I am Drathgar Blackheart. Throughout my life - and subsequent death - I have been many things. Soldier. Worgen. Death Knight. A man, made into a killer, made into a monster, and twisted yet further beyond that. I have committed atrocities in the name of the Lich King's Scourge. Under the curse of the worgen I have done just the same. What I consider myself to be now I can hardly say, but through my travels I am trying to understand what I've become. To find closure, if not peace. It's how I've found myself to be where I am now.

Gahrron's Withering, they call it. A wretched place in death, once a joyous place in life.

It looked little different from the other ruined farms of the Plaguelands. I walked through the rows of desiccated corn, dried husks where once vibrant life grew to sustain a whole city - the once thriving nearby city of Andorhal. Through the crops, assailed by wails of the spirits that now haunt this place, I searched for one particular corpse; the farmer's unfortunate wife. I did not have to search long. One remembers these things, often far too well.

The body was cold and grey, her face mercifully obscured by dirt to spare me the unpleasantness of looking upon my own handiwork. I laid down my sword and went to one knee beside the corpse and held out my hands in front of me. On each were dozens of rings. I searched for one of hardly any value; a simple, bent silver circle unadorned with gems or jewels. I removed it, placing it upon her gently and reverently as the ghosts sang their cries of lament around me, hungering for my blood and thirsty for vengeance. I could hardly blame them.

Upon removing the ring and returning it to its rightful owner, I felt no lighter mentally than physically. This work was not to be done for catharsis, but duty. I have taken from these people. Death does not absolve me of what I owe, and I will return what I've taken.

Leaving the body behind, I went to the farmhouse. The door was clawed by jagged fingernails, leaving traces of blood on the wood, covered in scratches as it was by restless ghouls. The air inside smelled stale and old, the stench of a place left empty and in disrepair. No living soul had been here for years. No living soul was in it now.

I laid my sword down on their table, a colossal, battered hunk of metal made from the blades of swords meant for smaller men. When recruited into the Gilnean army, I told them that a man my size would need a bigger blade, so the blacksmiths forged me this - a sword of swords, wielded now by a monster of monsters. At the time, it was the bluster of youth that came up with the idea. That courage and brashness stays until the blade first sheds blood.

With my hands free I searched the house. I came upon a single candle. Good enough.

Pulling from my pack a piece of parchment and an ink well, I sat at the table and allowed myself to transform. It was only times such as this I allowed myself to take the form of a human, albeit a dead one. The written word was the one piece of humanity that still gripped me, and I allowed myself this one indulgence. The rings, so many of them on each hand, made writing difficult, but not for a moment did I consider removing even one. Once I set to writing, the words would always flow quickly anyway. There were always many thoughts to sort through.

Third day in the Western Plaguelands;

Gahronn's Withering. Once, this was a bustling farm used to bring grain to the nearby city of Andorhal, run by Del Gahrron. A quaint, picturesque farm, the type old soldiers talk of settling down in. The Scourge care little for such things, however.

When the plague started to spread, Gahronn boarded up the windows as best he could. He dug trenches to form defensible positions. His farmhands were allowed to stay in his own home, hoping that through strength in numbers they'd be able to hold off until whatever threat gripped the land subsided. As the plague spread, his farm was one of the last holdouts in the waves of undead that began to overtake the lands of Lordaeron, turning it into the Plaguelands as it's known today. Making a final, desperate attempt, he fled from the farm to Andorhal to recruit any soldiers still alive to hold on and defend his property with him. Knowing the road would be dangerous, he left behind his wife, Gloria, and his daughter, Andrea.

He found the city to be well past saving. Abandoning his attempt, he returned to his farm. But upon his arrival, he found his humble farm ravaged by the undead. The bodies of his wife, daughter, and any that dared stay to help protect them, torn to pieces.

He lives in Hearthglen now, fighting on behalf of the Argent Crusade. The poor soul clings to memories of what once was and hoping that if he kills enough of the undead it would somehow purge the guilt he feels for having left them. He's a good man at heart, but a broken one. The loss was too great, and the man now carries a reckless death-wish of his own, signing on for whatever battle he can to usher on the meeting with his family in the afterlife.

It was I who killed his wife and daughter.

I took a moment to rest my hand. Perhaps it was a moment to give rest to whatever is left of my soul.

I have come back to return the wedding band I had taken from Gloria Gahrron upon her demise. It brings me as much peace as it would her husband. But the rings on my hand weigh heavy, and while I'm already damned, I'll damn myself further if I fail to return them.

The wailing of the ghosts outside became too much to bear. Calling for my gryphon, a once majestic beast now just bone and sinew, I flew to my next destination. I ran my thumb across the rings on my hand. So many of them still.

---

Never in my life or death had I seen such pure, unadulterated hatred than when I fought the defenders of the Scarlet Enclave. I was the embodiment of what they built their lives around destroying; a relentless, savage machine of war and brutality, sapped of thought or emotion by the embrace of death and the Lich King's grasp. They fought with every ounce of strength they had, as sure in their convictions as any could be. Both men that met me on the battlefield, in spite of all their vigour, fell the same as the rest. A wound across each of their torsos that nearly cleaved them in two spelled their fate.

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The shambling corpses that surrounded me, resurrected in the Lich King's name and still wandering endlessly near where they fell, wore the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade. The bright white and red garment was stained with dried blood and gore, a mockery of the purity it once strove to represent. So ruined were their bodies they could hardly prop themselves up to stand and fight again. Still, the faces, worn by time and death as they may have been, were immediately recognizable. One remembers such things.

