Dear Diary,
No, that sounds too whimsical. Little girls keep diaries under their beds and leave teddy bears to guard them.
Dear journal,
Better, but still stupid. Why am I addressing it so kindly? It's my parchment, I'm calling the shots here.
Journal:
Boring. I can do better than that.
Book that I write in,
That's the ticket, you're a genius Geneive. You thought this writing things down idea was good and you've impressed yourself after only a few lines. Anyways...
Book that I write in,
I've been thinking about a lot of stuff, and it's getting to the point where if I don't try and keep track of my thoughts somehow I'm going to go completely nuts and join that Forsaken under the ramp in Undercity selling cockroaches with a pair of stolen pantaloons on my head. Don't ask whose pantaloons they will be, you're better off not knowing. What are you doing sidetracking me anyways? Shut up, I have a lot to pen. I guess I should start at the beginning. Or maybe the end? It's hard for Forsaken, the beginning is the end for us, sort of.
My entrance into the ranks of the Forsaken was not good. I imagine others of my kind emerged from their graves triumphantly, one fist breaking through the soil as a bolt of lighting lit up the sky. They emerge with purpose, their first footsteps out of the grave measured and precise. They walk towards some unknown goal, pausing only to snatch up some unfortunate baby bunny, who foolishly ran by, and then biting it's head off. I'd give my teeth to have awoken like that. But alas, such was not the case.
I honestly think if the wood of my coffin hadn't been rotten I wouldn't have gotten out. I would have laid there in my grave, weeping and having conversations with myself until I decayed into meaty pile of organ chunks. My last words would have been profound, something like: “So long everyone, we had a good run. Just for the record: Feet, I don't hold a grudge about that time you tried to lead my legs in a rebellion against my head. You put up a good fight.” And that would be the end of me. Again.
But, lucky for me, my coffin was rotten; it's just too bad that, as I clawed my way out of it, I couldn't appreciate the beautiful symbolism: The decay of the wood was enabling my decaying ass to escape the grave. Of course, I was panicked and there was a lot of dirt. It filled my mouth, my empty eye sockets, my bones. It was so bad I wasn't even thinking about how I had hollow eye sockets and bones to get dirt into.
The earth was soft, and the digging slow when suddenly I felt something hard in the middle of all that soft falling dirt, I grasped it tightly. I was pretty sure it was a tree root of some kind, but that didn't stop me from grabbing onto it for dear unlife. Turns out it was really a hand, and it grasped my wrist and helped pull me out.
And just in case someone asks you: Shallow graves are the way to go. Seriously, next time I bury anyone they're getting wrapped in a soft blanket and placed half a foot in the ground. With a shovel. And they won't have a name on their tombstone, they're going to have a map to the next town etched on there with the words “Get your ass in gear” under it. But where was I? Oh yeah, the helping hand.
So I come up out of the grave, -my grave, I'm assuming-, and the guy who helped me out is a hideous rotting monster. His jaw was missing, his tongue hung down from the roof of his mouth and I could see part of his rib cage. In my haste to get away I tumbled back into my grave. I think he tried to reassure me, but without a jaw all I heard was: “Uggguth aaalhm oon.”
Let me tell you something, I'm jealous of the Forsaken who wake up at night. I'm pretty sure my little escapade happened a few hours before noon, with the sun high in the sky. I want to say I remember hearing birds chirping, but I think I'm just being dramatic. Between my screams and my rescuers attempts at jaw-less communication there couldn't have been much else to hear. But with that sunlight it was pretty easy to see exactly what I was.
I'll spare you the gruesome details of my appearance, I found a mirror once I got to Brill and stared at my reflection for hours. I was a looker in life, but I'll be damned if anyone could tell now. It's a testament to my vanity that looking ugly upset me nearly as much as all the other stuff that comes with being Forsaken.
So I screamed for a while. At one point I might even have tried to crawl back into my coffin. You know what's funny? I think if there wasn't anyone there to scream at when I woke up, I wouldn't have. I bet I would have been really quiet, looking around and flexing my arms and legs until I got my bearings. Then I would have wandered off to Brill or Undercity while musing about what a strange dream I was having.
After a while I got tried of screaming and some part of my brain must have pieced together that Mr. Helping Hands and myself looked alike in terms of decay, and he hadn't tried to hurt me. Turns out he wasn't impossible to understand when he spoke, you just had to listen carefully. He told me his name was Vaalis, and gave me the basics of my situation. I was infected, died, and raised again as a mindless servant of the Lich King. Talking with Vaalis wasn't easy, and sometimes he had to draw a few crude shapes in the dirt of my grave to get his point across.
I got the basics from him right away, for which I was very grateful. For a few moments I thought we were the only two like us in the world and I felt something like relief when I learned there was more of us and we had a name for our kind. I must have asked him to clarify at least four times when he explained I had served the Lich King in death, I don't remember doing so. Minutes stretched into hours as I sat there, half in my gave and half out, trying to let it all soak in.
After a while Vaalis pointed at my tombstone, and I was able to read the name on it, “Genavie Blaye”. I'm not sure if it's my name or not, but I've been using it ever since. I'm a little disappointed all that was on it was a name. No year of death or flowery message like “was loved”. I'm over it now - pretty sure when you're getting a tombstone done they charge by the letter anyways.
