This is in response to the Friday Five challenge put forth by Anna over at Too Many Annas. I actually suggested the challenge due to an experiment of my own. The basic premise is: how would your character change if they died and were raised by Arthas as a Death Knight? How would they react? Think? Behave? How would they take the betrayal? Could they adjust back into the Horde or Alliance societies? The following is the story of Bellipotent, the Death Knight incarnation of Bellbell. In fair warning, it is not the normal sarcastic but light reading of normal Bellbell posts, and should be read with caution.
Everything was pain. Delicious, perfect, pain. There was so much of it, so much everywhere. My own pain called out to be harmonized with that of others and so I drew my sword and slit throats, hacked limbs, eviscerated torsos. I felt blood splash on my face and in my mouth; I tasted it and rejoiced. Sometimes it burned with the fire of the Light; this I sought most of all. This I desired above all others. The tangy, sharp, cauterizing drops of dying hope and fervor drove me into a frenzy. I always wanted more. There was something akin to the feeling, like I was gaining vengeance and vindication, all while I craved more, more.
I tortured them for their answers, and I tortured them for their screams. I pretended I wished what paltry knowledge they had to offer. I pretended to think them liars. Sometimes, I did not pretend. I let them know they were dying, forever dying, so that I could let that sweet liquor run from the lacerations. I disturbed even the Vampyrs with my bloodlust and laughed at their weakness.
All the while my king whispered wonderful words in my mind, telling me the secrets of death and pain. He told me of the pain those I destroyed had given me once, in some faint time ago. Of the shuns. Of the harassment. Of the cruel intentions, of the hatred. He told me why I wanted revenge, and I listened. The words were too sweet, too seductive, and they rang true. So, so true. I had always known they were corrupted. Arrogant. I made them beg. I made them cry, and weep. Whether they wept tears or blood or both, it mattered little to me. Whether they died defiant or frightened, I cared not. I brought bodies for my master, fuel for his cause, and he let me loose among them.
I cried in anguish when he called for me to ride his frost wyrm. So high up I could not feel the rapidly cooling splash of blood across my face, or watch their faces contort in terror. Still, the promise of more crusader blood gave my temper patience. I sliced open the top of my tongue so the blood, diseased as it was, would pool in my mouth and cool my fervor until I could dismount and run my blade through warm flesh and snap strong bone once more.
When I joined Mograine, my armor still dripped icicles. He nodded in approval to me, but I did not seek his approval, only his power. His power to attack this hated place. This pinnacle of resentment called to me, told me I was not wanted, that even when I had been one of them, I never had been one of them. The gifts I had been given were never enough. Now, they would appreciate my new gifts.
I made them bleed. While Mograine wasted his breath on the betrayal of his sword, I took my blade to the chest of a guardsman. I strangled a young man with words of healing dying on his lips. When Mograine called for a retreat, for us to stand down against the power of the Light, it took three pairs of black gauntleted hands and a boot firmly pushing my head into the muck to cease my struggling. I watched with seething fury as the king failed in his goal. It mattered not that the others felt betrayed; there had been no betrayal for me. He had given me what I wanted. I had no care to survive, so long as many died with me.
When it was decreed we should join the fight against the king, my mouth was the only one that wailed. Mograine negotiated for my survival, yet I did not care. I did not want to fight alongside these Light abominations. They reeked of blood unspilled, of vengeance unsought. I was banished to the hold, and forced to fling my frustrations into Patchwerk. His blood was coagulated and of mixed sources; it did not taste sweet.
Other knights were sent to Stormwind or Orgrimmar to aid their factions. Mograine could not convince me of its purpose. He wished to be accepted, to achieve revenge on the king who had betrayed us. I wished for revenge as well, but not upon Arthas, not the one who had given me what I wanted.
Eventually, I saw the wisdom in playing along. I grit my teeth and let the living pass unmolested. I took jobs which called for death. I murdered in the dark of alleys and learned how to cover my tracks. I killed Horde. I relearned to play and cheat the game so I could satisfy my bloodlust. But I was never satisfied.
And then, that day in Icecrown, I was sent out with a group of knights and paladins. We were to end the existence of the Val’kyr in a remote region, so the Crusade could expand their base. It was there I heard the lovely call. There was my king, once more, whispering to me that I, the faithful, could return to him if I only fulfilled my desire. He only asked that I do what I wished; how could one deny such a thing?
I turned upon my companions and slew them. The thrill returned to me as the burn of the Light-blooded splashed my face. My king’s might filled me and I tore them apart. There was no escape. There was no warning to be brought back to Fordring. No sign or trace of our party. The knights were raised as lowly, shackled ghouls; the paladins were warped into a single abomination. I was brought back to my king.
He gave me what I desired. A continuous parade of slaughter and blood, crimson and cooling in the chill air. He knew I was fit for nothing else.