My name is Arrens Caltrains. I am Forsaken.

Though I clearly have not always been in this position, I have resigned myself to this life.

Life. What a strange word for my current…affliction.

The Undead all have stories. Some have vague memories of their former life. Some have none at all. Some are consumed by their existence only in its current form and care nothing about the families and existence they have left behind. Few have chosen this path. For most, it was forced upon us when Arthas and his armies invaded Lordaeron. A few brave or ignorant souls chose to have this life thrust upon them, viewing it as an adventure; as if life while living was any less of an adventure.

But I digress. This journal shall detail my former life and my current unlife, as it were. And as any good history, the best place to start is the beginning.

I was born the only child to a farming family. Northshire Valley was my home. The family farm provided potatoes and corn for some of the smaller shops found within the vaunted walls of Stormwind. We were far from rich. In fact, the money my father did earn was spent on paying debts incurred through his blatant use of dwarven spirits and his all-consuming need to gamble. The only time he was sober was in the morning, tending to the crops. As soon as his day’s chores were complete, he would imbibe upon the liquor that would quell his troubled soul.

I realized young that this was not the life for me. When I came of age (15, as memory serves), I bid my family farewell and travelled north to the sea-faring village of Menethil Harbor. I fell in love with the Great Sea and found my calling working the docks. I frequently stowed away upon the various vessels that made port there until I was caught by Captain John Barrows.

The captain would have thrown me overboard on sight. He should have, based upon the laws of the sea. I know not why he chose to spare me. Perhaps he saw something in me. Something he could tame, control, mould. He put me to work, first in the ship’s galley, then working the sails. Days and nights would pass by with nothing more than a few passing moments of sleep until I was called to duty again. Yet I never complained. I understood quickly that I owed my life to Capt. Barrows and took it upon myself to work off my debt and earn my keep.

Years went by. Still keeping the same work ethic as when I started, I was eventually promoted to Chief of the Boat. Capt. Barrows and I became close confidants. He had scrubbed the youthful playfulness from my body with a mixture of hard work, salt and sea brine. He taught me the ways of the sailor. Sometimes it was providing simple passage from the dwarven lands in Menethil to the elven city in Darkshore. Other times, it was boarding passing ships and cutting down other sailors to heist their cargo. Was it honorable work? No. But life on the sea will make any man, dwarf or elf question what is truly “honorable”.

We continued this line of work for many months, hauling large casks of ale, food and medicinal supplies, then selling to the highest bidder at the nearest available port. Life, while difficult on the sea, was adventurous…

…until the storm.

While taking inventory of our latest pirated booty, we encountered an unusually large storm. Storms on the high seas are not uncommon. We had gone through some of the most vicious gales the gods could have created and made safe passage with nary a scratch. But this one was different. It was like none the crew had ever sailed through in our 20 years together. When two of our crew were tossed overboard and swallowed by the raging seas, I consulted with Capt. Barrow and we determined it would suit us best to seek safe harbor. We were a bit north of Lordaeron and knew of no ports within three days. We could only hope for the best.

As the winds and the seas whipped us closer to shore, our lookout noticed several other ships not far behind. We had assumed they were also seeking harbor from the raging waters. But there seemed to be far too many for that to be the case. This appeared to be a naval invasion, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the days of Admiral Proudmoore’s fleet.

But why? Who were they? The ships didn’t seem out of the ordinary, save for the sheer number of them.

We had no time to concern ourselves with them. The winds blew harder and land was dangerously close. With the seas rising and falling, there was no way of knowing the depth of the water below our keel. Running aground was a very likely occurrence at this point.

The captain made a decision: We would sail back out, away from the land and directly into the oncoming naval onslaught. As the coxswain fought hard to swing the ship about, it seemed the gods had other ideas. The winds shifted, furthering our peril as we neared even closer to land, seemingly sailing backwards.

The first jarring of the boat upon the rocks below seemed a mocking laughter from the deities above. The second one split the ship in two, clear across the beams. I tried everything within my power to get to the captain. My shipmates were thrown into the sea, bodies shattered upon the sometimes-appearing rocks below. My last sight was of the captain falling into the open waters, sucked down under the last remains of his mighty ship.