Ezrakk never expected to be undead. He had spent his entire life in Lordaeron working as a farmer. One day while he was in the fields, a fellow worker fell ill next to him. As he walked over to help the fallen friend, he felt very ill as well. The world seemed to slow around him as he watched a wave of abominations emerge from the trees. He choked on the poisonous gas that filled his lungs as the world stopped. It wasn’t as he expected, death. It was cold, dark, and lonely. He spent hours in the darkness, wondering how it all happened so fast, he never wanted to die that way. Suddenly a small light emerged from the other side of the lonely space he was in. He stood up and slowly walked towards the light, and it grew as he became closer. As he walked through the light he suddenly felt the need to breathe again, but he didn’t need to. It was as if he had lost the need to breathe altogether. Then he felt an extreme pain.
“Get up” the figure before him said. The man was taller, with a pale face under a dark hood and ruddy hair smoothed to his shoulders. He was an elf. “I said, get up!” he slammed his hand into Ezrakk’s face again. Only there was one problem, Ezrakk couldn’t feel pain. The only thing he could feel was an urge to kill. Kill everything; everyone must die the voices in his head said as he walked along the path up to a dark master with a jagged steel helm and a sword that seemed to pulse with everything evil that existed. “This is your master, you only obey his command.” Ezrakk looked into the eyes of the man, past the icy glow and seemingly, straight into his very soul. He knew this one.
“Prince Arthas?” Ezrakk asked, confused as to why the paladin was in such a dark state.
“Do not call me by that name, death knight.” A pain burst into him, even when he thought he could feel none, it seemed to come straight from the sword. “I thought you made sure to wipe his memory, Kalindras!” Arthas exclaimed, unsheathing his sword. Ezrakk felt whispers crawl across his skin into his ears, ever growing louder. This was no ordinary sword...it was the sword of legend. This was Frostmourne. As The Lich King raised his sword to strike down the elf, a rider on a skeletal winged creature flew into the room.
“My King, the Scarlet commander has shown his face. We have him surrounded.”
“Good. Let Darion know I am on my way.” Arthas answered, lowering Frostmourne back into its sheathe. Arthas beckoned Ezrakk to follow him, but Ezrakk tried to resist. He could not. The magic from Arthas’ power controlled his mind and compelled him to follow the King. To kill everyone and everything that lives. As he arrived with the elf, he saw something wrong; the King was not there, only a nasty looking “death knight” and a paladin who emanated hope. He knew this paladin, it was Tirion Fordring. The two had made a pact to end the conflict between each other and wage war upon the King who had corrupted them all, Arthas. As soon as he could, Ezrakk returned to the city where he knew he had family, in Lordaeron. As he walked up to the gates, he saw the city in ruin. Filled with anger, he knew the one responsible for what happened to him was the one who had destroyed everything he knew and loved. He ventured into the city and then the Undercity, where he saw many people like himself. His only desire was to kill; the hold could not be broken. He lashed out at a Kor’kron guard patrolling the streets, killing him in cold blood. It was only after he killed a few more that he was finally arrested and thrown into prison to rot. Not wanting to stay he found he had gained much strength in undeath, and he bent the bars easily to his cell, and escaped the prison. Knowing that he could not stay, Ezrakk wandered the ruins of the Silverpine forest, waiting, wanting. That answer came when two figures emerged from the mist, asking him for help.