Tress

Information

Player: Beltharean

Character Full Name: Sir Tressian W. van Ravenholdt

Character In-Game Name: Tress

Nickname(s): While Tress is the most commonly applied diminutive used by both Tress' friends and himself, he doesn't have any nicknames in the literal sense of the word. What would fit here as well however, is the common alias Tressian van Ravenstien, used to distance himself from Ravenholdt due to it's negative connotations, as well as the perk of not having a true background under the name aside from one he has spun himself over the years.

In addition to this, when ‘undercover' he will take other pseudonyms or aliases. There are too many that he has used in the past years to properly delegate each one, however they include (but are not limited to)

• Jake B. Gray the Third
• Greggory A. Hensen
• Resnor C. Inklet
• Thomas G. Riddlan, and
• Frankfort R. Tumbleson, to name the most often used aliases.

Association(s): Ravenholdt / Knight of House Blackstone / The Brotherhood

Race: Human

Class: Mage (Training Necromancer)

Age: 33

Sex: Male

Hair: Black, kept long: Down just past his shoulders. He has a goatee accompanied by a moustache, each groomed to the finest standard.

Eyes: Green

Weight: 175 Lbs

Height: 5'11

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Tress mainly sticks to the neutral colour tones, hardly ever straying off into the brighter colours. He'll wear nearly any color so long as it doesn't make him stand out more than is absolutely necessary; Blending into the background is his end goal wherever he is... But that doesn't mean he's willing to sacrifice style. He dresses in a fashion reminiscent of the Alteracian Noblehood of old, taking bits and pieces from other areas as well, such as the tighter clothing of Silvermoon, the somewhat gaudy and traditional style of Dalaran, and then melding that with the more modern chic of Stormwind. It makes for a unique style, one that he is generally fond of to say the most, contented with to say the least.

Other: Based on OOC requests from those involved with and in Tressian's history, I'll be using rather vague ways of mentioning who is who for several certain individual characters. This has been done on purpose, however, if you figure out who they are on your own then more power to you!

Personality

Alignment: Neutral (Wild Card)

Tress' main reason for becoming a necromancer is from his deep-seated compulsion to restore what semblance of control and power he would have once had as a noble, which was taken from him with the fall of Alterac. This has left him a rather wanting individual, if not persistent after years of training in unsuitable circumstances with no true trainer versed in the art of necromancy. He has a strong constitution, mainly based off of teachings from a strong manipulative mother, and a life filled to the brim with misgivings, violence, tragedy, and war.

Skills and Abilities

Necrotic Mage

As time progresses Tressian will have the ability to Raise the Dead, heal them with Necrotic energies, explode corpses, maintain some of his ability with ice spells, as well as gain the newfound ability to spread plague and shadow magic. As of the writing of this profile, Tressian van Ravenholdt has the capability to animate a rat for several minutes, a body for about 30 seconds (stably), and several weak offensive abilities. These consist of the mainstays of necrotic magic, namely bursts of shadow, unholy, or ice magic.

History

A thick notebook, no larger than a man's hand, lays on a desk. It has been finely wrapped in leather, the seal of Alterac so delicately pressed into it's black leather cover. A dark blue ribbon juts out from an area in the back of the notebook, breaking the sea of white that would otherwise be there. It marks the first blank page of many after, indetifying the next page for Tressian to write the accounts of his life. The first page of the notebook reads as such, continuing on into the rest of the relatively ‘short' autobiography of Tressian W. van Ravenholdt...

A Thick Notebook

As with any story of any merit, there is the calm before the storm. The prelude if you will. This portion of my life, before I had truly been born was as influential on my future as any other major moment in my life. That night, where Theresa van Alterac, Noble of the Kingdom of her namesake, lay on the silken sheets of an Archmage would forever define who I was. Who she was. Who -he- would be. For on that night, one Tressian van Alterac was consummated, in a room overlooking the main port of Boralus on the western coast. When the Lady of Alterac awoke she promptly left the still sleeping man's side, ushering herself back to whatever future the world held for her. Unbeknownst to the woman that would become my mother, the Archmage had left his seed planted within her.

This event had become a revelation by the time Theresa returned to our Castle in the Alterac Mountains, not far outside of Alterac City. It was here that she felt the pangs of motherhood throughout her bodice, her body rejecting whatever host had decided to take stock in her womb over any other's. The incessant vomiting however, could do nothing to delay my growth within Mother, and she knew as much.

Taking the carriage in the dead of night, through the snow covered peaks of my beloved mountains, the mountains that I may have someday inherited, and into a glade rather miraculously devoid of much of the snow that plagued the rest of the Kingdom. As she stepped out into the greenery, only a small layer of the white substance pressing against her boots, she found herself in the company of the man that was to be my ‘Replacement Father'; Count Ferdinand van Strahnbrad. They made arrangements, not all together uncustomary for nobles, where marriage seldom has to do with love, and came to the conclusion that the child of the Archmage was, and forever would be, child of Count Ferdinand.

As the months dragged on, and winter parleyed to spring, and spring to summer, summer gave way to yet another noble born within the mountain kingdom of Alterac. On the day that I was born I was destined to remain a noble of the areas of Alterac City, and thus took the name Tressian van Alterac as my mother before me. She had no love for Ferdinand or his weak city of Strahnbrad, bless the woman wherever she might be now, and as such didn't force his ‘son' to take the name either.

