Ariannah

Information

Player: garrett

Character Full Name: Ariannah Morganth Timaeus

Character In-Game Name: Ariannah

Nickname(s): Aria, Morganthe, Black Morgan

Association(s): Knights of the Ebon Blade

Race: Human

Class: Death Knight

Age: Aria was twenty-two years old when she became a Death Knight. At present, she is a girl of about twenty-five years, though her body is still somewhat that of a twenty-two year old.

Sex: Female

Hair: Aria's hair is pale, by nature. Originally it was blonde, but since coming under the power of the Lich King, her hair has gradually bleached white.

Eyes: Aria's eyes share the characteristic glow of all Death Knights, however, hers have a slight reddish tinge. The effect, coupled with the blue of the normal glue, is a very pale lavender color.

Weight: Aria weighs around one hundred and forty-five to one hundred and fifty pounds.

Height: Aria stands at a solid six foot and one inch in height.

Appearance

Aria's garments tend towards a theme of red, black, or purple. While considered a morbid mix by most races, the undead aren't inclined to think such things. While Aria prefers to wears these colors as something of a tool, to heighten the fear she presents to others, she also shares a fondness for the color of blue.

Other: Aria typically does not have any disfiguring marks or features that would immediately identify her. Since she was younger when she was transformed, she had not yet been on her own in the world, to receive such things as tattoos or piercings.

Personality

Aria's personality is complex, due to the unique nature of her remaking as a Death Knight. At times, she has memories as her life before the change, while at others, she is fully trapped within the chaotic mind of a Death Knight. Personally, she holds no grudge against the former races she lived among, though the Forsaken still earn some enmity from her, with their close kinship with the Scourge.

Like many Death Knights, she holds a personal vendetta against the Scourge and their master, Arthas. She also holds some distrust for other Death Knights, even those who claim to be her allies. This is primarily due to her first contact with the Death Knights, while she was still fully mortal. Most of her life is consumed with the desire to punish Arthas, not to see him slain, as so many others, but to see him suffer and rot for a lifetime of wrongs, some of which were committed against her. She wishes to see the Frozen Throne broken and shattered, with Arthas kneeling in supplication before her. This desire fuels her and drives her on, though it is not so consuming a desire that it warps her perception of the here and now. She is well aware of the consequences of acting rashly or being foolhardy.

History

Every story has a beginning, and an end. My story, though not unique, is special in that I have had the fortune, or the ill luck, of suffering through two beginnings, and one end. I suppose I am fortunate in one aspect, my second ending has not yet come to pass.

And so I sit here and write this, though most of those like me would look upon it as sentimental foolishness. I, however, choose to look upon it as a way to remember who I am, and what it is that has shaped me. This is my story, and you may accept it or deny it as you will.

My name is Ariannah Morganth Timaeus. I was born some twenty years ago as mortals reckon time, before the fall of Lordaeron, and the rise of Arthas. I was born to a minor noble family, the House of Timaeus. My father, Agwyn, and my mother, Calliope, were young and very much in love, I would surmise. I remember my childhood, riddled with the pleasant moments of being held in my mother's arms, or comforted by my father.

My father was not an important man, in comparison to other nobles of Lordaeron, but he was a kind one, and those who lived upon his lands looked upon him as such.

What rubbish. A part of me looks back at my human childhood of innocence with longing. But what could have been, can no longer be. I am as you see me, one of the damned and fallen. A knight of death and despair.

I was not always like this, of course. As a child I was happy and playful, timid and fearful. All the traits that make humans weak, and yet at the same time gives them power. As the only child of my parent's, I stood to inherit my father's title and lands, though I was aware that such would be a bargaining chip to gain the favor of other nobles, those who had sons.

Ultimately, I am forced to admit, it was the bastard, Arthas, who saved me from a life of being some nobleman's play pretty. To be used for my lands and title to further that great game humans are so fond of, one known as governments.

My family, along with so many others, were forced to flee for our lives, leaving behind all that we had known for the Scourge to befoul and corrupt. We made for the continent of Azeroth, fleeing like wretches before the might of the undead.

What followed only served to further distance me from humanity. My father, with only his title remaining, sought to gain favor with the nobles of Stormwind, in the hopes of recovering his title, though his lands were surely lost to the ravages of the Scourge.

Ultimately, his burning need to regain that which was lost is what led me to my damnation. It finally came to a head in the year of my twenty-second birthday. We traveled north, taking ship to the foothills and the town known as Southshore.

To the north of us lay the Plaguelands, lands ravaged by the Scourge and Arthas. Stratholme and cursed Baron Rivendare, who had sold himself to the Lich King, Scholomance, and farther still, to the lands of Lordaeron, my home, now befouled by the wretched calling themselves the "Forsaken".

