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I write this so that others might understand the condition that a DeathKnight has aquired and that others may be more accepting.

I will spend little time on who I was and my history as it lends little to understanding what I have become. It does however set the stage.

I was once known as Capelin. Beyond that I won't mention, because I wish ties to remain severed for the sakes of those involved. I was a Hunter and a resident of Silvermoon. I had a family. Friends. A life.

These things were the reason I fought when the scourge when they attacked. These are the reasons why I so so diligently joined the farstriders instead of remain a common tradesmen. I had the misfortune of being good at what I did, and being selected to strike at the heart of the beast.

I died a less than dignified death in the Plaguelands, only to awaken to a hunger and bloodlust a thousand times stronger than cravings I'd ever had for mana. I had succumbed, like any mortal would do under it's weight. Many of us had no choice but to deal with the devil, and be turned against our very own loved ones. I have found that these dead hands had lost the dexterity that they once had and a bow now all but fails me. Despite this misfortune, we have been gifted with rugged and hardy bodies.

After many crimes against the Horde and Aliance alike, we would find that the heart had a much stronger grip on us than Arthas ever had. This is why we sought rebellion. I cannot say that it was a planned effort by any of us. I can only say that when the opportunity arose, we seized it. It was quite a quick battle. Our anger, our hunger, our bloodlust was easy enough to turn on Arthas for our liberation. However upon his retreat, most of us were discovering we were not for this world. We would however fight until Arthas' undoing.

While I have fought alongside Dwarves and Humans, I cannot speak for their fates or their acceptance back into society. I still, however, regard a few as brothers in arms, and tollerate even less. For the Horde however, I can say that things are rocky at the best. The religion of trolls, as I understand it leaves a little bit of playroom for the dead to walk again, so my brethern there are a bit better off. For the forsaken, they are just like any other of their ilk. The Orcs are willing to take in any of their lost who wish to take up arms. However for the Tauren and my kind... we are on our own.

A few of us who were freshly fallen were welcomed welcomed back into Silvermoon. I however do not feel welcomed at all. I feel my appearance fills many with disgust and I curse Arthas every day for leaving me in the ground longer than most. With many of my kind finding and harnessing the light, I, of the darkness, nolonger feel welcomed. This putrid husk of a body I now inhabit would put me more in line with those of Undercity, but I feel discomfort there in all but the presence of Lady Silvanas.

It was at this point that I realized I was going to be leaving it all behind. I created a new moniker, Bloodshovel, to make it quite obvious to everyone what my remaining purpose in unlife was. I am the weapon of destruction that Arthas had intended me to be. I am jsut not controlled by him.

Along the turbulent road to Northrend in pursuit of Arthas I have however found allies. They call themselves "Alea Iacta Est". Although I have no idea what that forgotten dialect would translate too, I'm sure it has something to do with their outlook. If you are willing to pick up a blade, or support those who would, that is all that matters to them...

and if you can kick a gnome for a respectable distance they'll accept you as an officer.