Not long after the event of my birth, those nine months of eternity post consummation, a man appeared at the door to Mother's castle. The Count was not present, rather staying at his (much smaller) manor presiding over Strahnbrad. Even if he was, there would not have been much that the man could have done to dissuade either Theresa or the finely dressed man from forcing the stranger to leave. For as it were, this man, adorned in a tuxedo accompanied by one of the signets of the Magi of Kul Tiras (An anchor that's shackle or ring, whichever you choose to call it, is replaced by the Eye of Dalaran) had been sent by none other than the man who left a small portion of himself behind with the Alteracian Noble.

The man was aged, his brown hair with the slightest remnants of blonde now streaked with gray. He was finely shaven, and as he ferried in the stream of arcane books which had been brought with him by carriage, pronounced himself to me as on ‘Erik Gabel,' a servant of my true father.

Now at this time I was of course only several months old, but I have been told by several witnesses to the event, that I rook immediate liking to the man despite never having seen him. This would not be considered strange for the average child, but as with my predicament for wanton isolation at times, I have never been the most socially amiable person. The fact that Mister Gabel and I got along so swimmingly at first lead some to believe an incantation had been set upon me.

Perhaps this is true, and to this day I have been unknowingly duped by the man, but my feelings for him strongly outweighed any love I have had for any blood relative to this day, or even Count Ferdinand. Despite believing he was my father (For Erik did not reveal him to be a fake until later in my life) he never showed me the love one might have had for me in that particular ‘post'.

As my body grew larger, so too did my mind. At the age of two, while being taught the alphabet by a Tutor of the Crown, Mister Gabel would take me up to the library of my home after lessons to teach me the arcane alphabet. While I could recognize the letter A, at the same time I learned the meaning behind the arcane symbol for fire. His tutoring is what would turn my arcane potential granted from my father into arcane ability. By the age of eight I had cast my first spell. A simple, if not vastly important endeavor, having used magic to close the door to my bedroom. This became, and to this day still is, a constant habit of mine.

It was around this time, as my magical ability began to finally take root into something more productive, that I started to realize the dissimilarities between myself and the Count of a father figure that I had had placed in front of me. Where I was naturally thin, he had enough weight for the both of us. His brown hair did not match with mine. His blue eyes were not congruent with my own, a vivid shade of green. I could outwit him by the time of my double digits, and did it without fail. This was no feat however, for he was a stupid, stupid man.

It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that when Lord Perenolde approached the Nobles of his kingdom, Ferdinand was completely in favor of joining the Alliance with the rest of the human kingdoms. Mother and I were completely opposed to the entire idea, because if the news of the destruction of Stormwind was true, no force, not even the combined might of this ‘Alliance' would be able to hold them back. As the refugees flooded into the northlands, and the greenskinned Orcs followed in their wake, the Alteracians seemed to have proven themselves right.

During this time, in order to show me what exactly an army of those empowered by an arcane source were capable of, Erik Gabel pulled myself from our castle home, the two of us partaking in a trek through the mountain passes, and into the lands of Lordaeron. As we approached the forests of Quel'thalas, a land that I had visited several times before with my Mother who had a ‘friend' there, we saw smoke on the horizon. Gabel could hardly contain his excitement, both for what I would be able to see, as well as to pique his own interest. What we saw however, was not the valor of the Knights, or the loyalty of the Paladins that I had expected to see. All that I saw was a sky darkened by gryphon riders, dragons, arrows, and spells. A land covered in the dead bodies of orcs, humans, ogres, and dwarves. The twisted magic of the warlocks wrapped around countless bodies, yanking their souls from their ruined visages, leaving the burnt husks of former members of my race.

This event was the first to deaden my nerves, to steel my mind against what I would witness in the future. The memory would stick with me for years to come however, and still serves as a conduit for the occasional Nightmare. Regardless, as the battle raged on I found a sort of rhythm in it all. In the spells being cast. In the way they were blocked, defended against, taken, absorbed, transformed, dispelled... While I may have been young and impressionable, in this case it did not hold the negative connotations that one might expect, for without fail I absorbed what information I could from the fighting styles of the human and elven magi of The alliance, as well as the warlocks and necrolytes of The Horde.

For a time, we followed the Horde, and for a time, we followed the Alliance. When we saw the green invaders begin to move away from the forests and toward the mountain range of Alterac however... We pulled ourselves from the positions we had, witnessing first hand the scenes of carnage, and return to the real world. A world that I could never feel the same in again, no matter how hard I may have tried. Upon our return, we had come back in the middle of a state of chaos within the noble houses.

They had apparently heard of the coming of the vile Orcish Horde, and were at a loss as to how to approach it. Of course, denying himself any semblance of reason, Ferdinand once more sided with his precious Alliance in the face of extermination from a force more powerful than any Alterac could ever hope to muster. He pleaded to other members, along with others who he had sided with, saying that Stromgarde and Lordaeron would be able to hold them back in the mountain passes.

Bah! A fool!

By the time the Orcs would have gotten into the mountains, the nights of Lordaeron would have just been informed. Half of the kingdom would be destroyed before reinforcements could arrive. And what then? The Orcs would still hold out, they would still fight, and they would still win, no matter how many warriors the humans could muster. For this, we nobles of Alterac let our minds prevail in a way that the other kingdoms couldn't; We surrendered. A mindless Horde this Demonic Horde was not. I had seen them fight myself, and I knew as well as any that they were capable of cunning, of reason. They had tactics, and were intelligent enough to wield magic stronger than that of most Magi of Dalaran.

