Wanting to try something a little different, I created Dryrot, the forsaken Rogue. I had not thought of a Roleplay reason to bring him into the Guild, so this was the only story about him. Like some of the "younger" Forsaken, he used to be a living, breathing Human. He never served the Alliance... but he never served the Horde either, preferring to dip his hands in to the pockets of any who crossed his path.
DRYROT, CURSE OF THE FORSAKENMemories...
===“...half falling, he skidded to a halt as the
yawning mouth of a great plague pit loomed in
front of him. The order to halt came from just
behind him now. He turned and saw the grinning
faces of the armoured men. He was trapped...”
...the hand of the rogue reaching for the heavy gold ring froze as the sleeper turned over. After an eternity, he moved an inch closer and in a blink the seal-ring of the Scarlet Crusade was gone... taken...
...the pounding of boots on the cobbles behind him echoed the pounding of his heart. They must have found the rope, that was it! Who would have guessed that a sentry would check the roof on a night like this...
...the shouts as he fled commanded that he halt. He heard the drawing of swords. Despite his careful choice of clothing, the beam of the lantern caught him...
...the breath was knocked out of him as he slammed into the tree in the darkness. Blood ran down the side of his face as he staggered to his feet. Hands clutched at him but he kicked out and heard a cry of pain...
...half falling, he skidded to a halt as the yawning mouth of a great plague pit loomed in front of him. The order to halt came from just behind him now. He turned and saw the grinning faces of the armoured men. He was trapped...
...the Scarlet Crusade... judge, jury and executioner in one... the finger on the trigger of the crossbow tightened...
Shaking his head to clear the fragments of memory, the sunken eyes of the former rogue stared as the pre-dawn light played over the grey flesh of his hand.
“That’s... interesting...” he mumbled to himself.
He looked down at the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest.
“Not good...” he thought. “Not good at all. It’s left a hole in my jacket too - right where it will show!”
With a strength that surprised him, he gripped the shaft of the bolt and yanked it free in one movement. There was no pain and no blood flowed. In fact no blood would ever flow again.
“Well,” he sighed as he struggled up into a sitting position, “I was warned what would happen if the thrice-cursed Scarlet Crusade caught me stealing from them. Ah well, looks like they were right after all.”
Looking around, he took in his surroundings. He was lying in the bottom of one of the many plague pits in the Tirisfal Glades. Tumbled corpses were heaped on all sides. Mud and filth washed down in the night’s heavy rainstorm swirled around his legs but oddly the stench didn’t seem to bother him at all.
He unclenched a grey fist and looked at the gleam of gold from the bloodstained ring hidden there. A grin twisted his face.
“Ha! I got it! I got it! They caught me and shot me and I still got it! Well... my nose doesn’t seem to mind the stink down here and I’m probably cursed, but I got the ring!”
Carefully making his way up the mound of corpses till he could reach the slippery sides, the dead rogue struggled to climb out of the pit. By the time he managed to slither through the mud to the top, he was gasping for breath but it took only a moment to realise that he was only doing so out of habit, so he stopped.
“So... it isn’t all doom and gloom being dead - there are some advantages after all!” he grinned.
Glancing around at the paling shadows to make sure he was alone, the rogue narrowed his eyes and looked towards the distant tower that housed the brigade of Scarlet Crusade soldiers. It wouldn’t be wise to go back there yet - at least not until he learned what else this body could (or could not) do. A wise rogue always listened to his body and made sure he knew its limits. A wise rogue also knew when to be somebody else.
“They did not know me but they murdered me. If they catch me now, they will destroy me utterly so I cannot testify against their evil deeds. I need a new name.”
He wiped some of the mud from his front and legs, noting the twisted muscles and bones as he did so. Even after just one night in the plague pit, the Curse of the Forsaken had him firmly in its grip.
“A new name... and a new enemy! The Scarlet Crusade took my life so I shall take theirs. I shall twist and defile everything they hold dear. I shall be the rot, the canker in the heart of the rose. I shall be... I am... Dryrot!”