Okay, basically, I'm making up a background for my warlock, and I would love some criticism on it. I haven't written stuff in a long time, and I don't know too much about the lore, so please tell it if you see any errors in it or anything.
It is a work in progress, I'll probably post other bits and pieces of it later on.
Darkness… Where was he? What happened? Slowly he opens his eyes and is blinded by the light in the room, wherever it was. First things first; how the hell did he get here?
He remembers a forest, a path and a beloved face next to him. Suddenly he relives the rotten, putrid smell that filled the air. He remembers looking around, hearing sounds all around him. He remembers suddenly feeling teeth sinking into his arm and screaming out in pain. He falls down and panics as he sees the rotten remains of what once was an orc sitting on top of him, slashing away at his chest. He hears a high-pitched scream and looks at the source, and sees the woman to whom the face belonged being attacked by a pair of ghouls. Then his vision slowly turned black. That woman, who was she? She seemed so familiar…
“Diana!” He screams with a voice that wasn’t his. He frantically looks around, hoping to see his lover somewhere in it, but it is completely void of anything he’d ever known. He sees a door and tries to run to it, but after a few clumsy steps, he falls face-first into the dirt. He looks at his legs, a bit dazed, and screams again in the voice that wasn’t his. The legs, they were… dead. The flesh was grey, and missing completely at some places.
He slowly crouches towards the wall, getting used to this alien body. He sits down with his back against the wall, shivering as he hears his spine scrape against the rough stones. He needs to find her, what happened after he passed out?
More darkness… Voices in his head, ordering him around. He remembered seeing people running from him, faces full of despair. He remembers seeing entire armies of others who’ve undergone the same, cruel fate as himself. He cringes as he remembers the atrocities he committed. He remembers a small girl, sitting in a corner, with only a ragged bear to comfort her. He’d grabbed the girl and he… he… He didn’t even want to remember what he did to her.
But then, there was a change in the memories. The voices in his head, they became less loud, less controlling. He remembers wandering aimlessly, in a total state of delusion; the voice had gone completely. He remembered walking into a gang of undead with a strange crest on their shield. They’d looked at each other and taken him with them, dragging him along to a cell… The same cell where he was this moment. It hadn’t been that long ago at all.
Okay, so, he now remembered what happened, though he didn’t understand a thing of it. To the next issue; who was he? What was his name?
He digs deep into his memories and relives a night in a pub. He sees the face in front of him again (where was she?), he saw the food in front of them and the tin can with beer in it. He remembers drinking from it and ordering another one, and another one after that. The face, no, Diana spoke to him; “You shouldn’t drink this much, Rodyle, you know what happened the last time…”
He opens his eyes again, muttering his own name, Rodyle, as if he tastes the sound of it. It did sound familiar, it sounded natural.
The voices outside didn’t. The raspy sound of their voices made Rodyle cringe, but it sounded familiar at the same time. “He seems to have regained his memories. What should we do with him?” Another voice spoke, it was even worse than the first one. “Show him around. He might just become a valuable member of the Forsaken one day.” Rodyle attempted to stand up as he hears the hinges of the door scream their protests in their rusty tongue, but the sound slowly faded away as the door opened.
Rodyle’s jaw drops as he sees the owners of the voices enter the room. They were just like he was now, they were dead, if that’s the right word for it. He concluded that though they were alive, their bodies had been decomposing for quite a while.
“What the hell is going on here,” he mutters and realizes why the undead man’s voice sounded familiar. It was almost similar to his own. His looks shifts between the two as they close the door and turn around, staring at Rodyle for a moment. Then one of them begins to talk.
“So, you seem to have regained your memories. Got any questions?” One of them asks in his cold, dead voice. He folds his hand in front of what remains of hest chest, the rusty hauberk tingling as the heavy iron bracers on his wrists slap against it.
“My my, where are your manners, deathguard Ghoulslaughter,” the other man says. Even though they’re both undead, the two look totally different. This one was wearing a blood red robe, and his body seemed much less decomposed. There were less parts missing, making him look much more human than his mail-wearing counterpart.
