History of Mort, A (No Longer Brief)

A (No Longer Brief) History Of Mort
 * - ''by Unclemort

Not far East of Lorderan once lay the town of Stratholme. The buildings of Stratholme may still stand, but the town itself is long dead, as are the majority of it's former inhabitants. The lucky ones are dead anyway. For many the sweet sleep of death has been denied. This is a short history of one of those unfortunates cursed with Undeath.  And he couldn't be happier.  (Edited subject because this honker seems to have taken on a life of it's own.)

The History
Every noble adventurer has a history. Some turn of events that has shaped their existence and helped mold who they are and why they adventure. Usually it involves great hardship, harrowing deeds of bravery and self sacrifice.  If youre looking for such a thing, push off, you wont find it here. This is the story of a complete bastard.   On the outskirts of Stratholme was a small, pastoral farming village populated by the kind of people you would expect to find during that period in the Eastern Kingdom's history. Swarthy, leather faced farmers and their plump, equally leather faced wives usually with 4 or 5 boisterous children either helping out on the farm or making a nuisance of themselves as young children are want to do. Of course at the time of this tale they're all pretty much doomed.  In the Northern corner of this village was a small, well kept cottage with an immaculate, thriving garden surrounding the house. Flowers and herbs predominated and passers-by would often stop to smell the flowers and be greeted by the elderly resident and his charming, wrinkled smile. This was the much beloved Town Healer, skilled in curing or treating injuries of all kinds, from debilitating illness to broken bones or child's skinned knee. He had long, pristine white hair and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the noon day sun.  His name was Frank, and Mortimer couldn't stand him.  "Empty headed pillock!" Mort spat as he strode purposefully past. "Oooh, Town Healer! Ewww, ain't we the Great Towne Healer!" he said, rolling the R and somehow managing to convey capital letters along with his extreme disgust. <BR> <BR>Mort (or, as the townsfolk called him, That cranky old bastard) hated Frank and everyone else. Every last leather faced man and his fat little wife, every child and their snot filled noses. Whereas Frank was the one people went to when a loved one needed healing, folks came from far and wide to see Old Mort when there was a less than loved one who needed taking care of. They would sometimes leave Morts house with small, plain brown paper wrapped packages containing foul smelling liquid which, if shaken or dropped, usually resulted in the visitors untimely (and often messy) demise. <BR> <BR>Anything Mort gave you was to be treated very, very carefully. <BR> <BR>Morts house, on the Western fringe of the town, was the polar opposite of Franks. It fit Mort to a T. It was run down, mangy, and very, very old. While Frank's garden was full of sweet flowers and gentle, healing herbs, Mort's garden was, well... Not quite the same. Smelling the things which grew in Mort's garden could result in a nose falling off. The perimeter was strewn with the corpses of bees foolish enough to try and feed there, and skeletal remains of things which, at one time, may have been bunnies going in but something revolting coming out. Both house and Mort had been part of the town for as long as anyone could remember, and there was talk about town as to how each had survived as long. Dark magic for the house, sheer bloodyheadedness for Mort. <BR> <BR>From time to time a do-gooder (usually a Paladin in training) would visit the town, hear about Old Mort, and try to bring him back to the Light. Or High Elf maidens, glowing with Octarine and Arcane powers, out on quests for the High Mages Dalaran, would take it upon themselves to offer comfort to the poor, lonely old man. None of them were ever seen again. <BR> <BR>Then The Scourge. <BR> <BR>Word reached the village of horrible things happening in other villages such as Brill. Entire households dropping dead, only to rise again as mindless zombies, killing anything and anyone in their path. Robed strangers performing dark rituals in graveyards summoning foul creatures made from the decayed parts of multiple corpses. If it wasnt for the fact that Mort hadnt left town in decades, many would have thought he was behind this. <BR> <BR>It was heard that Prince Arthas, son of the King and prize student of Uther Lightbringer himself was working to put an end to this blight and a cheer went up throughout town. Arthas! Three cheers for Arthas! they all said over pints in the local pub. <BR> <BR>Bollix to Arthas. Mort said from outside. And bollix taller yew as well. Yer all dead, and yer tew daft ter know <BR> <BR>There are many things that can be said about Mort. Quite a few unpleasant adjectives would work nicely, as a matter of fact. But stupid? Not one of them. He saw clear as day what was happening and what WOULD happen. Ever the pessimist, but rarely wrong. On this night, while Frank sipped a pint with the other townsfolk in the pub, Mort made his way out of town, pushing a wheelbarrow as fast as his scrawny legs could move him. He didnt know for sure what it was that was causing the dead to rise, but one thing he did know: in each town people began dying shortly after shipments of grain arrived, and hed seen wagons rolling into town just today. He FELT the death in them. When youd poisoned so many people in your day, you got a sixth sense about such things. Someone had once tried to poison Mort Bits of them were found strewn across the countryside for weeks. <BR> <BR>Hed bade goodbye to his home, his sanctuary for the last 130 years (yes, he really was quite old), packed up what he could fit in his rusted wheelbarrow, and high tailed it. Mort didnt bother trying to warn anyone. It wasnt just because he knew no one would listen to him, it was because he rather liked the idea that every man, woman and child would soon be worse off than being dead. <BR> <BR>Mort hummed a happy little tune as he walked. He smiled. He hadnt smile this much since that young child had wandered into his garden after a ball. It had walked in on one side, cute and curious, and slithered out the other as a horrible monstrosity. <BR> <BR>As he thought more and more about what was to become of the town and Stratholme, Mort actually giggled. <BR> <BR>Some days later, in another town, Mort heard about what befell Stratholme, how Arthas had put every living soul to the sword and set fire to nearly every home, building and farmhouse. <BR> <BR>Ah, good lad. Peraps Arthas aint sbad after all Mort said to himself. <BR>