02-14-2007, 06:37 AM
Cthullos Bitterdawn
This, tavern, if you could call it that, sits in the small town of Brill, just North of the infamous Undercity. It has⦠atmosphere. If you think rotting flesh and an eye-less bartender are atmospheric touches.
But youâre not reading this to hear about the bartender. Your reading this, I presume, to hear about me: Kythanos Sunstare.
No no. Thatâs the wrong way to begin isnât it? Thatâs not even the name I go by anymore. Not since the coming of the Scourge and my, transformation. You may call me Cthullos Bitterdawn. The first name may seem odd for one of my race, as has been pointed out on occasion, but itâs there for a reason. Bitterdawn, is simply a reformation of my old name. The sun no longer shines in the Ghostlands, and all we get is the ever Bitter Dawn.
But Iâm not a poet, no matter how much I like that last line. Letâs refocus on my past. I was in my 600th year, aged enough to achieve wisdom but before the years of bitter apathy that so many of our elders seemed to be slowly falling into. I was a political confidant of sorts, on the slowly-weakening circle of leaders known as the Convocation of Silvermoon. When someone had a problem, they came to me, and I mediated it. And I was busy. The end of the Second War had seen the destruction of the Horde entirely, and now the humans were on the verges of abandoning the once-mighty Alliance all together!
We elves were no better. We had as much in-fighting and power-mongering as the most petty humans. Which was why were caught so shamefully unprepared when Arthas and his Undead Scourge stormed our forests. The signs were there, the clues of the Plague and the scent of the Undead roaming the northern lands, and still we refused to see it!
I was a mage, not the most powerful, no, but certainly a skilled one. Those floating flower pots you see in the Blood Elfâs Silvermoon City? My idea, although Iâd never get credit for it. I had a wife, Sumilya, and a son, Rhomir. And on that horrible day, as the Scourge broke through the barriers, I lost them both. My wife, vanished in a throng of refugees, scurrying like panicked rodent southward, right towards the bulk of the Scourge! My son, I thought had died. But even that was too good an outcome. As I tried to flee the city, I found him, transformed! I was forced to slay my own son, and even after I tore his head from his mutated corpse of a body, still it howled the foulest of curses at me, until I smashed it with my boot heel.
That was also the day I lost my powers. They say the really powerful mages, the ones who eventually go nuts and blow themselves up (and their apprentices sometimes) do so because they lost control of their emotions. And the grief of it all, standing over my sonâs smashed corpse, broke me. My connection to magic was severed! The detonation of the Sunwell, I barely even felt it!
So I left, vowing to never again set foot in QuelâThalas. Iâd heard of a group of High Elves in Theramore who were trying to make a life there among the humans. So I went that way. But the boat, making the journey from the Eastern Kingdoms (when the humans still allowed High elf refugees in their cities, before Kaelâthas and his damn Blood Elves), got caught in a storm, and crashed ashore in the Tanaris desert. I do not recall much, wandering through the desert, and the collapsing on some forsaken sand dune. I can recall a chattering noise, and being pulled under, into the sand.
Then I awoke, and found myself in a great chamber, and at its center was a beast whose appearance I wonât put to paper. The world would come to know him as Câthun, Old God and leader of the vile Qiraji. I was healed by his attendants, strange insect-like men, and when I was healed, I was tortured almost to death! Over and over again, for what felt like years. Was it for Câthunâs entertainment, or for some other reason, I will never know. But eventually, it stopped.
I was given a choice: Perform a series of tasks for Câthun and the Qiraji, and in turn be granted access to magic once again, or die.
Easy choice huh?
Go to Silithus sometime, speak to Commander Marâalith (the pompous Night Elf leading the Cenarion forces), ask him about his beloved Natalia. Just donât mention my name, unless you want to lose all your reputation with the Circle. Iâm in no mood to go over what I had to do for the Qiraji. Needless to say, it was not something that can easily be forgotten, or forgiven.
The rest is as yet too new to be added to these pages yet. The Blood Elves have joined with the Horde, and I have joined with them, for now. Their magical lust may yet prove beneficial to my aims. I gave my oath to Thrall, the Warchief of this strange new Horde, and I will fulfill my word and defend the Horde from all who would attack it. But as I do this, I will also bring my own plans to fruition, and may the Light help anyone, anyone, who stands in my way.
