I suppose I should start at he beginning. That is usually where things start, right? But, just which beginning do you want to here? I have two, you know.

Let’s start with the second one. Or at least a few days after the end of the first…

My name was just Vyktor, then. Nothing too special. My parents had gotten on this kick about naming their kids with the same first syllable. My older sister is Vyksin. Our parents used to get a kick out of calling us both “Vyk” and seeing whether or not we could figure out which one of us was being spoken to. But, I digress, and am going back farther than I had planned.

I had left the village I grew up in to go to the cathedral in Stormwind. At the time, the Blood Elves and the humans were not at war. At least, not that I knew. I had decided I wanted to become a priest, and that was the only place to go. (After all, no Blood Elf had ever wanted to serve the Light before, so there were no places of learning and training for me to go amongst my own kind.) I had been traveling for nearly month when I was waylaid on the road outside of Ironforge. A group of humans and dwarves attacked me from the trees, their cries and the clanging of weapons creating such confusion that I did not even have time to use what abilities I had to protect myself. All that I remember of the next few minutes is a blur of pain and blood. I do remember the feel of the blades cutting through my flesh, though. They were dull and dirty, causing more of a ripping and tearing than true cutting and slicing. Thankfully, I finally lost consciousness before they did their worst to me. I will leave out the description of that. Let us just say that one of the dwarves had a wild boar as a pet, and he had a taste for Blood Elf.

They left me for dead there, in the freezing ice and snow. And as I lay there, bleeding and dying, all I could do was pray to the Light, and ask forgiveness for what had driven me to this moment.

And that was when it happened…

(To be continued…)