That being said, an alliance was struck with this Horde. With our knowledge of the Alliance, we were able to point a group of trolls in the right direction, towards the slaughter of a group of High Elves. This was not our proudest moment, but for the survival of our people, anything was necessary. Next, we manipulated the foolish peasants of Tyr's Hand, where their lack of income by way of their mines lead to a severe blow that was the war machine of the Alliance. Finally, we had the foresight to attempt an assassination on Uther the Lightbringer, Lord of the Paladins, Knight of the Silverhand. Pirates employed by Noble Blood were sent after him, but alas, it was not enough. The Horde had waited for long enough, and they began to pour into Alterac.

Mother and I, along with Gabel moved into the highest recesses of our castle, where we waited for the Orcs to pass. The Kingdom had moved citizens from certain areas, and into others, giving a path for the orcs. Not a single citizen was forced to know of, or even see the creatures that they had unwittingly betrayed the Alliance for.

And then, those bastards ruined it. The Warriors of Stromgarde... The vile vindicators, the terrible Troll hunters, the midget marksmen. They managed to find out about our plans, about the paths into the other territories. They ruined what peace we could have had with the orcs, slaughtering them wholesale in the canyons. Gabel made a quick scrying bowl with the magic at his fingertips as the sound of gunshots fired not too far from the castle. Bodies of orcs and humans were piling up, creating unnatural barriers of flesh and blood. From over these piles however, crawled those clad in tabards as red as the lifeblood upon which they stepped. Stromgardians, masses of them, and by Mister Gabel's account, the double crossing General Hath was the one responsible for the mess.

That General, if there was a list of names of the people I wish to kill at some point in my life (don't worry, there is) would be -very- high up. Number two, by my count. Because of him, after the deaths of so many orcs, our newest allies, those brutes from Stromgarde entered our territory. The territory of Alterac. The territory that belonged to me. My mother. My family. Our people. I was outraged. At the first sign of the red tabard flashing through the doorframe in front of us, I let loose one of my rudimentary arcane bolts. It struck true, causing the Knight not only to stumble, but to bring his hand back and strike me.

If General Hath is number two, then this man wherever he is, holds the rank of number one. Blood ran from my mouth as I fell to the ground, Mister Gabel stepping between myself and the man. Not long after, we would be confined not only to our house, but that particular room for most of the day, for quite some time. Martial Law had been imposed, and in a martial society, it was even more strict than one might expect. During this time I was forced to study the arcane without actually casting, the guards making sure that not a single trace of arcane so much as passed through my will. I hated them more and more each day.

Arcane was not needed however, to traverse the secret chambers of the household at night. Through these means, we were able to aid The Horde once more, and attempt to inundate out vengeance with the power of the Noble blood of Alterac. We sent what money we could, whatever the Stromgardians had not already stolen from beneath our feet. I have heard the artifacts that they search for were eventually found... I have also heard rumour that they were used for personal gain rather than to destroy The Alliance. I can vouch for that however, for I have done nearly the same in several situations not all together dissimilar.

We sat in our house still, Mother and Gabel passing the time by cleaning, I by tending to my studies. We overheard talk, both from those of Stromgarde, and those we could contact on the outside through our secret chambers, that there was talk of the Annexation of The Kingdom of Alterac. Thoras Trollbane, the cantankerous Bastard King of Stromgarde was demanding that Eastern Alterac be put in his control, for some sort of twisted recognition, a reward for detaining his countrymen! He not only wanted to keep us like cattle, cooped up within our pens, but now wanted to steal even more of our property yet? As if his troops hadn't taken enough from us? More money than I can count was lost in the Occupation of Alterac, and for that, the Stromgardians will forever be indebted.

At least the somewhat stable minds of Genn Greymane and Terenas Menethil joined the debate, saying that members of the Perenolde family should take the throne once more. And then... Lord Prestor, a rogue aristocrat, decided to join the fray. He could have saved us, a fine ruler he would have been from what I understand. But when we needed him most, when he could have brought us back up from the ruins, he left us. He disappeared. He let us crumble into the decayed nation that we are today. I shall forever curse the name of Prestor, for it has doomed our people as much as any Trollbane, or Hath.

Following the events of the Occupation of Alterac, and the subsequent hole of power from the machiavellian takeover, the many houses of the Nobles rose up and began to take power once more. Unfortunately for my family and I, we were oh so acquainted with the oaf of a Count that acted as my father. He was a weak noble, one who was the butt of many attacks by the new Syndicate, other nobles vying for more land. Mother and I had enough warriors for ourselves, but he demanded that we send more to Strahnbrad... Our split forces died, and we were forced to flee.

These were some of the hardest days of my life, as we ran. As we trudged through snow with minimal food or water. Gabel conjured what he could, but after a time, feeding four of us, his mana became depleted. We managed however, to make it out of the snow covered peeks after almost an entire month... Making our way toward the hidden alcove of indecency within the Eastern Kingdoms. The only group directly opposed to the Syndicate, who, as it so happens, had a tie with The Count. Ferdinand managed to make himself useful for a change, introducing us to my ‘uncle' (his brother) who had left the lines of nobility to become an assassin with the League based out of the manor.