This, tavern, if you could call it that, sits in the small town of Brill, just North of the infamous Undercity. It has⦠atmosphere. If you think rotting flesh and an eye-less bartender are atmospheric touches.
But youâre not reading this to hear about the bartender. Your reading this, I presume, to hear about me: Kythanos Sunstare.
No no. Thatâs the wrong way to begin isnât it? Thatâs not even the name I go by anymore. Not since the coming of the Scourge and my, transformation. You may call me Cthullos Bitterdawn. The first name may seem odd for one of my race, as has been pointed out on occasion, but itâs there for a reason. Bitterdawn, is simply a reformation of my old name. The sun no longer shines in the Ghostlands, and all we get is the ever Bitter Dawn.
But Iâm not a poet, no matter how much I like that last line. Letâs refocus on my past. I was in my 600th year, aged enough to achieve wisdom but before the years of bitter apathy that so many of our elders seemed to be slowly falling into. I was a political confidant of sorts, on the slowly-weakening circle of leaders known as the Convocation of Silvermoon. When someone had a problem, they came to me, and I mediated it. And I was busy. The end of the Second War had seen the destruction of the Horde entirely, and now the humans were on the verges of abandoning the once-mighty Alliance all together!
We elves were no better. We had as much in-fighting and power-mongering as the most petty humans. Which was why were caught so shamefully unprepared when Arthas and his Undead Scourge stormed our forests. The signs were there, the clues of the Plague and the scent of the Undead roaming the northern lands, and still we refused to see it!
I was a mage, not the most powerful, no, but certainly a skilled one. Those floating flower pots you see in the Blood Elfâs Silvermoon City? My idea, although Iâd never get credit for it. I had a wife, Sumilya, and a son, Rhomir. And on that horrible day, as the Scourge broke through the barriers, I lost them both. My wife, vanished in a throng of refugees, scurrying like panicked rodent southward, right towards the bulk of the Scourge! My son, I thought had died. But even that was too good an outcome. As I tried to flee the city, I found him, transformed! I was forced to slay my own son, and even after I tore his head from his mutated corpse of a body, still it howled the foulest of curses at me, until I smashed it with my boot heel.
That was also the day I lost my powers. They say the really powerful mages, the ones who eventually go nuts and blow themselves up (and their apprentices sometimes) do so because they lost control of their emotions. And the grief of it all, standing over my sonâs smashed corpse, broke me. My connection to magic was severed! The detonation of the Sunwell, I barely even felt it!
So I left, vowing to never again set foot in QuelâThalas. Iâd heard of a group of High Elves in Theramore who were trying to make a life there among the humans. So I went that way. But the boat, making the journey from the Eastern Kingdoms (when the humans still allowed High elf refugees in their cities, before Kaelâthas and his damn Blood Elves), got caught in a storm, and crashed ashore in the Tanaris desert. I do not recall much, wandering through the desert, and the collapsing on some forsaken sand dune. I can recall a chattering noise, and being pulled under, into the sand.
Then I awoke, and found myself in a great chamber, and at its center was a beast whose appearance I wonât put to paper. The world would come to know him as Câthun, Old God and leader of the vile Qiraji. I was healed by his attendants, strange insect-like men, and when I was healed, I was tortured almost to death! Over and over again, for what felt like years. Was it for Câthunâs entertainment, or for some other reason, I will never know. But eventually, it stopped.
I was given a choice: Perform a series of tasks for Câthun and the Qiraji, and in turn be granted access to magic once again, or die.
Easy choice huh?
Go to Silithus sometime, speak to Commander Marâalith (the pompous Night Elf leading the Cenarion forces), ask him about his beloved Natalia. Just donât mention my name, unless you want to lose all your reputation with the Circle. Iâm in no mood to go over what I had to do for the Qiraji. Needless to say, it was not something that can easily be forgotten, or forgiven.
The rest is as yet too new to be added to these pages yet. The Blood Elves have joined with the Horde, and I have joined with them, for now. Their magical lust may yet prove beneficial to my aims. I gave my oath to Thrall, the Warchief of this strange new Horde, and I will fulfill my word and defend the Horde from all who would attack it. But as I do this, I will also bring my own plans to fruition, and may the Light help anyone, anyone, who stands in my way.