As a death knight trained in blood magic, I felt some perverse pleasure in sapping what life and strength remained from them. It fed me further, healing whatever wounds they managed to deal to me. Monstrous, truly. If I could see myself now from when I was a bright-eyed youth in Gilneas, signing the papers to join the army...

The rain began to pour, but no amount of water could wash away the massacre that took place here. I was glad I could dispose of them quickly and that the battle was short. I wanted to tell myself I wanted to swiftly move on from such grisly business, but in truth, there's only so much essence of life one can steal from the already dead. While I tried to suppress the thought, I wish they had more life to give.

No matter, regardless. Fuelling my thirst for blood was not what brought me here. Rather, it was the two rings on my left finger, each the same; a golden band with a small red ruby in the centre, the signet ring of some order of the crusade in which I'm unfamiliar. I laid them down on each corpse. I have no respect for the Scarlet Crusade, but it does not matter. I took these rings after I slaughtered these men, and it's my calling to return them now.

A small house sat not far away, half burned down by Scourge soldiers. The rain fell through the spaces where the fire tore open the roof, but it provided enough shelter to remove the parchment from my pack and begin to write. Before I sat down, I caught a glimpse of myself in a puddle in the house. A long, white mane. Eyes glowing the soft blue of death, like the discoloured skin of the drowned. I watched my reflection as I transformed into my human form. I felt no greater recognition of what stood before me then as I did a moment before. Splashing the puddle away, I took up a pen and sat down.

They say that becoming a soldier changes you. You join the military a boy, and become a man. One could say that was my first transformation. I joined with the same high-minded eagerness as all the rest. Ideals to change the world, make a name for myself, reach heights of glory! The moment you first see battle, the brutality of it, the savagery, those thoughts melt away.

Fear gripped me in the first battles. I feel no shame in admitted it. So when Arugal came, promising us such great power to be able to defend our homeland, I was eager to accept. The tales of the great kingdom of Dalaran falling to the Scourge struck fear into all of us, and the thought of becoming something greater, something truly capable, was far too much to ignore. Enlistment in the military saw vast potential and sudden shock and despair. The curse of the worgen came down upon us next, and it felt no different. It wasn't long before the worgen form began to overtake me. The second transformation.

A friend of mine, Lord Harford, convinced me to flee. To leave Gilneas, to return when it was under no such dire threat! Of course, we couldn't have known the Scourge was so close at hand. I was foolish enough to think I could hold them off for him to flee and still survive myself.

The third transition was upon me, as my corpse was raised into service of the Lich King.

I looked back to see the puddle had taken form again. I dared not look at my reflection.

I sit now on my fourth transformation. Undead, cursed, and given free will again. But to what end? Free will to know what I have done? I left two more rings tonight, but they brought me as little solace as any before. In truth, the Scarlet Crusade is hardly different from me. They had changed too. They began as something good, something pure - many of which were members of the Knights of the Silver Hand! They, too, changed to something terrible.

Do they feel regret? Do I?

The next destination was not far. I returned my parchment to my pack and set out.

---

Whatever the building was - an infirmity, maybe - I recognized it immediately. One remembers places like this. It was what caused my fifth transformation.

A pine of bones lay just behind. They were charred, brittle black dust all that's left of what once were good, noble souls. Buried here, in the piles of bones, was Lord Harford. Whatever terrible hold the Lich King had on me, Harford was the one that pushed it to breaking - to give me a return to my free will, for better or worse.

It was Lord Harford I helped escape Arugal's grasp, only for him to fall into the hands of the Scourge. I considered him a brother. I died protecting him. And then, here in this dirty old tent in the Scarlet Enclave, we met again - only for me to be ordered to put him to death. He asked what they had done to me. I felt he should have been more specific about who "they" happened to be, considering how many times I've changed.

If I didn't kill him then, I would have been buried with him. He knew it just as well as I did. He told me to kill him so I had a chance to survive. A man I died saving, only to sacrifice himself so I could be saved. A full circle, albeit an odd one.

I held his ring in my hand. A sign of royalty, marking him as a Lord in our lands; a jet-black gem, the colour of Gilneas. It was ornate and beautiful, the most valuable of my mementos. The value meant nothing to me beyond the duty of returning it, however. Sadly, the miscellaneous pile of charred bones did little for identifying which was which, robbing me even of that. I laid it atop the pile, seeing no greater option nor a means to identify him. And so with the job done, I returned to my parchment and my old form.

I cannot say why I took the rings. My mind was not fully my own. I have remnants, vague memories, subtle notions of why or how, as if I was watching my body act. And so I wonder if I feel regret.

Can one regret actions done when not of sound mind? Yes, I slew these people. Viciously, violently. In the worgen form I had similar violent outbursts, and a man - or monster - of my stature tends to see pain in others that come as a result of anger. Yet is my form as a worgen truly me? Were the crimes I committed my crimes or that of the Lich King?

I will return every ring, regardless. They were not mine to take. Yet the number does not dwindle. For every slaughtered soldier of the Horde, I take their rings as well - but to keep, rather than return. Yet, if one day the Horde and Alliance are to make peace, and the war between us all comes to light as a grand delusion, will I make the return to the same lands and place the rings upon their bodies as I had here? Will I make the same arguments, trying to absolve the sins I have done by claiming I had been tricked into a war and told it was just?

I don't know how that will be. But what I do know, is that until the end of my days I will continue returning these rings - and adding others. My hands and my heart will continue to grow heavy, even as the latter hardens more with each passing day. This is my task, and I will continue it with vigour until my second, final death - my last great transformation.