No, that sounds too whimsical. Little girls keep diaries under their beds and leave teddy bears to guard them.
Dear journal,
Better, but still stupid. Why am I addressing it so kindly? It's my parchment, I'm calling the shots here.
Journal:
Boring. I can do better than that.
Book that I write in,
That's the ticket, you're a genius Geneive. You thought this writing things down idea was good and you've impressed yourself after only a few lines. Anyways...
Book that I write in,
I've been thinking about a lot of stuff, and it's getting to the point where if I don't try and keep track of my thoughts somehow I'm going to go completely nuts and join that Forsaken under the ramp in Undercity selling cockroaches with a pair of stolen pantaloons on my head. Don't ask whose pantaloons they will be, you're better off not knowing. What are you doing sidetracking me anyways? Shut up, I have a lot to pen. I guess I should start at the beginning. Or maybe the end? It's hard for Forsaken, the beginning is the end for us, sort of.
My entrance into the ranks of the Forsaken was not good. I imagine others of my kind emerged from their graves triumphantly, one fist breaking through the soil as a bolt of lighting lit up the sky. They emerge with purpose, their first footsteps out of the grave measured and precise. They walk towards some unknown goal, pausing only to snatch up some unfortunate baby bunny, who foolishly ran by, and then biting it's head off. I'd give my teeth to have awoken like that. But alas, such was not the case.
I honestly think if the wood of my coffin hadn't been rotten I wouldn't have gotten out. I would have laid there in my grave, weeping and having conversations with myself until I decayed into meaty pile of organ chunks. My last words would have been profound, something like: “So long everyone, we had a good run. Just for the record: Feet, I don't hold a grudge about that time you tried to lead my legs in a rebellion against my head. You put up a good fight.” And that would be the end of me. Again.
But, lucky for me, my coffin was rotten; it's just too bad that, as I clawed my way out of it, I couldn't appreciate the beautiful symbolism: The decay of the wood was enabling my decaying ass to escape the grave. Of course, I was panicked and there was a lot of dirt. It filled my mouth, my empty eye sockets, my bones. It was so bad I wasn't even thinking about how I had hollow eye sockets and bones to get dirt into.
The earth was soft, and the digging slow when suddenly I felt something hard in the middle of all that soft falling dirt, I grasped it tightly. I was pretty sure it was a tree root of some kind, but that didn't stop me from grabbing onto it for dear unlife. Turns out it was really a hand, and it grasped my wrist and helped pull me out.
And just in case someone asks you: Shallow graves are the way to go. Seriously, next time I bury anyone they're getting wrapped in a soft blanket and placed half a foot in the ground. With a shovel. And they won't have a name on their tombstone, they're going to have a map to the next town etched on there with the words “Get your ass in gear” under it. But where was I? Oh yeah, the helping hand.
So I come up out of the grave, -my grave, I'm assuming-, and the guy who helped me out is a hideous rotting monster. His jaw was missing, his tongue hung down from the roof of his mouth and I could see part of his rib cage. In my haste to get away I tumbled back into my grave. I think he tried to reassure me, but without a jaw all I heard was: “Uggguth aaalhm oon.”
Let me tell you something, I'm jealous of the Forsaken who wake up at night. I'm pretty sure my little escapade happened a few hours before noon, with the sun high in the sky. I want to say I remember hearing birds chirping, but I think I'm just being dramatic. Between my screams and my rescuers attempts at jaw-less communication there couldn't have been much else to hear. But with that sunlight it was pretty easy to see exactly what I was.
I'll spare you the gruesome details of my appearance, I found a mirror once I got to Brill and stared at my reflection for hours. I was a looker in life, but I'll be damned if anyone could tell now. It's a testament to my vanity that looking ugly upset me nearly as much as all the other stuff that comes with being Forsaken.
So I screamed for a while. At one point I might even have tried to crawl back into my coffin. You know what's funny? I think if there wasn't anyone there to scream at when I woke up, I wouldn't have. I bet I would have been really quiet, looking around and flexing my arms and legs until I got my bearings. Then I would have wandered off to Brill or Undercity while musing about what a strange dream I was having.
After a while I got tried of screaming and some part of my brain must have pieced together that Mr. Helping Hands and myself looked alike in terms of decay, and he hadn't tried to hurt me. Turns out he wasn't impossible to understand when he spoke, you just had to listen carefully. He told me his name was Vaalis, and gave me the basics of my situation. I was infected, died, and raised again as a mindless servant of the Lich King. Talking with Vaalis wasn't easy, and sometimes he had to draw a few crude shapes in the dirt of my grave to get his point across.
I got the basics from him right away, for which I was very grateful. For a few moments I thought we were the only two like us in the world and I felt something like relief when I learned there was more of us and we had a name for our kind. I must have asked him to clarify at least four times when he explained I had served the Lich King in death, I don't remember doing so. Minutes stretched into hours as I sat there, half in my gave and half out, trying to let it all soak in.
After a while Vaalis pointed at my tombstone, and I was able to read the name on it, “Genavie Blaye”. I'm not sure if it's my name or not, but I've been using it ever since. I'm a little disappointed all that was on it was a name. No year of death or flowery message like “was loved”. I'm over it now - pretty sure when you're getting a tombstone done they charge by the letter anyways.
No comments:
Post a Comment