It was here that I began to train once more. We were safe from attacks from former rivals, as well as any chance of the other Kingdoms' peasants trying to attack us for our lineage wherever we moved. In Ravenholdt, if they weren't Alteracian, then their morals were loose enough to murder without a second thought, and thus, they were more than willing to accept us. Erik Gabel, my kind tutor, began to show me the ways of the arcane once more when we arrived, as well as taking my former tutor's place in more classical knowledge. On the other hand, I learned several practical skills during my stay at the house of The Assassin's League.

Taught by those that stayed at the manor for any period of time, I managed to learn of the most rudimentary aspects of stealth and manipulation. I, myself, became able to move not all together unseen, but in a way that kept me away from many a prying eye. They taught me the forms of manipulation I had already built the foundations for, having been a Noble in my ‘past life' as I had begun to call it. However, they were invaluable lessons that I learned, and still use what I was taught there to this very day.

In addition to subterfuge, I was taught the basics of poisons. What herbs do what, what preserves what herb, what heals what ailment, what antipoison cures the poison you have applied. I was by no means an expert on the matter, but I was able to pass for at least competent with dangerous substances by the age of fourteen.

And by this date, I had all but realized that this Count Ferdinand van Strahnbrad was in no way my father. I had been wondering for many a year if there truly was a relation. As I flourished, moving from child to adolescent, to teen, I could all but tell there wasn't a resemblance. Mentally or physically. Arcanically or spiritually. When I pressed Gabel on the matter, after many months, I was finally able to pull the truth from him one sentence at a time. I tried to act unphased, but it was a hard time for me.

I was glad to not have to worry about what I may become in the future, for if I had truly been his spawn, then the world would have been for the better without me, but at the same time, it left a hole of some sort within me. To believe someone your father for so long, and have that torn from you is a hard matter. I was never able to forgive my mother completely, but I was never able to stop hating Ferdinand after the day the truth dawned on me. He had feigned love for so long, and I knew it was forced, but I had hoped. Now however, I no longer needed to hope. He was just another foolish prick, albeit one who had wormed himself deep into my life.

From thereon I quickly decided to grow closer to Uncle Charleston, the Assassin who had granted us access to the Manor of Ravenholdt. Not even he knew that I wasn't truly The Count's son, which I used to my advantage. He grew attached as I mustered all of the ability to lie and deceive that had been bred into me. He became my dear uncle, and I his dear nephew. No one suspected a thing when The Count dropped dead soon after, apparently due to natural causes in the night. If I had not wormed my way toward Uncle's side, we may have been kicked out of the Manor, our only connection considered forfeit. Charleston let us stay however, for a bit longer. As time went on I realized I had considered Ravenholdt more of a home than my former castle, and as such, took it as my mantle. I was a man of Ravenholdt now, not of the ruined lands of Alterac. I forsook the name, even if I still loved the land deep down, as I do now.

At the age of fifteen, my magical ability was enough to hold my own in a fight. I was one of the few mages that Ravenholdt had in it's ranks to counteract those of The Syndicate, who had many a caster within their midst. My abilities in battle magic began to swell to much higher than their former abilities, not through a lust for knowledge, but for a need to survive. The life of frontline battle is not one I lust for however, perhaps a thought caused by those weeks watching battle ensue during the Second War, in the far off reaches of the beautiful Elven civilization of Quel'thalas.

That being said, I aided my new brothers as best I could for a time, but decided I was meant for the more studious approach to the Arcane. I moved to Dalaran, and within a year I was able to climb the ranks enough to begin working on my Thesis. I decided, for my overall project, to attempt to find a way to spur the Dark Portal into action. Some of the greatest heroes of the Second War had been lost on the other side, and if we could simply open it for several weeks, then it could be closed once more, and forever locked away. Perhaps we could have even thrown the Orcs back into their own home-world.

The Orcs were after all, the best lead one could have where the Dark Portal was concerned. Leaving the arcane illuminated streets of Dalaran from time to time, I worked my way out towards the rugged farmlands, and past the grazing cattle, toward the closest Internment Camp. While there I would pay off a guard to find the most terrible of the prisoners, the vile warlocks that I so loved to lavish my attention on ever since the Second War. They intrigued me with their power... The way they commanded their minions in a way no human servant could be controlled.

Their demons were not however, what I was interested in. Still under the shroud of darkness I would take my new prisoner back through the streets of Dalaran, and into the basement of a small home I had bought, funded by my mother back in Ravenholdt, along with grants for my research. Covertly, I would tie these warlocks up to one of many devices of my own creation, and begin to work my ‘magic' in the enchanted room, a spell placed on it to reduce what noise might escape out into the world away from the acts I was committing. There was nothing inherently wrong with what I did, pulling the nails from their hands and feet, flaying the flesh from their arms. It was in the name of the Arcane, in the name of rescuing those heroes that had risked their lives to kill these very orcs. It was the least I could do to return the favor.

I learned little about the Portal through these ventures, most of the warlocks being of a low rank within the former Horde. At least, that's what they said. There was one occasion however, that granted me quite a bit of information not on portals, but on the application of a form of magic I had only heard rumours of: Necromancy. On one of my ventures I so happened upon a crippled orc, thin, frail, not like one would expect, even from their casters. I could sense the power that welled within him however, for the Orcs never went near the old man, muttering hushed words of gossip around him. I brought him to my chamber, and learned the outline of what he did, who he was. I was intrigued to say the least, and I wanted to see more of this magic.

