Tarak, 60 priest, shadow.
The air stood still as the moon hung like a floating man-of-war above the Azerothian sky. A town gone to waste stirred quietly as the night went on.
"I told you this was a waste of time," a dark voice muttered. "Nobody has been here for decades." An Undead manifestation walked between the rows of houses, poking things as he went.
"You never know, Tarak," another fiendish voice said. "This might have been our lucky find."
"Our lucky find? Oh, no, Sandstome. This is your idea. I already know enough of my past to be content for my life."
"You know, you've never told me your past, Tarak?"
"Yes, I know."
"Why is that?"
"Because you've never asked, of course."
Sandstome turned to stare at Tarak. "Well, I'm asking now."
"Ugh, sit down, then. This is gonna be a long'un."
"I was once a man of great faith. Born as Taren of Andorhal, I was anything but an average kid. My father was a great paladin of his time; my mother a miraculous priest. I was destined to learn the art of the Light, that much I knew. My teachings started at 6, my father teaching me to fight and my mother the finer points of spell weaving. I was never a good fighter, my father was constantly disappointed in me during my practice. My mother though, thought I was a gift from heaven, no pun intended. I quickly mastered all she could teach me, by 12 I could cast spells out of even her reach. But I always hungered for more. I knew there had to be a greater power, and I knew I was ready to reach it.
One day as I sparred with another village boy, my life collapsed. I was doing poorly as always and my anger festered in me. The other boy mocked my failures and eventually pushed me to the point where I broke. Muttering a spell unknown to my conscious mind, I delved into dark magic. I will never forget the screams he gave forth... I knew I could never go home, I had to leave.
I wandered what are now the Plaguelands for months. I started to lose my sanity, yet I was aware of it and tried to fight it. I vowed never to use dark magic again, yet I yearned for it. I sat one night, in the midst of a great conflict within myself: The light or the dark - which should I wield? I wondered which was more powerful and decided to concoct a test. I conjured a ball of Darkness and a ray of Light. I muttered a spell to conjoin them and see which would take over the other. To my surprise the light melted into the darkness, destroying it, but not fully. I smiled as I realized what this meant. There was a place between light and dark, a place, where the shadows lie.
I started using this shadow magic to great effect. I never used the newfound magic to harm others. I felt I could use this power for good and decided to join the army in the fight against the Scourge. This was my downfall. I fought in many battles, earning the respect of many a comrade. But as all good tales must, this soon ended. When my own home city was attacked and the army dispatched, I joined the fight with great vigor. We gained some ground and fought them back to the hills surrounding the city. I chose this time of standstill to seek out my parents. I went to our old house, and found it was one destroyed by the Scourge. I tore through the wreckage and eventually found my parents' bodies. The state of them drove me insane. I had left my parents for my own good, by no fault of theirs. I had always loved them and always would. I felt my power grow with my anger. I ran straight out of the town and past our blockade, ignoring my comrades' cries to come back. I marched straight up to the Scourge armies and threw myself at them. Countless came to kill me, but ended up dead themsleves. They knew how to combat holy magic, but had never had to deal with what I was doing. But blind acts of heroism are only that, heroic, not smart. I was eventually overwhelmed and killed.
All went black, I don't remember anything until I opened my eyes again and a Scourge stood in front of me. I jumped to attack but he pinned me down. "Calm down!" he yelled. "Your are one of us now."
"I will never be part of the Scourge!" I screamed.
"Neither will you have to," he replied calmly. "You are an Undead, not a Scourge."
"A what?" I said, flabbergasted.
"An Undead, one of the chosen ones who are brought back from death to serve the Dark Lady. She saw your little display against the Scourge and requested you personally. Now," he said, "what is your name?"
I sat there puzzled, trying to remember my name. I remembered back to some of my teachings, to a story of a paladin who had gone corrupt, I smiled as I remembered his name. "You may call me Tarak."