“I’m arcanist Runeguard of the Forsaken. ” The man says thoughtfully, as he was thinking of how to explain the following. “Arcanist of the who?” Rodyle asks, and the deathguard sighs loudly. The arcanist throws a furious look in the undead’s direction before focusing his eyes on Rodyle again. “Let’s go for a walk.” He says.
Arcanist Runeguard leads Rodyle through what seems an endless maze of small chambers and hallways. Rodyle’s head seems to be bursting because of all the questions in it, but he keeps silent. He expects that he’d get answers on many of them soon enough. Suddenly, his guide asks him a question. “I’ve told you my name, but you’ve never told yours. What is it?”
“Rodyle, Rodyle vandeGraaf,” he answers as in a reflex. He immediately asks the first question that enters his mind. “Who are the Forsaken?”
The man slows his pace and then suddenly stops in front of a door, grabbing a large keychain from the depths of his robes and opens the door, which slings open silently. He pushes Rodyle through the opening and follows himself, pointing his finger at a torch near the door. A small flame shoots from his finger and lights the room.
The room is Spartan. Only two chairs and a desk stand in it. The arcanist sits down in one of them and motions Rodyle to do the same. Rodyle does so, and the arcanist tells him about the the Scourge and the atrocities they committed. He tells about the Forsaken, his eyes slowly widening as he tells about the braveries of Sylvanas Windrunner. His voice becomes passionate as he tells how she destroyed the armies of the three Dreadlords and even forced one of them, Varimathras, to do her bidding. Runeguard pauses for a moment, but then continues his story. He tells of their name, and which areas were under Forsaken control at the moment.
The talking must’ve taken hours, but Rodyle was fascinated by the story of the former High Elf and her followers. He sucked up every detail, as if the history of the Forsaken was to replace the memories that he was missing. The arcanist in front of him closes what’s left of his eyelids and sits back for a moment, so Rodyle would be able to process the stream of information.
After a minute or so, Rodyle looks at the man and asks; “Where do I fit in into this story? What can I do to help?”
Runeguard smirks as he hears the question he wanted to hear. His dead eyes stare at Rodyle, who shifts uneasy in his chair.
“We need help in our fight against the Scourge,” Runeguard states, “Our numbers of mages and other arcanist have been dwindling for a while, to an extent where it has now become a serious issue.” He holds up has hand, as to prevent Rodyle from speaking. “Now, when our deathguards found you, they saw some things which they described as magic. I know that they’re not really smart, on the contrary. I think though, that we can trust them in this case.”
“I… I don’t remember using magic before,” mutters Rodyle. He digs deeply into whatever regions of his memory were remaining, but he didn’t find anything.
“You don’t need to. We’ll… help you to obtain the ability to do so, ” the arcanist says as he stands up and walks towards the door. “Now, if you could follow me, I’ll assign a mentor to you, with which you’ll train.”
Rodyle does as the man says, following him through even more hallways until they reach a door. Runeguard opens it with a melodramatic gesture. “Welcome in the Undercity, Rodyle.” He says as he moves out of the opening, allowing Rodyle to see the immense city that awaits him beyond it.
Rodyle gasps for breath as he sees the underground city for the first time in his unlive. He looks at the massive amount of people and the buildings, he hears water clattering down into the channels, he hears people talking about a innumerable amount of things. Unfortunately, he also smells the stench. The mix was nauseating. Not only the scent of thousands of rotting bodies infected the air, but also the stench of the sewer, the thick, murky water filled with things you don’t want to know about.
Arcanist Runeguard smiles as he sees Rodyle’s physical reaction to the stench. “You’ll get used to it soon enough.” He says as he pulls Rodyle through the open door and closes it tightly behind them. He continues in a fast pace, pointing out the general layout of the city as he does. “Over there,” he says as he points to his right, “is the war quarter. If you continue to go round the circle, you’ll go through the Apothecarium, which also houses the throne room of the Dark Lady. If you go even further, you’ll enter the rogue quarter. However, we’re not going there,” he says as he heads left, “We’re going to the magic quarter, where you’ll meet up with your mentor. ”
Subject: The Memories of an Undead. 
