The Smell of Darkness

I wanted to share with you all a little story I wrote years ago as a sort of prelude to a character I made in the game World of Warcraft.

It's actually my first thread ever started on here, I'm a very long time lurker that just recently started getting more involved on the forums.

I love writing, and by doing it here I hope I'll improve.

Anyway...here goes! *takes the leap*

The dark was warm, its smell damp. Warm. The way it gets in a small enclosed area. He opened his eyes. Still dark. He drew a breath. His throat felt like sandpaper and his chest didn't feel like it was moving. He lifted his hand to his face. A slight creaking could be heard. The face, which didn't feel like his, was touched by a hand that felt equally strange.

"What is this?"

He started moving his limbs one by one. Everytime the creaking sound could be heard. It disturbed him, but at least it seemed to subside the more he moved each of his limbs. His eyes accustomed themselves slowly to the dark, and he could see his surroundings better. He could discern that he was lying down on his back. Right in front of his face there was a small, round dot. It was irregular in shape and on it's surface where lines drawn in circles. He studied it for awhile, trying to figure out what it was. Suddenly it struck him. It was a knot-hole.

"But that's funny, knot-holes are found in planks."

He lifted his hand and knocked on the knot-hole. The unmistakable sound of wood could be heard. But it sounded muffled somehow. He poked his finger through the knot-hole. On the other side it sank into something soft, but dense at the same time. He pulled his finger back and smelled it.

"Dirt?"

Slowly he started realise his predicament.

"I have been buried alive! This is a terrible mistake. How could this happen?"

Panic started rising in him. He had never feared death. As a soldier it was something he had to accept. But this was not on his list of this to keep rational about. Dying on the field was one thing. But slowly suffocating in your own coffin?

"NO!"

He started banging on the planks in front of him. Small annoying thuds was the only result. The planks did not budge an inch. He kept banging, and banging. Soon the banging was accompanied by clawing and scratching.

"If I can just break the lid I can dig myself out."

Banging, scratching, clawing, biting. His panic was rising. It reach heights he didn't think was humanly possible. He screamed and howled. Tossed and turned. In the end his mind gave up, and he sank into darkness.

----

He woke up. No idea how long he had been out. But the worst panic had subsided. He slowly realised he didn't need to use his breath as before.

"I must have been laying here forever. I should be dead by now."

To collect his mind he started to think back. It wasn't easy. His past seemed a blur. He saw lines of soldiers. Yes, he must have been a soldier. It seemed to make sense. The soldiers armor and weapons were gleaming in the sun. Everyone wore a tabard with an embroyded anchor on the chest and back.

A woman came before his sight. To her sides were two adolescent children. The three seemed to glow. There was a light around them, and it shone so bright. Seeing the image made him smile, and forget about is situation.

"Maewynn!"

It was the woman's name. But who was she? She held her arms out as if to embrace him. Then it struck him, Maewynn was his wife. And the children were theirs. Caymar and Erinwynn. His loving wife and beautiful children. Something in him ached. They were dead, he knew that. They had been taken by the plague that struck Theramore.

"Ahh, Theramore! I remember that name."

He remember walking into battle shortly after their death. He stood in a line facing the scourge. They were coming at them in masses. The battle was feirce. He remember getting wounded. A mortal wound, but it did not make him feel sad. He welcomed death. For on the other side were his family, the light of his life, waiting for him. Nothing else mattered. Remembering the feeling he started getting warm all over. Finally, his life was over. He could join his wife and children again, in a better place. Then his face stiffened.

"Then what is this? Why am I lying here?"

He tried to think. The scourge didn't need to breathe. The scourge were dead, abominations. The scurge infected the living. They had turned him into one of them. The not living, not dead.

"NOOOOOOO!"

The banging, clawing, screaming, and howling started anew. This time out of rage. He had been tricked by the scurge. They had stole his family from him. Somewhere deep inside him he felt strength growing. It was almost as if he willed it. All the images disappeared, and with them the fear. He felt nothing but rage now. Pure, red, festering rage. The planks broke at his strikes. Splinters rained down on him. Suddenly the dirt gave way and it all piled down upon him. The red rage was driving him. He thrashed around squeezing himself slowly through the dirt.

"5 more feet, that's all you need"

The rage was blinding. He had never in his life ever come close to being as angry as he was at this very moment.

At the graveyard all was still. Some rats scurried around looking for food. Suddenly a clenched fist broke out of one of the graves. Following the fist came the remains of a man. Shaking, he tried to stand, it felt like the first time.

"Greetingsss." Another walking corpse wearing a dust-stained white robe came towards him. "You have risen. It is well."

He looked at the corpse. Opened his mouth, but all that came out was a croaking. The might of his voice in the rage was gone. As was the rage itself, it had slowly sudsided as if never there.

"Don't worry about your voice, it'll come back. You just have to get used to it."

The robed corpse took out a small book and made some notes in it.

"There, lot number 345. Risen! Excellent."

"My name is caretaker Worthing and I have a few things it's my job to tell you about." He flipped through the book. "Ahem. You are not dead, even though it may feel like it. Take your time to move around and get aquainted with your body again. It may seem odd at first but it'll come back to you. You know what they say, it's like riding a horse..."

"The will of Sylvanas has freed you from your schackles. This means of course that you owe your allegiance to the Lady. If not for her you'd be one of the mindless scourge or not risen at all. Be thankful for that."

"Down that way you will find others that can tell you more about your situation. You should go to the church at once and speak to the Shadowpriest there. He will put you to use. You do want to be a useful bonepile, don't you?" the robed corpse chuckled. The hearty chuckle sounded like it came from ages and ages of darkness and cold. From the pits of the Demons themselves.

"Oh...almost forgot. You might feel an urge to seek out people from your past. This is a bad idea. Your past is gone, my rattling friend. The only thing for you there are people wanting to burn your corpse on a fire. They will try to deny you your right to exist. Needless to say, this cannot be allowed. They try to deny our right to exist. Consequently we will deny theirs."

"Welcome to the Forsaken, brother. Do you remember your name?"

"I am..." What was his name? Could he really have forgotten? No, there it was. "I am...Eviscarius."