Journals of Alhazred

Fiction based on the World of Warcraft game setting

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Reminiscing About Innocence Lost

Journal Entry

I find myself thinking back to the first time I drew the life from a man to fuel my sorcery...

Most men can understand the taking of life for protection or in warfare, but the idea of leeching the eternal spark of the soul from an intelligent creature to fuel a sorcerous incantation reeks of abomination. Many are the warlocks that have had the swords of their compatriots turned against them when the fear of their sorcery has eaten away at the parties trust. After all, how can one trust someone that has truck with the Infernal, and is ultimately no better than one of the vampiric undead? How would one know that the warlock would remain an ally, or simply use his companions as a handy resource to further whatever shadowy goals his Masters require?

In truth, they have much to fear. How can one describe that first rush of power as the soul of your victim flows through you and crystallizes in your hand as a symbol of your power? I have heard the rambling of those addicted to opiates, and can say that the craving for that rush of energy is so seductive it is easy to see how one would bargain with their very soul for but a taste of it. I imagine only the lost Art of Necromancy could give such a godlike feeling over life and death. I had always thought of myself as a decent human being with no real desire to perform such horror upon another, but after that first instance, I knew that the need to expand my power and experience that dark release would be worth the sacrifice of my waning humanity. Such is the lure of the Infernal and the cost that is never discussed with those bright-eyed youths in search of their dreams of glory.

My first was a Defias bandit. I remember the excitement of realizing I would finally be unleashing the spell I had worked so hard to memorize and perfect. One trap that academics and scholars can fall into is the clinical detachment of their studies. Everything seems so dry and bloodless described in a musty tome of leather. The minds eye hardly grasps the truth of the matter. That first shocked look in the eye of the victim quickly brings home the reality. First is the shock as they feel something is terribly wrong, then comes that split second of insight as they feel their soul being torn oh so slowly from their bodies to be compacted into the innocent little purple crystal you will find on any warlock worth their salt.

Yes, I think the average herd of humanity is right to fear us. At least that is my usual thought in the dark of night, when I can hear the faint cries coming from my link to those faintly glowing extensions of my power. Pain is a part of this business of life, and we warlocks are special purveyors of its sweetness.

We can draw the strength from limbs, rot the flesh from your bones in the time it takes you to empty your lungs of a screaming breath. We can even draw forth the burning flames of Hades itself to bring destruction to our enemies, but it’s that simple innocent crystal that speaks most eloquently to the danger we present. It is the symbol of our power and the brand of our damnation and we heed it’s siren call.

By the hand of Abdul Alhazred
Vizier of the Conclave of Warlocks

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