My father had a plan, and had acquired armsmen to see it through. He was bankrupting us of what little we had acquired over the years. Though I was too young then, I can see now that there was something of a madness in my father.

He was weak, and it is little comfort to the tattered remnants of my soul that he is now dead for his fool's plan. My mother, I can only surmise, knew of his madness, but stuck by him. Love is powerful, as they say. Absurd. Idiocy is a more apt name for it.

My father desired to show that he had no fear of the Scourge. He meant to go and look upon the Plaguelands. To taunt the Scourge and show he had no fear. How this would have gained him any favor, I shall never know. The ways of human government are murky, and oft times more foul than anything I have ever done.

I will not bore you with details. We rode out from Southshore, heading up the river until we could overlook a befouled lake. My father lifted his hand to point out the ruins of Scholomance to us, and the Scourge, ever ready to oblige a fool, rose up as if that were a signal, and fell upon us.

I thought to fight them, for I had indeed been trained as a warrior. My father took it as a matter of pride that his daughter was an adept with the blade. He shelled out gold to a variety of trainers, who taught me everything they knew.

If we had been facing human opponents, we might have prevailed. But this was the Scourge. They were tireless, and threw dark magics at us. No matter how skilled I was with a blade, I could not have defeated them.

By all rights, I should indeed be dead. But that Light, the ever-cursed Light, did not see fit to end it there, on that day. While the Scourge were slaughtering those armsmen they could capture, my family was set upon by men.

They were dark men, with tainted mocking grins, and burning eyes. I know them now for what they were...Death Knights. Not those of the Ebon Blade, who style themselves as such, fodder that they were. No..these were paladins who turned their backs on the Light, knowing that it was a lie.

They were the ones who had sold themselves to the Lich King, to become his dark unholy warriors, like Arthas had done before them. My father was losing his grip by this time, straining to attack them.

I knew in my heart that things were only going to get worse from here on in. My mother, however, managed to remain regal before them. She would not bend down before them, though it cost her physical punishment.

I choose to look upon this as my first ending. The things I did afterwards should not be done by any that would call themselves human..

And so we come to my second beginning. My induction, if you will, into the ranks of the damned. Those in the Ebon Blade believe they had it rough. Fools. They, at least, were blissfully dead when they had their souls ripped back from the Void, to stand in undead service as fodder for the Lich King.

My transformation was by far worse, and I cannot deny, my soul was scarred by what I was to do. We were bundled up, there before the Scholomance, and taken north, to the infernal seat of power in the Plaguelands. Naxxramas, hovering above Stratholme like some sort of dark moon.

We were kept together, they had no fears that we would attempt anything foolish, how could we? My father, though, was bound and gagged to, as one Death Knight remarked, "Cease his prattling.".

Another came before us then, to view each of us in turn. My father he dismissed with a wave of a decrepit looking hand. My mother gave him pause, but only briefly. It was to me, however, that he stopped, and his smile was as chilling as the touch of the grave.

When I look back on it now, I realize why it was me, why I was the one who survived, if you can call it survival. My youth, my innocence. My father was mad, and my mother had seen much of the world. But I, I was still young, and had not experienced the things they had. I had my innocence, and he took delight in perverting and crushing it within me. My skill with a blade was also looked upon favorably. I was a warrior, and I could serve them in that capacity. My virginal innocence was just something of a bonus for them to play with.

My parents were dragged away, my father's muffled cries, and my mother's eyes finally flooding with salty tears. Then, the necromancer, for that is what he was, spoke to me.

"Your parents will die."

That was all he said, though it was enough to shatter me to my being. It is one thing to believe you are going to die, it is another to hear it as a certainty.

"You have the power to save them, child."

I was confused...what is he talking about? What could I do to save their lives? He then began to speak, actually sitting down beside me. His actions were like those of a kindly grandfather. Lying bastard.

The Scourge was not inherently bad, they were just passionate in their cause. Demons were to come to Azeroth, from some distant portal. I had heard tidbits of such musings before. Some dark portal to another world, where the orcs had originally lived. But little knowledge is good for nothing, as it were.

I questioned him. I had always been an inquisitive child. I asked him how I could do anything to save my parents. I wanted them to live, as any child would. Better that I had had the strength to consign them to death.

All they wanted was my service, to aid them in their battle against the demons. It would be a tough fight, and they would need everything they could get to battle them.

I was not stupid, I pointed out the deaths of Lordaeron. For my trouble, I was shown illusions by dark magi, images of the king and his demon allies, laughing at what they were planning to do to the people. I admit freely, I grew angry at that point.

