High executor of the undercity.
|Current location:||Eastern Plaguelands|
Mephala came into undeath later than most. Rumours abound she drank a vial of plague in order to willingly join the ranks of the dead and lead a patriotic crusade. As such she's not yet rotting, no bones protrude from her. Instead her flesh seems almost porceline giving a luminescent glow in heavy moonlight. She often hides it under a hood or wide brimmed hat now. Her age is starting to show however, lines of age are beginning to appear. Her most noticeable feature is her lack of eyes (having lost them to the elves in an ill-fated skirmish in the warsong gulch.) those that have dealings with her are often disturbed when she turns her attentions to them, unsure weather she's peering at them or through them, or if she see's anything at all.
Everything they tell you of me is a lie.
In my youth I fought for Lordaeron, when our fool of a princeling brought the dead to our doorstep I led the household troops against them in the place of my crippled father. When that war was lost and our homeland ravaged I drifted to your southlands with the rest of my tattered nation. And I watched you make slaves of my brethren. Promising shelter and riches for their aid rebuilding your city and then casting them aside to become brigands and thugs when they demanded their due.
When they became more than ragged highwaymen and banded into the great defias brotherhood I put them to death whilst your pitiful incompetant SI:7 lacked the courage to do so. But they are avenged now, with the backing of Ravenholt and your own nobility I stalked your back allys and rooftops, snuffing the lives of your own childer, blood for blood and life for life, for every exile of lordaeron you had my hands extinguish one of your own suffered. Above all else remember that. You put the blades in my hand and signed the contracts, despite your crowds crying murder and treason you ordered those deaths, you made me the monster that you hate.
The means and methods behind my death and subsequant rebirth are irrelevant, your inferior troops did not execute me nor did I take my own life. My own kinsmen came for me, cut me from the coil that I could return to the true homeland, Mother Lordaeron, that your venomous League of Arathor sought to steal from it's true heirs. This time the orders come not from southern slavemasters but from the throneroom of my own capitol, You bled for me again and you will continue to do so untill your cheap soldiery is scourged from her lands.
It is quiet now. I lie entombed beneath the great Darrowmere forrest,upon the very spot that fool Reylan Flasheart lead us into battle, recovering from the vicious wounds Kattami inflicted upon me. Enjoy the silence, relish the peace, for when the Blackthrone crypts are opened the campaign will continue. When the lich is gone, you will bleed, you will writhe in agony and you will scream for release and then you shall thank me. For everything dies, even your elves are no longer immortal, only the forsaken are eternal now. The dominion of Lordaeron is inevitable and you will be honored to serve Sylvanas until the end of days.
"Yer already dead, only her ladyship's patience stands in the way."
"There is no meaning of life but it's expiration. There is no purpose in your afterlife than to Serve the queen. Stormwind fears to face Mephala Blackthrone in battle not because she will slay them, they fear what I will do to them after that.."