Little did I know, I would soon see more than I cared to.

Taking my studies from Dalaran, where there wasn't much for me in the way of my research, I decided to finish my thesis in the lands of Quel'thalas, where Arcane originated on Azeroth. I hoped that if I neared the fount of magic that was the Sunwell, I might be able to have enough power to find something... New. Something revolutionary. I visited the site upon which I watched the first battle I had ever seen, looking out over the area where it had taken place. There were small trees growing now, where they had been uprooted by ogres and dragons, or simply felled by the greedy stints of battle. I moved on however, reminiscing about past years as I entered the sanctum of the Elves.

I was greeted not exactly cheerfully, but was accepted nonetheless when my reason was put forward. The elves had lost many people with the closing of The Dark Portal as well, and could understand fully why I would want to further the endeavors and attempts to opening it. So, I spent my time in Silvermoon pressed deep within the books of their grand libraries, deciphering Thalassian one word at a time, eventually finding a translator which I had more than several nights shared with. I was young, something around eighteen at the time, and found it a fun way to break the monotony of the day to day studies. I went from tutor to tutor to tutor as the years dragged on, moving from simple magical texts on the subjects pertaining to the Dark Portal to the complex analogs and codexes involved in portals, dark magic, and the Nether.

I may have actually been able to find a way to open it if I was given more time, but unfortunately, the rumours of a new force more terrible than any Horde proved to be true. I fought as best I could against the forces that pressed against the walls of Quel'thalas, moving from the outer gates, teleporting to the next sanctum, and thus the closest place of safety where I could still make a difference. This went on until I was pressed against the walls of Silvermoon. Moving with what little mana I managed to muster after the long battle, teleporting back to Dalaran. It was chaos in the streets as hundreds if not thousands of elves from Silvermoon had had the same idea. I pressed through crowds, amazed at what one group, made seemingly overnight had created. I was awestruck, and from what I had seen, it had been with the same magic that the Orcish Necrolyte claimed to have used during the First and Second Wars.

I worked through the crowds of screaming mothers, wailing children, and broken down fathers, weaving past the city gates and into the wilderness where I made my way towards Ravenholdt, the only place I could think that was truly safe during this time of strife. Picking past groups of bandits and the rogue Scourge patrol, I managed to meander my way up into the foothills, and find my former home: My name sake. I was received with open arms upon my arrival, by those few that remembered me, either for simply being an additional troop in their war against the Syndicate, or for actually being recalled as a former member of the household.

It was hard being kind to mother once more, after the life that she had put me through. She tried to ask for forgiveness, but I was unable to give it to her. It was between two of these apologies, where she had decided not to speak to me again, that a dark skinned man approached the Manor Ravenholdt, his hair darker than his complexion, and his eyes a vivid shade of green. Tressian's father had arrived, and with him, came a flow of knowledge; Both of the arcane, and the past history of my own (true) lineage. I had so many questions for the man at the time, and many more that were still unanswered before his eventual departure, but that is for later in this story I am weaving that has indeed been host to my experiences.

It seems, Father (That is, my -True- Father now) had also been north, to witness the carnage of The Scourge for himself. It was only after a time, of myself judging his character, and he mine, that he conveyed upon me a secret; That he had been north not only to witness, but to study the going ons of the Undead, and that during his studies he began to harbor the same fascination with the Undead that I had garnered. Thankfully for me, he thought I might feel that way, and brought with him several books that he managed to take from some hapless necromancer or another, in addition to several tomes he had stolen (and had translated by orcs in the internment camps, after he payed several guards) from Orcish Necrolytes in the First and Second Wars.

Now needless to say, the dark art had acquired a bad name, and for good reasons. There is a certain level of moral ambiguity one must acquire to delve at all into the midst of the Dark Art, for that is what it has been labeled, and as such even those of Ravenholdt had not ‘sunk' down to the levels of my Father and I. In all reality however, it was only I that had actually begun to practice necromancy, if you can call it necromancy at that point. He simply coached me, worked me through passages, guided me onward. As I have said however, not even those of Ravenholdt would be willing to accept this new art form I had up taken, and as such, we moved back into Father's home on Kul Tiras where I studied in his private library.

It was slow going, learning this new art without a true tutor. After many months I was still unable to cast a correct spell, aside from summoning the odd beam of weak unholy energy. Father seemed to be getting impatient with me as the months went by, but I feel he could understand my plight. As if he had known the struggles of teaching someone something he didn't know before. At this point, he had begun to relate to me the story of how he had done something quite similar not too long before his appearance with my half brother to the south. I, as it so seemed, had a sibling: And not just one.

Taking this into consideration, I wasn't sure how many children he had had, for when I pressed further he remained vigilant in his silence. I was forced to wonder if I was doing better or worse at my craft than any of my siblings, wherever they may be. I redoubled my efforts, and within the month, I was capable of drawing forth the power of Necromancy and channeling it into the corpse of a rat, the simple spell detailed in one of the (thankfully) human tomes that had been taken from the corpse of a Necromancer father had slain.

