World of Warcraft®

Zatia ran a hand through her hair, enjoying the sensation of silken strands against twisted horn. Another misstep, another setback. The mage she had counted on to redo her armor was gone, dead. Now she had no way of procuring a master Runesmith, or an illusion strong enough to fool the Silvermoon Guards.
Damn.
And here she was, yet again, in the sleezy port town called Booty Bay. The grimy docks and salty air made her lip curl. Goblins ran the place, and made sure that nothing went amiss under their overly large noses. Unless, that is, you could pay for your secrecy. She was running out of gold.
Sitting alone in the high corner of the bar, she played idly with the fractured shard that once held her soul. Or part of it. She was having a hard time believing her former Master's claims. Everyone knew you couldn't survive unless your soul was intact.
Right?
Right in the middle of her musing, some lunk headed Human approached her. Called her pretty, even. She considered the possible benefits of playing into his naivety. But, not, she was pickier than that. Best to avoid the woefully stupid and preserve any integrity she had left.
Zatia answered his questions, and the atmosphere grew more tense. A neighboring table upped the game as a man began publicly tormenting one of his "students". The moron, ill at ease, tried to diffuse the situation, but failed. Miserably. Very miserably. But the stage was set and charged.
He beat a hasty retreat.
Alone once more, Zatia leaned back and considered her options. She could pursue her current job and make a fortune... yet she could hardly trust the offers of demons. Besides, this stank of personal vengeance. Better bet was she could... persuade the Elf to pay her more to spare his pitiful life.
Speaking of...
Zatia withdrew a soul shard from the pouch tied at her hip. Pressing it to her chest, the focused and called forth the life trapped within. The gem flashed, then darkened, splitting down the middle. Empty. Drat. She'd need to find another source tonight, or risk the lethargy taking over again.
Perhaps Goldshire would yield a promising catch.
She hated her reliance on the necromancer's gems. Hated what she was, and what she had to do to survive. If and when she found a way to resolve her problem, she'd kill him too. Until then, however, she'd leave him alive and able to empower the shards she was stealing from him.
Maybe death was the better option...
Finishing her whiskey, Zatia let her chair fall to all four legs with a bang. The storm brewing in the back of her mind was beginning to push its way into her forethoughts. Not a good sign. She would hunt, find a capable wizard and then handle this damned job.
Heh. Damned job. Payed by demons.
A shake of the head banished the ridiculous thought. Stalking out of the bar, Zatia looked up at the sky. Somehow, the stars always made her feel ...complete, somehow. Maybe Flask was right. Maybe she did only have half of her soul. It would explain her need to consume others'.
Perhaps she'd set aside some time to find the rest of herself.
Perhaps she'd claim what was rightfully hers.

In life, Remerus Flask has been a dashing and swarthy man. His broad shoulders and narrow hips had made him quite popular among the ladies in the city. He wore only the finest coats and frocks money could buy. His less-than-quaint cottage in the hills of Northern Lordaeron had drawn equal parts wonder and envy.
Now, his flesh hung from his bones and the malignant creep of decay had eviscerated any beauty his features once held. Long he had searched for a cure, for a chance to cling to life and humanity. He'd had a promising career in Dalaran once, but no longer. In his desperation, Remerus had turned to the only option he felt he had left. Necromancy.
Following the tracks of the banished Kel'Thuzad, Rem had searched in vain for a way to fight off the hateful Plague. Eventually, he'd turned to the assistance of wholly undesirable allies; demons. But, they had proven useful in collecting specimens for his research, and so his disdain ebbed. Trial after trial, year after forsaken year his condition slowly worsened, held back only meagerly by his work.
Flask soon discovered that transfusions were the most effective treatment. For him. He'd collected several types of Scourge to test his remedies on as well. Few showed any promise. His only hope was to find a creature immune to the ravages of the Plague, and steal its very essence for himself.
And then she was captured.
The fine bone structure and developed muscles lured him into thinking she was some manner of elf, but that was not so. The little creature fought hard, at first, and it wasn't until she'd given into the sedatives that Remerus could inspect his prize thoroughly. The dark skin, the glowing eyes... the deformities.
This was one of the Horde's assassins. A Halforcen. What a prize indeed.
Hope renewed, and time running out, Rem redoubled his efforts. The halfblood became his primary source. Her marrow, her blood, even bits of her flesh were used in his experiments. He used her until she lay in pools of her own fluids, nearly dead. Yet, nothing could cure his deteriorating state.
In a last ditch effort to save his own life, he took the advice of one of his more... influential servants. Harnessing the dark magics, he drew away the child's soul. But, just as the crystal he was creating began to form...all hell broke loose.
Jr'ali, the succubus attending him, led a rebellion. The demons, dissatisfied with his obsessions and lack of wanton destruction, broke his feeble hold over them.
His cottage, burned to the ground.
His prisoners, freed in the night.
His last hope to regain his humanity, utterly dashed.
Yet, out of such great misery, hope remained. Remerus clung pathetically to the dimly glowing soulshard. He could feel the force within struggle to be released, to rejoin with the rest of itself. Fury overcame him, and his desires shifted in the wake of his losses. Not only would he deal with the foul miscreants who betrayed him, he would see to it that every last hope of the living was crushed.
If he could not have hope, no one could.
Remerus spun the fragile crystal in his hand. This would be the weapon of his revenge. From the sundered soul of a halfbreed child would come his greatest accomplishment.
Death to the living. No one would be free of his plague.
Now, to forge his ingot into a great and powerful blade...

Something snapped in her that night. Sitting at the bar, listening to heroes talk about all of their adventures, their glory. The laughter and togetherness. She'd never really had that. Her whole life, or what she remembered of it, was about duty. Survival. Debt.
Well, enough was enough. Shove the jobs, shove Flask and his orders and shove anyone who thought to stop her now.
In her heart, she knew she would never truly belong. Hell, even the ridicule she faced for being other was more welcome than the constant solitude.
So, she abandoned her things, took only her armor and axes.
A fair bit of gold went to a goblin who assured her he could sneak her into this new, primal world. As much as she hated mage-travel, there was no other way. This would be a one-way deal for her. Once on the other side, Zatia would be on her own. She'd have to establish her own contacts.
Immediately she set about exploring. The ever-night landscape was nothing short of miraculous to her. Unlike the great trees of Ashenvale, which merely blocked the light, Shadowmoon Valley had only the moon. How could that be?
What sort of world had she blundered into?

((bumps into thread, hoping to see more :D ))