I can only imagine they were using some kind of drug to make me complacent and willing to believe. And sadly, their plan was working. I agreed to the necromancer's terms. I would ally with the Scourge, to give my parents freedom.

I was taken to a chamber within the citadel, where dark runes had been etched into the floor. The necromancer gestured for me to lay upon a bier in the center of the rooms, as his brethren gathered about him.

A weapon was brought in, a sword. My sword. The sword I had carried for so many years. While far from being exceptional, nevertheless I felt a bond with the weapon. But now, it was an ugly thing of blackened metal and bloody runes. The necromancers had been hard at work since our capture, perverting my weapon in plans for this very moment.

They placed the blade on the bier with me, I could feel it probing into my mind...but how was it that a sword could do that? I could not speak, and I felt that something was terribly wrong.

The necromancers were chanting now, their hands moving in complicated gestures. The blade was pulsating in the sickly green light of the chamber. It was becoming a part of me, some how, by some dark magic. They were fusing the sword to my soul...but why?

Finally, it was over. The runes on the blade glowed fully, and I could move once more. I sat up, my body felt strange. It was like I was an infant all over again. My movements were strange, almost fluid. I felt alive, filled with energy, but...there was something else, within me. It was the sword, lying at my side.

Slowly, I wrapped my hands about it's cool hilt, and my mind exploded into sensations. The blade was like my lover, sleek and firm, hungry and passionate. I shuddered against the embrace of the weapon, holding it to my breast.

They were all looking at me, watching what they had wrought. I later learned that it was something of a test, to see who was worthy, and who was to be slaughtered.

It felt like I had wielded the sword all my life, it was a part of me, and I of it. We were bonded, there in that foul temple. I stood up and brandished it, then weaved it effortlessly into a flawless dance of death.

What had been wrought of training at the hands of humans, had been enhanced by the hands of death. I had near limitless energy now, and my movements were like tainted water. Fluid, but deadly.

Some time later, though it was a few moments only it seemed longer, I turned to the necromancer who had spoken with me.

"My parents...they will be set free?"

He smiled that chilling smile once more. "Oh yes, they will be set free. I promise you this."

If I knew then what I had known now, perhaps I might have tried to strike him down. As it was, I merely acceded to his answer as being honest. I was taken from the room, led to other chambers, chambers filled with wretched undead. I was tested against others who had been raised. Only the strong were to survive, it seemed.

My time among the Scourge of Naxxramas was a secluded one. I was among the Death Knights and necromancers, but the other creatures were on the ground far below, battling against the races that came struggling against them.

My mind began to slip into darkness. I relished causing pain and harm to others. I no longer cared who. Allies or foes, all were merely playthings for me. Then came the day that I was taken to an open chamber, where other members of the Scourge were watching, other Death Knights and necromancers. Like some twisted sort of theater.

My parents were paraded out before me. It all came crashing in on me, I had been deceived at every turn...but so what? Wasn't I powerful now? Could I not command the undead, battle in combat, and wield the dark magic? Was I not happy with my life?

And I was. I was ordered to christen my blade, and so I did. In a baptism of blood, my mother's warm lifeblood was the quench for the heated passion of my blade. It sank into her breast so easily, her eyes, looking upon me only showed sadness. She saw me as I truly was, as I can look and see myself now.

Through it all, a soft voice was in my head, coaxing and encouraging. I thought it was my conscious, though later I learned it was something much more.

She collapsed to the floor, nothing but so much lifeless meat. The last vestiges of my innocence cried out for her, knowing that she would go to feed the ravenous hunger of the Scourge. The main part no longer cared. Why should it? She was weak and she died. Weaklings are not fit to be mourned.

I lifted my blade, staring at the blood as it oozed across the runes, they seemed to come to fiery life whenever touched, sucking at the blood in the gnawing hunger of vampirism. I began to feel powerful, strong. The weak would fall before me like cattle.

My father was dragged forward next, pleading and begging for the Light to protect him. The Light would not come though, and the laughs and jeers from the Death Knights in the crowd only served to drive my father to tears.

Impalement was not good enough for this wretch, a voice coaxed in my head, the voice of my master, the Lich King. Pervert him from the Light, my child. Use your gifts to wrack his soul.

With dark arts I wracked my father, body and soul. I tormented him, there before the eyes of my new brethren. I reveled in every drop of his blood, as it spilled to the floor.

Through it all, that dark voice was in my mind, coaxing me, subtly ordering me. I was his, and I loved every moment of it.

After this, I was dispatched to the citadel of Acherus. My training was to continue there. This proved to be another dark blessing. You know, it's funny. My life has been blessed by darkness more than it ever has by the Light. Funny how that works.

