I am dying.

The knowledge cut through the elf like a knife. It hurt more then the blades ever had. More then the physical pain that was ripping through his body, even as his life blood spilled into the soil underneath his fading body. As the eternal gloom closed his eyes, the bitter knowledge hit him in the face.

I have failed.

Where others failed, he failed as well. He was meant to save his race, he was meant to prolong them. To find a place where his family could live. He was supposed to strike back at those who had wronged him, he was tasked with winning this war. He is a knight, a champion of the few. A beacon for the tired, a pillar for the bridge that crossed the space between the weak and the strong. He had failed them all. He had watched as his family was hunted, his village burned. His beloved forest had been laid to waste, while the entire elven nation chased them down. Like animals, they were hunted. Killed where they were found, a systematic extermination of an entire tribe. First, the children. The weak and the elderly were next. Those who could not fight back. And when they were sure the tribe could not recreate itself through birth, when they had stopped the cycle, the soldiers were sent after after the Kagonesti warriors. They too had fallen, all of them but this one. This one had been driven into the graveyard where he lay now, where he had fought his last fight. Overwhelmed, even the blade master had succumbed to the press of numbers. A handful of warriors lay next to him, ripped apart by the telltale fighting style only he seemed to be able to master. The blinding speed, the single stroke that ended each life. An arrow had finally taken his life, it had finally found purchase in his throat, the wooden shaft still quivering as it pinned him to the ground.

I am dying.

And Nuitari's siren call came out of the clouds, a voice that thundered, dripped with raw power, Godly strength. It wrapped itself around the man, who had taken the Test, the mage who hated magic. It beckoned to him, calling the faithful back to the master. In this final moment, the spirit, the proud soul of this warrior broke. Under the pain, under the stress. The warped soul gave in. He had fought for too long, struggled for his entire life. Alone, with his world stolen, he lashed out. Even the mighty fall, and the mighty often fall the hardest. They have so much more to lose. But not this one, for he has already lost it all. Everything was taken from him, his life, his world. His pride, his purpose. And here stood a new figure, one who was willing to give it all back to him. For a cost, this for that.

I am not dying.

When he died, killed by his foe, when he died in the shadow of a tomb that held a long dead knight, he started a ritual that Nuitari was willing to finish. The transformation from knight to Death Knight was so close. All it needed was the victim's agreement. And Dol'Dor, the Dusk Brother, readily agreed. In his death, he found life. In his death, he became death?s avatar, it's worldly champion. He had finally won. Through him, his tribe would live on. They would never die, for he would wander the hollow halls of death for all eternity. A dog of war, set loose upon this world. He would have his revenge.

I am corrupted.

His soul was shattered, ripped away from it's mortal coils and driven into his blade. Keening, the blade named for his fate carried his soul. Carried it into battle, and it drank the mortal life each time it struck. Some warriors strike for the greater good, they justify actions with underlying motives. To set free the weak, to aid the defenseless. Not this one. His actions need no justification, for this is a creature who does not explain himself. Some may call him mindless, but there is a purpose.

I will have my revenge.

For those who wronged him, the cycle will never stop. He will haunt the dreams of those who destroyed his life. He will take what they took. First the children, then the temples. Defiled, and death will stalk them at every turn. Death, death walking. Death hunting, a cold specter in the shadows, reaching out with frigid hands, tearing down what they have built. they will reap the seed they planted, they will understand what mindless violence is. With each murder he commits, they will understand that there is no depth to this creature's hate. There is no end to his darkness, there is no stopping what was started on that fateful day, so long ago. The rage, it consumed him, and they fanned the fire. All he wanted was a place where he could be accepted. And he found it in death?s loving embrace. For death is no longer his enemy, it is no longer something to run from. This elf ran to it, and he accepted it, embraced it and loved it. There is nothing in this world for him, nothing but his revenge. Single minded hate, a tool that will never dull. Through all eternity, he will wait. For what is a year to this thing? This thing who watches time fade into memory with the careless arrogance of an immortal. He will not die, he will not go away. So long as men hate, there will be room for him. He is the depravity of society, he is the nightmare that walks. Fear with a form.

I will shed His grace on this world.

For his Master, the Dread Lord of the Night. Nightreaver, creeping darkness. In all that he does, he brings glory to the moon that so few can see. To Nuitari, the God of dark magic, the God of ambition. He stands at the God's right hand, imbued with the God's power, given control over life and death. This is the true power he has. Not only can he create death, he can create life. The mortal coils, the souls of those who look into his unmasked face are nothing more then puppet strings to this creature. His mask, that skull he wears on top of his armor serves a purpose. As hideous as his armor is, as lethal as the mask is, it is nothing compared to what lies beneath. The face that isn't there, the baleful gaze he can turn upon the weak willed is the shadow of death itself. Something form another plane, something that has no name. Horror would be an understatement. Grace, regal and noble, flows from the hole his face should fill. A promise, a dare. A cry in the night, a strangled scream. For this is the truth behind death. It never ends, not unless he wills it to. Death has a name, and hate has a motive. Fear has form, and the darkness gathers under his feet.

I will control it.

Death will be conquered, in the name of his Dread Lord. Death will be suspended, until he has finished his task. This one will not fall short. This time, he will not fail. The elves have forgotten his name, erased his memory from the world he used to call home. When all is lost, when the woods burn, then the elves cry for mercy, when they beg for compassion, there will be none. They will remember his name, even as he stalks them. Even as he hunts them. For they have hunted him, and he has hidden for so long. Not now though, not anymore. They thought him dead, never to return. His hour is now, the final hour for those who wronged him.

I am ready, my Lord.