A few weeks ago I had to get away from the grind for Titan Runestones and other things necessary for yet another legendary cloak (because, honestly, Vassannah can’t stop teasing Shuanna at family dinners; “Look, Shu! I’ve got wings! Tee-heee!”). So I dabbled a bit with a few diferent classes but no one made it past level 10. During this episode I took some time to read som old posts of mine. Suddenly, a name popped up.
She’s not an Exodar Sister per se. She’s not “related” to the others, but she does have a part to play. What part? Time will tell (I’m sneaky; I’m planning out a backstory in advance!). Since I allready have a rather good death knight I decided to twist Menea another way. I’ve never managed to get a handle on Unholy. The only way for me to truly learn a class is to play it from the beginning. If time permits before the Iron Horde comes crashing down upon us I’m hoping she’ll get a cloak as well.
Here she is, the newborn. Say hello to my little friend!
Menea, the unholy Death Knight.
– – – – –
“Do not seek death … ”
But there was other words too, burned into Meneas memory, unshakeable. Mrs Mary Lorena Dorrington, the redeemed Forsaken, an apothecary in the service of the Argent Dawn, wasn’t the only one who had spoken to her. Words, no other memories from the terrible moment to the … reawakening.
“Your will is not … your own. A vindicator, eh?.” There had been a scoff and a pause. Ah yes! She remember the cold stone floor, a chill seeping in through skin that felt too tight over muscles, a frost deep within her bones. All within that moment of a pause, no longer than a thoughtful breath. Then: “Rise!”
She did. She rose. There was a flicker of rebellion deep within her, but she wasn’t strong enough. Not then. She shambled forward. There was a faint memory of serving the Light, deep within her, but she would serve only darkness. She straightened up. There was a memory of a fleeting image, how she had stood tall on a wall of bloodied sandstone, keeping the tide of orcs back before she, too, had fled the sacred city.
“Menea, prove yourself!”
Someone handed her a sword. Someone clad her in armor. It was all very strange. She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn’t move.
“Useless piece of dead meat, go over there and kill the bitch!”
So Menea did.
A machine of undeath. Bereft of mind, sanity, will. Methodical in the cleansing of Tyrs Hand, body upon body. Eventually she gained her voice – her new voice. Harsh, whispering. She wouldn’t talk above a whisper ever again.
The army of death swept across the land. She led the charge. Then … something …happened.
“Do you not remember the mountains of Argus?”
She didn’t. She cut off his head, mechanical in her motions, remorseless. But something happened. Why was there a sudden, but faint, flash of pain deep within her? At first she thought she had ripped a tendon. As time passed by and the pain didn’t go away, she became used to it. Like a thorn, ap inprick, deep within her heart.
As Ashbringer was raised in the air in the Battle of Lights Hope, the pain exploded. She succumbed. The machine broke down. She crawled on all fours, blinded with pain, hissing like a snake. For quite some time she was left for dead. But as the clean-up began and she was tossed into a pitch-filled pit about to be set ablaze …
She rose. The flicker of rebellion deep within her exploded. She hissed, as loud as she could, grabbing the first weapon she would find – a pickaxe. She shambled forward, screaming crusaders fled before her. Her steps began to find its stride. Thus, clad in a broken saronite armor, covered in pitch, she strode forward. Then she dropped her weapon and knelt in front of the most unlikely lord she could possibly imagine. Lord Fordring.
“Death.” she said. “I am Death.”
“No, child,” he replied. “You are a Knight!”
Someone handed her a blackened sword.
“Welcome to the Knights of the Ebon Blade.”
She might have laughed, she can’t remember. Undoubtedly she hissed. There was another battle afterwards, but everything became a blur once the Lich King left her mind. Did she meet a king? Perhaps. She found herself back in the Plaguelands eventually. Nothing more but a whimpering piece of unholy meat. Rotting. She sat down with her back against a tree not far from Darrowshire and decided to … wither.
Then she came. Mrs Mary Lorena Dorrington, the redeemed Forsaken, an apothecary in the service of the Argent Dawn.
“Do not seek death … ”
“I’m allreay dead.”
“We all are. Some people just don’t know it yet.”
“There is no hope.”
“There is always hope.”
“You’re dead too.”
“I like to think of it as an unforseen malady, thank you very much.”
“I am nothing without him.”
“Yes you are. Why do you keep clutching that locket?”
To wich Menea looked down on her hands. True enough, she held a khorium locket with an adamantite chain in her hands. Clutching it, like a trinket of good fortune. When she opened it there was a portrait of a young draenei, a woman.
“She’s dead too.”
“Who is she?”
“We joined the … we fought together. We … died. Together.”
“Then she must have a name.”
“Yesss … ”
“Well? Spit it out. I haven’t got all day!”
“You were friends?”
“No … we were … more.”
“Then you should find her.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Ah, see, well. I do!”
Mrs Dorrington, Dorry to her friends, did. It was a complex ritual requiring many ingredients. Salts, powders, potions, elixirs, candles … Menea was charged with her first truly epic quest: Gather the materials. As Dorry said:
“It will take you through space and time, through life and death, through truth – and consequence. You might not like what you find about yourself.”
Oh, but she did. Once, upon returning to Lights Hope Chapel with yet another bag full of precious materials necessary for the seeking ritual, Dorry asked Menea a simple question:
“Why do you kill?”
Menea thought about it, for quite some time. Then she replied:
“I only kill to know I’m alive.”