|World of Warcraft Character Journal - Evangoth Vol. 1|
May 21, 2004 | Michael Phillips
I live a “life” of contradiction. In years past, I served as a Priest, a Holy man of God. I tended the sick, baptized new born babes, wed young lovers and at the height of my faith… I could raise the dead. My life was devoted to life itself. Then, Arthas rose to power and before any of us fools could figure out what was going on, a plague descended upon Lordaeron. I remember praying, praying so hard my knees ached. Yet, nothing worked. My prayers went unanswered. My healing spells and potions cured no one. My words were no solace to the countless widows and widowers. Death covered the land like a blanket of ice. The dead rose from their freshly dug graves, but not by any of my magic. No, it was Necromancy at work, causing the mindless Undead to slay the living and spread their disease.
What came next is hazy at best. The Plague hit my church very hard, it seemed as if everyone took ill at once. Everyone, save me, I was the last to succumb to the sickness. I remember lying in bed, feeling so cold and sleepy. It was the type of chill that went undaunted by even the thickest furs. At first, I was in pain, terrible pain. The feeling of cold cut through me like a knife. Still, as I lay dying, I prayed. I still had faith in my prayers. After a few days, or weeks, I really don’t know anymore… I sat down in my favorite chair, numb from the cold and I closed my eyes. After that, I was awash in blackness, blackness worse than any childhood nightmare. However, this obviously was not the end.
Somehow, the Necromantic spell cast by Arthas and the Lich King was weakened. The former High Elf turned Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner, was our savior. We are the Forsaken and we serve our Dark Lady unquestionably. As the Lich King began to lose his sway, we began to awaken. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a slab of stone within a dusty crypt. That was unsettling…