((Below is a little story written by one of Da Docta’s newest members, Jazzsavitch. There’s an interesting twist to the standard fare of Forsaken warlocks, which I like. And I hope you do as well.))

Jazzsavitch.  It is actually a first and a last name run together: Jazz Savitch is a pseudonym for an undead character “born” into that fantasy World where Warcraft reigns, and playing the role is as important, and as much fun, as leveling up.

John Savage was a 6’-4” swaggering, muscle-bound, steely-eyed womanizer. He would, for lack of a better thing to do on a Friday night, turn his charm, wit, and muscle into weapons of emotional ruin on some young unsuspecting tavern-frequenting female filled with Cinderella dreams of a cottage in the forest surrounded by a white picket fence while watching 2.3 kids play at her feet.  Foolishness! His life as a lumberjack supported his passion of ruin. And when it happened, he deserved his fate.

Late one Saturday night, while driving home from the apartment of his latest conquest, the black of night, the rain on the windshield, the standing water on the road, and the jazz music blaring throughout the cab coalesced into a formula of death. Taking a blind curve to quickly, he did not see the tree trunk freshly lying in the middle of his lane. No time to react. The air bag would have deployed before his foot left the accelerator, but an air bag was not a stock item on his pride and joy, a 1969 Chevy Corvette. Seat belt? Of course! It was in perfect operating condition, since it hadn’t been used but a dozen times in its life. And it wasn’t used on this night either. The impact from the steering wheel collapsed his chest. With no way to breathe he died within seconds. They found a small piece of his jaw in the back seat. The rest had been pulverized, and completely severed from his face. It was a closed-casket ceremony.

The living die a little each day, until the end. And when you’re dead, you’re dead. But when you are undead, and the Dark Lady beckons, you begin to truly live. In his undeath, John Savage became Jazz Savitch. Held to the code of the Forsaken, Jazz is compelled by unknown means to scour the lands of Azeroth, Kalimdor, Outland, and Northrend. Greed, lust, vengeance, or just the desire to see what’s further on down the road, Jazz, the Warlock, presses on. Mining, tailoring, fishing and cooking. These are his trades now. Demons and souls, life force, fire and shadow. These are his tools. Death . . . is a hobby.

Sometime during his undeath, he wished to speak again. You see, his jaw was still missing when Dark Lady called him. Most of his speech consisted of murky gurgles, quivering vocals and tonsil jibbers. It was simply garish. So he made a pact with the Forsaken. He would have a special surgery performed which would allow him to speak. ((See the Barber in the upper level of Undercity.)) But it was to come at a price. No, not silver, not gold, nor any other material goods. That would be too easy. No! In order for Jazz to speak, and to pay for using his voice as a weapon of ruin during his life, he would have to speak in rhyme. It is, by any standard, a curse!

If you happen to find Jazzsavitch flying in Nagrand, mining in Silverpine, fishing in Winterspring, killing Ogres in Zangarmarsh, or feeding his Raptor in Un’Goro Crater, take a close look. You will see a leather strap in the shape of an ‘X’ across his face. This is a permanent part of the surgery; it holds his face together. And if you make him speak, beware his curse! His capacity to ruin still pervades – but this time, it will be your ears!