With Acherus won and a good night of rest behind me, I am aching to get back into action. The one who administered my stitches says I must allow my shoulder to rest before returning to battle, but dead flesh will never truly mend. I see no need for further rest, all I see is red, I want Him dead.
The medic gets his wish, for first Mograine requires a mission of diplomacy, a plea to the Alliance for tolerance and peace. I do not relish this kind of task, but perhaps it is a test, to see if I am beyond my bloodthirsty ways, to see if I can control myself in "polite" society. So I go, through this portal, to Stormwind, the heart of the Alliance.
As I walk through this jewel of a city I can feel the eyes glaring at me from all directions. It grows worse the closer I come to the Keep. The crowd grows bold, afterall, I am but one monster in the midst of hundreds. They throw curses as well as rotten food, rocks, whatever they can find, at me. One particularly daring human runs right in front of me, screaming, "Get out of our city, Scourge Fiend!" and spits in my face. This does not distress me, although it isn't particularly pleasant either. My escort, the city guard, pushes him away gently, as I nonchalantly wipe the spittle from my face with the back of my hand.
These people distrust me, and I don't blame them. Look at what I once was. The names they call me are fitting. I am a murderer. They are right to cower in fear at the sight of me. They are right to spit at and curse me.
Yet this letter I carry, signed by no less than Tirion Fordring, represents me as better than that which I once was. By this man's word alone I am permitted entry into Stormwind and presented to the King himself. Our newly formed order needs allies, and what better than to appeal to the King of Stormwind himself?
And yet, I wonder if I am truly able to be a part of this group of the living. My sole purpose now is to end the Scourge. I have nothing else in common with these people. I no longer even remember what my life was when I was alive. Physically, I am obviously of the Draenei. How I came to die in a place where the Lich King would find me and resurrect me as his warrior, I have no idea.
There have been a few since who claim to recognize me, to have known me from before, but there is no memory of that for me. I have no desire to learn of my history. The history that I remember is painful enough, I would not add more to the abominations I have already to account for. As such, I have no feelings for the Draenei as a people, as my people. The Order is now my family, my race, my heritage.
Knowing the atrocities I have committed in His name, I feel I have no right to a future. I will play the hand that is dealt me. I will go to this King of Stormwind and plea for our acceptance. But I can only do so as a logical next step. There is no feeling of loyalty to the Alliance for me. There is only the need to kill Him. To do so we need help. I will ask for help, and I will honor any contract we engage in with the Alliance. Beyond that, who knows?