Soon enough I could raise the rat, and through sheer force of will, let it sustain life for nearly a minute so long as I concentrated solely on it. In time, I began to teach my raised pets to navigate mazes, obstacles, and other puzzles of a difficult nature. They became more intelligent as my power grew, if you could call it power, but often times they required a large amount of intervention from myself. I did what I could within that window of time, and I feel within those months following my revelation I learned much that would act as the groundwork for future necromancy.

In any case, this semblance of control was compelling. I say semblance, because any definition for control that this new revelation pressed into my palms does not begin to cover what I felt, for I had complete and utter dominance: A dominance that I deserved. A dominance that I may have nearly had if Nobility had not been pulled from under my feet. Now... I could control the dead. I could tell them to do what no sane servant would willingly do for their masters. Now, my deep-seated compulsion to restore whatever nobility I may be able to muster from the ruins of destruction and betrayal was presently washed away, for I had something even better.

I wanted more than to just control a rat however, and Father was more than willing to help me reach my goal. During the shadowy cover of nightfall he and I went forth to a cemetery several miles outside of town on the outskirts of a dwindling village. It was here that we began to dig the corpses from the ground, bringing three different skeletal remains of former members of the community back with us to Father's manor.

Here I began to scour the quickly compiling stack of necromantic tomes that had formed on the shelf in Father's library designated to myself in particular, given to me soon after arrival. Now I moved from one shelf to two, and from two to three, and so on and so on. There was a period in which I was able to make a toe twitch, or an arm tense, but only after many experiments, for as well as know it is incredibly hard to raise a body once, but injecting the power into it a second time is even harder.

As I went through bodies, father at my side feeding me arcane phrases and incantations, all the while burning what corpses I had left over in a fire of his own creation. The massive amount of ashes that flowed from the manor at seemingly all hours were being disposed of into a portal that let out somewhere in the middle of the Great Sea.

There comes a point however, when one's supplies do not match one's needs, and as such proves true for the eager student who lusts for more projects. I was not contented with the constant travel to that distant village, and then the next village not far off, once we had taken as many corpses as we could from the first without raising suspicion. It became tedious, moving in silence through the night, wasting what time could be spent studying on menial labor. Thankfully, my saving grace came one night when I was mulling this over.

On the outskirts of yet another small village on the great island of Kul Tiras (the largest of the chain, and as such the namesake of the Kingdom), miles outside of Capital City, Father and I unfortunately (It seemed unfortunate at the time) stumbled upon a fossarius and funeral caretaker in the middle of digging up one of the many graves we had decided to defile that night. It was no challenge dispatching the aging man, Father and I being the Magi that we are, adding yet another corpse to our repertoire. On the way back to the manor however, I realized what an opportunity this was.

The next day, after managing to pull the fossorius back to life enough for him to nearly get to a sitting position, I went back to that town. They were, as it so seems, in dire need of a funeral director with the sudden disappearance of their own. I swiftly sent in an application, and without many other applicants due to the sudden surge of undead with the advent of The Scourge, and many simple farmers believing a corpse could just be raised, I was able to take up the position within the next week.

With the job, I used a potion that I never truly thought I would have use for, which I learned during my time in Ravenholdt. The assassins there used an injected elixir after their target was killed which acted as a temporary embalmer, lasting several days after injection. It was mainly so they could bring back bodies, body parts, or simply hiding the dead without the possibility of smell arising. In that time, they would be able to find a suitable area to bury them in secret. With my new title as Caretaker of the dead I used the simple recipe, and became the first to use an embalming substance in the area. The people were amazingly thankful, the stench of death finally gone from the block around the funeral home.

I began to take in a steady stream of revenue as people were willing to attend funerals which I would host, not having to smell the rot, or witness the decay of their loved ones. However, the riches I received from this far transcended the monetary, for Father would come several times a week, and we would dig up these embalmed bodies. No suspicion of myself or Father was raised, as the dirt on the graves was always fresh. The test embalmed bodies provided prime test subjects, with almost no decay present except for the extremities. We would often times put the body back into it's grave when we finished, for there was no need for undue cruelty, especially since I had grown to know and befriend many of the townspeople.

There was however, one friendship that I lost during this time.

I am not positive if it was something I did, or something I said, but after a time Father simply stopped coming to our training sessions. After several weeks I feared the worst, and approached his manor in the Capital of Borialus, but there was no answer. Upon inquiry from the people in the area, I had learned that no one had seen him. Confused, I went back to my new home attached to my parlor, in my quaint town, setting my necromantic studies to the side for the time being.

The next year was an interesting one, eventful, but uneventful in it's own right. There was a subtle simplicity about it that I still recall with fond memories to this day, traveling to the market with no fear of persecution, for I had temporarily halted my studies. I took up several relationships in this time, often finding rather queer women with whom I explored certain things I had not bothered to in my youth, during my time in Quel'thalas. They were often obsessed with death, and found my occupation interesting. I took one of these as my apprentice, somewhat different than the former position of pupil I had taken in my last relationship with my elven tutor. In any case, I was forced to break this new bond I had formed with the woman when I rather strange man appeared at my door.

Where brown and blonde, mixed with strands of gray had been the colour of Erik Gabel's hair years prior, it had now given way to the white of old age. Where he had once stood with pride, and the remnants of youth, there was now a wizened hump taking shape upon his back. Despite this, he was still a regal figure, power obvious from the simple shoes at his feet to the orb of arcane power resting atop his staff. We greeted one another warmly, but instead of letting him into the rather dreary home I had made for myself, I took him to a small cafe of sorts which I frequented.

