Of Loss and Failure

[GanonDoom]

Spoiler:

(( Continuation of introduction. ))

Of Loss and Failure

With painstaking accuracy and attention to detail, Jacob carefully etched the relevant runes for his experiment upon the floor of this dank enclosure with a sharp piece of bone. He was no master of these mysterious and dark arts, so fully intended to follow the necessary steps to the letter. It was well known to him that spells were most dangerous when they almost work, rather than when they fail altogether. His ruined countenance managed something resembling a determined frown, as he carefully placed the relevant reagents throughout the room. As a race, The Forsaken were cursed with a terrible affliction: that being the inability to reproduce. The greatest tormented minds of the Undercity were constantly at work, slaving away over ampoules, runes and ancient tomes to try and provide them with some kind of future. Do not be mistaken, dear reader: Jacob Freudstein did not think he had some magical cure for the terrible ailment of the Forsaken. No, in fact he was looking for something quite different. This is a man driven by a lust for power and a hunger for vengeance, with little to no concern for the fate of his race as a whole. He builds relationships through necessity and will give the appearance of someone as sympathetic and interested as needs be to suit whatever selfish ends. As such, the present experiment was for something quite sinister. Having never been a great fighter, Jacob was painfully aware of the fact that his power, such as it was, was inadequate to achieve his goals. If he were to succeed, it would take more than just him. He desired willing and unquestioning servants, those who would obey his every whim and serve as his enforcers. Early studies lead him to demonology and the work of Warlocks, but he had no love of the Burning Legion. Any such association reminded him too much of the Scourge, and the fate of his family.

***

"Who do you think would win in a fight, father?", questioned the child, with a typical youthful exuberance, "Would it be Lothar or Uther?"

The town of Brill bustled with activity, tradesmen and soldiers passing by quickly, but with tired expressions. The Kingdom of Lordaeron had seen enough war these past years. Its citizens had grown weary of the constant threat of enemy forces, be they an Orcish horde or something even more insidious. As per usual, Doctor Freudstein was dressed well, in a style some might call garish or pompous. A nice suit jacket and fine slacks were a taste of the finery he was able to afford as a successful surgeon. His son Robert was also well-dressed, but the cuffs of his trousers were slightly torn and dirtied from his earlier antics in the garden. Robert enjoyed battling imaginary foes, parrying and thrusting with a small tree branch against invisible enemies. Jacob disapproved, but felt confident his child was merely engaging in a juvenile fantasy that would pass with age.

"Don't ask such ridiculous questions, my boy", his father responded, dismissively, "Let us be done with our tasks and return swiftly, lest your mother grow impatient."

***

Jacob was sat in the corner of this chilly crypt beneath the old streets of Lordaeron, staring blankly at the decayed corpse opposite him, not really seeing the countless insects crawling over it. Brief memories like this had the ability to creep up on him now and then, but they only served to fuel his anger, and draw him further away from who he was in those days. The experiment was all but ready, when Freudstein would need to make the correct motions and speak the required words of power for a spell of this kind. However, he was in no rush. It had taken long enough for him to get here, and no amount of haste now would guarantee better success. This particular individual, whomever he may once have been, was to become the first servant of Jacob Freudstein. The methods and reagents required to perform such a ritual were not easily came upon, since it smelled too much of necromancy to most people. A pungent and repulsive odour. Luckily, the Cult of Forgotten Shadow had a number of contacts Jacob was able to approach discreetly in order to attain his goals. Jacob's old bones creaked and moaned as he finally rose to his feet, the sounds of the hardened ends of his old robes scraping across the stone floor: ends which slightly resembled the cuffs of young Robert's trouser legs. He inhaled deeply, subsequently emitting a sound which sounded something like gravel being poured down a chimney. But then he paused suddenly. There was a new sound, one which was not the scuttling of insects, nor the crackling of the small flame in the corner of the room. It was the clatter of steel and the rhythmic pounding of heavy footsteps.