Book that I write in: The Reverend

Book that I write in,

I was in the Sepulchre, walking towards a Forsaken in a wheelchair last I left you. He looked approachable and contemplative, and I had not seen one of my kind wear such an expression before. I was to learn later his name was Gottleib, and I'm positive now I could not have kept away from him if I had tried.  Forsaken are perpetually angry, even those of us that view undeath as a gift or blessed second chance are often vile and bitter for reasons I don't quite understand. There are exceptions, particularity among those of us that make our way through Azeroth as aspiring heroes, but that doesn't change the fact that the most commonly used phrase to describe the Forsaken is (I suspect) “Dead and pissed off about it.”

While we're on the subject of phrases, the first words I uttered to Gottleib were: “That's quite the chair you have...” Which is likely one of the most useless remarks I have ever made.
Typically I try to speak as little as possible; mostly to avoid making obvious comments like that and making myself look like a fool. But Gottleib smiled warmly in spite of my painful lack of tact, and nodded to me as I approached; replying that, indeed, it was quite the chair. Even Vaalis, who had shown me a great deal of kindness and pulled me from the very earth had not looked at me the way Gottleib did, and still does, every time we speak.

Although Gottlieb did not invite me to sit down near him and converse, I did anyways, and got the distinct impression he didn't mind. We introduced ourselves briefly and, afterwards, questions started to pour from me. Gottleib chuckled softy at the sudden transition from pleasantries to a torrent of questions, but I knew he would have answers for me. He just looked so... serene, I reasoned he had to know a great deal I did not, to look so at peace. I'm convinced I wear my inner turmoil on my face – which is why, I suspect, I'm so fond of my mask.

At first I asked him about his chair, curious as I was about it's origins and make. I had thought perhaps he had made it himself, but it turns out it was a gift and he knew very little of it's properties beyond how rare and unique it was. I was dreadfully curious as to why his legs were of no use to him, but I thought it would be improper to inquire and reasoned perhaps he had come out of the grave unable to walk. He said he was a Reverend of the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, and explained to me that the Shadow was the very force that animated us. The Forsaken had a religion! I was very interested, but only because it was Gottleib who was explaining it to me. I was a very strong suspicion that, in life, the Light held no interest for me: it sounds very boring. In unlife, the same holds true for the Shadow, though I respect and acknowledge it.

I assaulted Gottleib with another round of questions, asking him all kinds of things about Forsaken culture and the Shadow; questions Vaalis had previously said were irrelevant. I also noted aloud that Gottleib lacked eyes, as I did, and asked him how both of us were able to see. Quietly, I confided in him that I was unable to see in colour, thinking that he couldn't either. He explained to me that the Shadow granted us sight when we no longer had eyes. He told me his sight was much different than mine (his exact description escapes me), though it was colourless. I smiled under my mask, enthralled by his gentle nature and kind explanations. I was also pleased to have something in common with him, even if it was just colourless sight. Gottlieb's voice was soft, but it carried weight and resonated, and I hung on his every word. He reached for my hand and held it as he explained more of the doctrine of the Shadow to me.

And everything stopped.

I'm going pause the retelling of my time with Gottlieb and take a moment to explain what hand holding is to me. I do this shamefully, as it's incredibly humiliating. I wrote once about how basic knowledge I had in life was retained in undeath. I do not know if I had a family in life, or if my name truly was Genavie – because this is very specific knowledge tired to memories I no longer posses. However, I do know what a chair is, how to tell wilted a peacebloom from a fresh one, and what blue looked like. Do you follow me? This is important, and bears directly on the secret of mine I'm about to pen.

Somehow, I was under the impression that among the living, children were made by holding hands. I know! I know! I curse however that knowledge was imparted to me in life, because when I came out of the grave I thought hand holding producing children was a simple and well known truth, a fact no different than mageroyal being red and birds possessing wings. I truly believed that when a man and a woman wanted to have children, they went to bed holding hands. Then the next morning they planted a flower together, and several months later the flower blossomed with the infant inside.

To answer the question you are thinking: yes, I know the truth of reproduction now. I had it explained to me in graphic detail by a lieutenant in the military unit I joined much later. I will refrain from recalling the conversation as I found it so horrible I ended up wrenching convulsively while kneeling over the Undercity canals, trying desperately to vomit without a working digestive system. I was offered diagrams when I could finally stomach asking a question, and had to attempt to shove thorium widgets into my hollow eye sockets in order to prevent seeing them. It is not an exaggeration to say that having the specifics of reproduction explained to me was equally traumatic as climbing out of my own grave.