I was to be training along with other death knights, when word reached us that Naxxramas had fallen. Shocked, we were swiftly brought up on a course of retribution. We were to punish them for what they had done.

We rode forth, killing the human peasants we encountered. And kill them we did. Rivers of blood gushed forth before we were recalled to Acherus, for a new order delivered by our dark Master.

Scores of bodies were brought to Acherus, in varying stages of rot and gore. They were stacked in piles at the dark temples, where the necromancers tirelessly worked to raise them as a new generation of death knights.

Now we were to be sorted in ranks, befitting our strength. Baron Rivendare was there among us, along with many others like him. Men and women who had willingly stepped up and gave themselves to the Master, in exchange for his dark gifts.

I might very well have been one of them, if I had been given the same opportunities. But my powers were lacking, next to those, dubbed the first of Arthas' wretched followers.

No, I, and the others raised like me, had less power, in that we still clung to remnants of our humanity. Even I, the one they called Black Morgan, still had remnants in the depths of my being. No matter how I tried, I could not fully purge myself of that weakness, as Arthas was said to have done.

And so I found myself among the lesser generation of Death Knights. Though I was alive, I was not deemed to be any better than the rotting ranks of the Argent Dawn who rose to follow us from their graves. So much for the Light protecting their souls in death.

Arthas had a plan...a plan delivered to us by our leader. We were to lead a massive army of Scourge against the bastion of the Light, known as Light's Hope Chapel.

Our leader, Darion Mograine, wielding his sword, the Ashbringer, led us onto the field, to take New Avalon.

Yet we were unable to beat them. For all the blessings darkness had bestowed upon us, for all the might of our numbers, we were defeated.

One man stood up to us. One man, sheathed in the goodness and purity of his Light. And it was to reach that one man that we were betrayed. Damn Arthas for his insane planning and schemes. Before I could never have contemplated such a thing. Now, it is all I know.

Arthas himself damned us to failure, he never cared if we won or lost. Only to draw the leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand onto the battlefield. Arthas wanted to defeat this man, this titan you might call him.

Ten thousand Scourge were no match for his powers. He sundered our army, and then he chided us for letting ourselves be used for fodder. He actually had the nerve to do this to us.

It was then and there that the Lich King arrived, to do battle with this warrior of the Light. Foolish, and reckless, he blatantly told us that we were fodder to lure this man into the open.

In a daze, we watched as they dueled, until finally our leader threw his weapon to the man. It was there that we witnessed the defeat of the Lich King, and there that we found ourselves free.

Defeated he fled us, but we were regaining much of our humanity already. Our souls fled from the iron grip of Arthas, returning our free will to us. It may seem foolish to you, reader, but many were not even aware they had been under his control in the first place, myself included.

Together, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, as Mograine named us, rode forth, returning to Acherus and purging it of the Scourge. We sought to cleanse it, to use as our own dark sanctuary, from whence we might sally forth into the very heart of the Lich King's domain, the icy wastes of Northrend.

And so, we come nearer to the ending of this tale. Roughly a year has passed, since the Betrayal of Light's Hope, as I have come to think of it. Many things have come and gone, in that time. Rather than unite to defeat Arthas once and for all, the races of Azeroth have reverted back to their petty wars and bickering.

To think that they do not understand the need to unite, to scour the Scourge once and for all from the face of the land is maddening. And of late I have heard talk of a new group, the Sin'Sholai. Already the races, even united as they were with their Horde and Alliance, have begun to fracture and separate.

Through it all, I am sure, Arthas is biding his time, sitting there in Icecrown Citadel, the seat of his power. Growing in strength, building up his reserves to retake what was his. And the races are happily obliging him by fragmenting. Such useless wastes of flesh.

I sit here now, at my desk, writing this documentation of my history. Nearby, the cold chill of my runeblade is a comforting present. It has served me well, though it is a constant reminder of what I have done, and what I will do. Our leader, Highlord Mograine, is becoming unstable. He has let his desire to slay the Lich King override his sense of being, and it is disturbing.

My family name was Timaeus, and my father a baron. I take solace in the fact that Timaeus means honor. Honor is all I have left to cling to, in these dark days. That and the title of Baroness. Ha, Baroness. Baroness of what, you might ask. My lands are gone, laid waste and ravaged, and now under the domain of those wretched Forsaken.

I rather doubt the King of Stormwind would honor me with a title believed to be held by a dead woman. Amusing really, I am neither alive nor dead. The dark necromancies have warped me into something between. My only consolation is to retain the title of Baroness. Call it a title of respect, or a matter of honor. I care little for your cares or desires, or your notions of what should be.

I am who I am, and there is nothing that can change that. My honor is my own, and none will again take that from me.

Baroness Ariannah Timaeus, Death Knight of Acherus