Over a meal of strawberry strudels and coffee drowned in sugar, but with no cream (as this is a method of taking the drink I had rather grown fond of over the year) Mister Gabel related to me the story of Father's departure. Apparently he had many ventures to tend to, and frequent vacations from the day to day were not uncommon for him. He could have been doing any number of things, but the most important thing was, which Father had conveyed to Gabel, (It must have been Father as well, for no one else knew of our secret) that I continue my training.

Gabel knew even less about Necromancy than I did at the time, but that was not important, rather the fact that I had a compatriot to work with was a massive boost to morale. I found that as we dug the graves of so many corpses since my temporary hold of necromancy, that I acted as a teacher, and as I did, I realized things I could have in no other way. While I described the ceremonies and processes, scouring through ancient Elven, Amani, Demonic, Orcish, even Human texts, I noticed things I would have otherwise ignored if I had not had to explain them to another. It was still excruciatingly slow, and through the years, the best I managed to do was finally make a corpse sit up perfectly straight, and remove himself from the operating table we had made in a crypt.

We chose a crypt that had been made during my leave from magic, not only because of it's secluded nature, but because many of the corpses we were using gave off their noxious and pungent odors once more. Out cover held, and despite barely making progress, I grew closer to Mister Gabel as I once had as a child. It seems that he had continued to take the place of any true father, and as such, when he passed during the night (they said he was simply too old to go on living) I truly cried for the first time since I witnessed the carnage and deaths of so many amidst the Fall of Quel'thalas.

To this day I have his body suspended in a vat of embalming liquid, often moved from each of my places of residence, depending on where I was living at the time. It currently takes the shape of a dresser, where he lies in the fetal position, until I am powerful enough to permanently raise him. It, along of course with the prospect of attaining ultimate power over my future subjects, has been one of the major driving forces that has kept me moving down my path of the study of Necromancy.

I took my former apprentice, a girl several years younger than myself, back into my practice with the advent of Erik's death who I swiftly trained. I taught her the basics of the craft, how to remove what organs, what makeup to apply in what areas, how to inject the embalming fluid to spread it across the entire body without a heartbeat, and most importantly, the recipe for the fluid itself.

After I trained her in full, I managed to convince her to take a short vacation to the coast (for we were a ways inland, in our small town) for several days, before she finally took up my mantle. I used this time to move my objects into Father's house, taking my many tomes, and many pieces of dark and unnatural eldritch equipment from the Crypt that had acted as my second home. With everything properly evacuated a full day before my apprentice returned, I decided to take one last rest in the only place I could truly call a home of my very own.

That night I was wracked by nightmares of the many creatures I had ‘raised,' Legions of rats and corpses pulling themselves together as creatures of ash, pressing against my sleeping form. Soon enough, the weight of all of them, turning to a massive pile on me not too long into the dream made it impossible for me to move. The creatures writhed, trying to take shape from the ash once more, working their way under my shirt, into my pants, through my ears, and forcing their way betwixt my lips where I began to violently choke on the charred remains of so many individuals. I woke with a sweat, and headed away from the village as swiftly as I could.

I stayed at Father's house for a time, getting in via one of the many keys that I had attained from Mister Gabel's corpse after he had died. As a servant of Father he had many different ways to access his different plots, and thankfully for Tress, one that was so close at hand. It was interesting, being there without Father... Without his watchful gaze. I learned a bit of information on my other siblings, as it seems Father was not the most abstinent man, to say the least. I learned what little I could from different scraps of paper here and there, but I was unable to find anything too severely important. I felt like they had been left there, in the places that they were, on purpose. As if it was all orchestrated for me to find those pieces when I did, where I did. Knowing Father, it may not have been far from the truth.

I took the bags of clothing, books, and what money I had saved up over the years in the Funeral Home, and opened myself a portal to Stormwind. Tucked into the pocket of my breast coat was a scrap of paper which I had found wedged between a diagram of a black lamb being guillotined, some glue, and the back of the inside cover to a rather new edition of an aged book on necromancy. It detailed what one must do to gain entrance to a secret organization tucked away within the corner of the Mage District of Stormwind: As it may be, because it was no coincidence that this particular piece of paper was in my own pocket, I was heading to that very haven of Human Kind on the south of the Eastern Kingdoms at that very moment.

I felt all eyes on me as I stepped out of my portal, a leather bound case in either hand, feet lightly pressing against the gray stones of The Wizard's Guild of Stormwind's tower's floors. There was no way for them to know that I had come to the city in order to delve deeper into the Dark Arts I had so subtly begun to manipulate. I descended down the tower's spiral staircase which extended outside, down, and around the entire building. Stormwind was a rather amazing city, for the short amount of time that had been designated between then and the First War.

I strolled the grassy pathways and avenues of the District, the paper not giving an actual address, only a name, “The Slaughtered Lamb.” I was wary to inquire as to where the place was, for if it had already been found out I may very well have been pegged a Dark Arts practitioner, for which I would not be able to deny in the face of interrogation in the chambers I had heard exist beneath the Cathedral. Those may, however, simply be stories invented to scare off ne'er-do-wells and their prospects towards Necromancy, Demonism, or the practice of some Dark Rite or religion.