The few Forsaken present for that horrible conversation inquired  if I was very young when death took me. I do not think I was, I think perhaps I was very stupid, a trait that has regretfully followed me beyond the grave. My bones are those of someone who was fully grown, so I was not a child and a life of stupidity is the best theory I can manage. Perhaps my living parents had thought to spare me the horrors that must precede a family. Regardless, I know the truth now – but I did not when Gottleib took my hand in Silverpine that day.

So, Gottleib held my hand while he explained more about the tenants of the Shadow, and I didn't hear a word of it. I nodded acknowledgingly at him when I could tear my gaze away from the sight of his hand enfolding my own. Perhaps he thought I was very attentive and amazed at his faith since I wore a expression of disbelief and shock while he talked. I still have not been brave enough to tell him that I know little about his faith because I was not paying attention that day. To be fair, I picked up a few general ideas. Mostly about being kind to other Forsaken and some pragmatic philosophies concerning power.

I thought Gottleib had held my hand because he had fallen in love with me at first sight, and my mind reeled. I've seen Forsaken express emotions and feelings much better than I can, and in those early days I thought my lack of emotion meant I was defective. Habit and thought compel me to act in a way that would suggest I have emotions, but it's a mystery to me if I truly feel and react with my heart, which is what I think emotion is: reacting with your heart. I vividly remember the sensation of feelings in my chest: when I was happy my heart swelled against my ribcage, and sadness made it deflate. It's difficult to describe, but without that sensation to guide me now I feel awkward and lost interacting with others, living or no. In a way it's like my lost sense of taste or my ability to see colour. I know how things should look or taste or feel, but they simply do not look or taste the way they did in life anymore.

As I thought Gottleib was making his declaration of love for me I made a vow in turn that I do my best to protect him, since he was legless and defenceless. I also wanted to give him something, since I couldn't return the affection I assumed he was giving to me; it seemed it was the least I could do. When I learned the truth about hand holding I bashfully told him about my misunderstanding and he got a good chuckle out of it; he was so kind understanding about my mistake. However my vow has not changed, I would not take it back even if I were able.

While I would never wish for something bad to happen to Gottleib, I do regret I have not a real opportunity to show my devotion to his safety. I have pushed his chair to sermons, brought him him things from the Undercity and offered my help whenever I can, but I don't think he knows just how deep my loyalty to him is, or even that I aid him not out of caring for the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, but for wanting to preserve him and the wonderful ideas on kindness he tries to impart to other Forsaken. Though I have not seen or spoken with Gottleib in years, his thoughts on compassion have shaped me. I always try and emulate kindness and manners best I can towards my fellow Forsaken, at first I did it out of respectful fear, but now I know we truly deserve it.

Once again I have side tracked. Gottleib held my hand, and I didn't know what to do about it. I found Gottleib compelling and truly unique, but I certainly didn't (or couldn't) reciprocate the feelings I thought he had for me. He was kind, the first geninely kind Forsaken I had seen, and I debated accepting his love in spite of my lack of feelings, however, I quickly reasoned that wouldn't be fair to him. Bring the awkward, emotional coward that I am, I decided not to mention anything until he did, and planed to avoid holding his hand when we next met. I concocted a half-assed plan involving a heavy pair of gloves, or oven mittens. After he finished speaking I excused myself, and told him I would like to meet again and perhaps put breaks on his wheel chair, as the hill leading down from the The Sepulchre is very steep.

I walked back to Brill hardly looking up from the ground. My footsteps were measured and slow, my head swimming with thoughts. Wordlessly I collected my skeletal horse from the stables and mounted it, not bothering to stop for supplies. One of the many advantages to being dead, when you're in town all you really need to do is repair your armour. I lead my steed back down to Silverpine forest. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a plan to go to Tarren Mill and Vaalis instructed.

The rhythmic sound of my steed's hoofs against the cobblestones was oddly soothing, and as my mount galloped through Silverpine Forest I took no notice of the change in scenery. My head was so consumed with thoughts of eatings humans, masks, wheelchairs, graves, hearthstones and oven mittens I missed my turn to Tarren Mill and carried straight on into the Arathi Highlands without even noticing. I've found that the lack of physical needs like sleeping, relieving bowels and eating makes me prone to ridiculously long periods of thought. Think about how often the living must be interrupted by their baser needs; because Forsaken are free from those distractions we can consider a single thought for days if we want to.

I rode the length of the Highlands, barley concerned with the passage of time. I pulled on my reigns and slowed to a trot as I neared Hammerfall, thinking all the time it was Tarren Mill. I wasn't surprised by the number of armoured Orcs I saw standing guard, they were just like the ones in the Undercity. But I was confused after stabling my skeletal steed since I had seen only more Orcs. Where were the Forsaken I was supposed to help?

"Book that I Write in" is the journal of Genavie, a Forsaken Deathstalker. The story is ongoing and based off of actual roleplay done with the character on Wyrmrest Accord - US. The first entry can be found here."