void, fel magic and even got in contact with Blackrock Orcs, who are known for demon worship.
Was it the careless use of light? The pursue of power? Pressure and anxiety? What we know for sure is that he was a hypocrite preaching the Cult of Shadow, and not following the virtues that make it. Respect for the pursue of power, even if it is for a good cause... Like some say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The void tendrils on his robes grew even larger, completely shrouding his face.
“Why use the light at all when the shadow is so comforting.” Whispers cloud his mind again and again, but he knows he must retain a balance between them.
>Then the assault on Gilneas happened. It was quite successful at first with Pyrewood being used at a center of operation, but after those events Pyrewood was left open for attacks so most of us had to retreat to other places.<
Death:
The worgen were there in overwhelming numbers, gathering up their ranks in the Whispering Forest, ready to attack at any moment. The priest was alone, and he perceived what he thought was simply a captured risen. That undead was inside some sort of cabin, with only a single feral worgen guarding it from the inside. Breaking the window would cause too much noise and alert the nearby troopers. The priest did what he thought best, just mind controlling said feral.
Controlling his mind was easy as the worgen had a weak will, and that curse already takes a toll on their mind. He used it's body to release the risen. Controlling it's mouth however proved to be more difficult. It growled and barked, and of course the risen being liberated did as any other forsaken would had done on it's place, she struck, cutting a wound on the throat of this feral. Father corpse's reflex struck back, as he was still in control of the worgen, stunning the risen. His control broke! The worgen now free began to maul the poor risen! It was bleeding, howling and alerting two of nearby guards, who loudly crashed the door. Father corpse had to use all of his remaining stamina to summon a cascade of dark energy killing the feral worgen and the other two who had opened the door as he walked inside.
Angry, and mostly disappointed on himself, as he had crossed a line. He had attacked a forsaken, one of his own. This was a wicked place, not a place to be careless.
The whispers on his head didn't let him think straight, this was the Whispering Forest after all. “Even the shadow had betrayed you!” Were powers that he had used for so long were now responsible? “You will betray your friends once more, you will die”
Many thought clouded his mind as he entered the cabin, but at the end he found that that same risen had barely survived.
“Are you a priest, can you heal me?”
Father Corpse was able to hear, but he could not respond. He was afraid of hurting the risen by using the shadow in a place like this.
“I am a warlock, perhaps we could make a ritual to summon our allies!” The risen grinned wickedly.
And so, he was forced to again tap into the shadow, to whisper once more “Don't we need at least three to begin this ritual? I might not be a warlock, but I am certainly not a fool"
“We have the perfect sacrifices right here" The warlock muttered as he pointed at the cadavers of the worgen "Their hearts could be a good replacement for the ritual” The warlock laughed as she picked a small sword from one of the dead worgen, which she used after to cut them wide open.
Father Corpse gathered the little strength he had on him to just watch, with the risen's own eyes as she made a demonic circle with a strange fluid.
Father Corpse whispered “What is this thing?”
“They killed my imp, I collected some of it's blood, of course” once more a wicked smile on her face.
They tried to do this ritual, everything seem fine. The warlock yelled “Yes, it is complete” walking behind the priest and then whispering on his back “but I think we need another sacrifice"
She stabs the priest while yelling "Death to the forsaken!”
Corpse thought how moments ago he was blaming himself for almost killing this warlock, this witch that was now stabbing his back. The only remaining stamina he had was being used to see, to remain in control, to be able to whisper to her. He couldn't lose control. The witch tore the old rotten heart out of the priest's body, and placed inside the demonic circle, the priest couldn't do anything as he saw how the bitch he was trying to save now summoned something far more sinister from the deeps of the twisting nether. An Eredar came from the portal.
“Quicky, we need to summon more, Azeroth will fall!”
The Warlock was working for the fucking legion, and kneeling to the Eredar's knees!
Corpse had his chest split open, with the same sword still stuck on his back. He still that little bit of stamina left, holding back. He could die there without giving in to the corruption of the old gods, just die and rest in peace.
Could he afford that when there was this undead betraying us all? He knew losing control would ultimately mean him losing his mind, but a legion attack from that area would have been devastating, let alone the worgen one. Deathknell would be engulfed in either fel fire or worgen troops.
“I rather have our world be engulfed by void than let any of you destroy it!” The priest whispered his last words before completely giving in into the madness within. He was going to die either way, might as well go out in a bang!
He snapped, giving in into the whispers of the forest, and from that moment forward his soul, his mind was simply gone. His body mutated, more tendrils sprouting everywhere, and eyes opening in the rotting flesh. The man we knew and loved died that day, sacrificing everything to save us.
The warlock ran away like a coward. The worgen cabin exploded with void energy, void tendrils began devouring everything around it, making most of the worgen run away from the woods scared. The fate of the Eredar Demon remains unknown.
Aftermath:
That same warlock ran all the way to brill and confessed what happened, and he was executed the same afternoon. Apparently he was from dalaran, a rogue mage who had learned necromancy and demonology, and because of these things there was a huge reward for his capture, and now this reward will be now given to whoever can bring peace to Corpse's corpse. From the info that we have gathered, there is no saving him now. As a forsaken who met him at his best, it is your duty to hunt down at his worst, before the thing that remained hurts any forsaken.
His soul won't be able to rest until his body is given a proper burial.
The man we all knew died the moment he decided to give in to the whispers of the old gods. Even if it was for a good intention, we know how this reckless pursuit of power can lead to our damnation. Find it, give it a quick death burn it on site.