It took me all of two days, criss-crossing through the labyrinthine streets of the Mage District, but I was finally able to find my way into the tavern. I had by now memorized the short phrase and described hand gesture that I was required to give the bartender, and when he asked what I wanted to drink I gave him the required answer that would grant me access to the depths of the coven. Unfortunately for me however, the answer had changed in the past year.

I had obtained the information somehow, but the information was dated, and with the constant threat of the Church looming behind every corner and in every shadow, the Lamb could take no chances. I was gagged and bagged, a quick blow striking me unconscious as the brute force of the coven dragged me down into the depths of the area. It took me quite some time to relay this very story, of my entire past, to the interrogators. Longer than it has taken me to write this, for as one may understand, with the stress and pressures of someone looming over you with a knife the size of your forearm, you tend to lose your train of thought.

I did however, manage to make it out of the situation alive, and was granted temporary access to the facilities. I was not trusted enough yet however, to go beyond the bar itself. If I needed a book, or had a question, I would inquire with a man who would delve down into the depths of The Den (as the lower part of the Tavern was called) and retrieve either the tome or the answer for me. In due time I could move down to the first tier of the catacombs with the trainers. Before I was able to move much further however, the advent of the opening of the Dark Portal drug me from my studies.

For years I had yearned to learn it's secrets, of what may lie in wait behind the two guardian figures that guarded the transdimensional gateway, and here I finally was with a chance to see for myself. Taking a portal to the Blasted Lands with a group of like minded covenites, we worked our way past swathes of demons unnoticed by the authorities who were preoccupied with their own battles. Some of the warlocks went off to Shadowmoon Valley, others to look into the Old Gods that were rumoured to live on Outland. As for myself... I visited the broken ruins of the abandoned Warlock camps, as well as the ancient home of the Draenei's dead, the Auchindoun. I was told by one of the Death Priests there that I was being followed by a swarm of the dead, and that vengeance was all they wished upon me. To this day I shudder at the thought of who- Or more appropriately, what- may be behind me at this very moment on the incorporeal plane.

I seldom took part in the major events of Outland, never choosing between the ‘Aldor' or the ‘Scryers' for neither would likely be willing to accept the powers that I consorted with in their midst. Rather I tended to my own devices, digging through orcish tomes that I had found, translating them one word at a time. Truly, most of my time on Outland was spent with my nose jammed into a book tucked away inside a tent on the planes of The Bone Wastes, or atop one of the floating rocks in Nagrand, trying to decipher the texts of the now-aged Orcish Necrolytes. I had the good fortune of finding one who, when I showed him my minimal ability with necromancy, did not choose to attack me on sight. He gave me several tips, making it possible for me to cause an undead creature to take several steps. Much better than my past endeavors.

The Burning Crusade waged on as such, paving through history in an insubstantial manner as far as my life was concerned. There was little undeath to be had on the great planet, aside from the occasional ghost which I studied in the Netherstorm, or once again, in the now-aged Orcish necrolyte tomes. I did learn a small amount from a Broken Shaman that has helped me better understand -why- it is my art works, but the trip proved mostly uneventful aside from the advent of actually -seeing- Outland with my own eyes. As well as proving many naysayers from Dalaran wrong, who told me it was foolish to try to see to the reopening of the Dark Portal. It's impossible, as they would have said, but no. It was not, and never will be.

Part way through the advent of the Portal's opening I returned back to Stormwind where I was graciously greeted back into the coven's arms. The Brotherhood however, saw the potential that I had, and by the end of the first year I was able to make a raised creature, a simple husk purely controlled by myself with no sentience, walk about the room once. While doing this I was in a completely trancelike state, and the channeling took place for no more than thirty seconds. It was a good start however, especially since the only true experts on the subject seemed to still have been purely in the dark school of Scholomance.

I took my time, and as the ships sailed off to Northrend to confront the Lich King, I decided to stay back with my new family. The Coven beneath the Slaughtered Lamb in my new home of the Mage District. It was a comfortable place, and still is, for even now it is where I reside. I did go to Northrend on one occasion, where a mindless zombie managed to break it's grip from the Lich King, and I used a recently learned spell to control it for nearly three quarters of a minute, but unfortunately it managed to break it's grasp. I quickly dispatched of it, and after several more attempts in which I failed utterly, I simply took the next boat back to Stormwind where I made myself at home once more within the Coven's walls.

Despite not being the most amazing Necromancer of my time, I did (and do) have the ability to worm my way into positions that I do so dearly require, or at least aspire to. It was through this that, despite my ability with the arcane now waning, giving me in return only meager ability with the undead, that I am now responsible for a subset of the Coven; I am, as it seems, in a position of power with the people that frequent it. No doubt as I continue onward in my training more responsibility will fall to me, along with more individuals who need a master to guide them. To press them in the right direction. To aid them with whatever endeavors they may so require in these harsh times, where the King of Stormwind has finally returned. No longer are the guards ‘too busy' to deal with the day to day, but rather, they are more than happy to tend to threats within their own boundaries.

As it so seems I now have a permanent residency within the walls of Stormwind City, and as such, have a rather large target on my head. In these past months I had had to use every trick in me repertoire to evade apprehension by ‘The Grays' as they are so aptly called. I can only hope that they do not find me, and if they do, then I can only -pray- that it is after I once more bring Erik Gabel into the realm of the living.