Origins: Cobb Eastman

It was pitch black in the woods, where the moon's light had difficulty piercing the leaves. They were only just starting to turn the bright orange, reds, and yellows of autumn's fiery palette, signaling that summer was on it's last legs.

Cobb could care less. He was running as fast as his long, thin legs could carry him, wheezing with the exertion. It was all he could do not to trip on roots hidden under the dirt, moss and leaves of the loamy ground as he made his way to the Crone's hut. He had made the journey many times at night, sneaking out of his family's home, but never in such haste. And never as terrified as he was now.

What have I done? What have I done! His thoughts raced through is mind, a manic and uneven cadence to match his running. From his doorway to hers, he ran full out, as if wolves were on his heels. His short, brown hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat by the time he burst out of the trees and into the small clearing where her hut was.

It was a small house, built of mud and thatch and stones, and slowly crumbling from vines climbing up the walls, as if a giant hand was grasping it to pull it back into the trees and earth. As a young child, he was terrified of this house and the woman who called it home. He was still afraid of her, but only because he knew her ire when he didn't complete his studies to her satisfaction. It was the only place he felt safe these days. Home certainly wasn't.

He rapped his knuckles on the wooden door, quickly but quietly, a desperate and uneven tattoo. When the hut remained dark and silent, he did it again, more intently and whispered, “Get up old woman, I know you're there and I've done something...” He trailed off, swallowing and looking over his shoulder, paranoid even now.

“Please,” he whined, impatient, glancing over his shoulder towards the village for anyone who might have followed. His heart was still pounding from his flight, and from adrenaline and fear, and he was in no mood to stand in the dark, outside, exposed. He was about to start pounding on the door, caution be damned, when he heard grumbling, and saw a soft glow from the hearth, the fire being re-awoken.

The bolt was undone, the iron scratching against the old, weathered wood, and the door opened a tiny crack. There she stood, in all her grumpy, ancient glory. Grey hair with a mind of its own stood frizzy in every direction around a gaunt, wrinkled face. She was much shorter than Cobb, by a head, but he always felt small around her, even though she looked as if a stiff breeze could tip her over. Her eyes were a bright green, and seemed to almost shine like jewels, even in the dark. Especially in the dark. They were unnerving. Cobb shivered under her scrutiny.

“Boy,” her voice threatening, “This had better be the best damn tale you've ever told to warrant me giving up beauty sleep.”

“I killed him. I killed my father.”

.. :: | :: ..

Cobb peeked through the shutters at the village outside, normally quiet at this time of night, but torches were flickering against walls and windows, and faint shouts could be heard. He was still out of breath from running out to the forest that surrounded the quaint town, terrified of what he'd done. The Crone was muttering excitedly behind him, shuffling about, occasionally chuckling. Her ancient, hunched form was pulling down a bundle of herbs that had dried over her hearth.

“How can you be laughing?! There is absolutely nothing to be happy about, old woman,” Cobb cried, pulling away from the window, and the view of the awakening village.

“Oh, no?” she asks, clearly amused by the situation, and Cobb couldn't understand how.

“I killed my father!” Cobb ran his hands down his face in anguish, and dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “I killed him,” he repeated, more to himself than to the Crone. “I set him on fire. I set him on fire. With only my mind!” The last words came out as a wail, high pitched and keening, as if he was nothing more than a toddler having a tantrum, and not a 17 year old young man.

The Crone just chuckled again and continued her gathering. Cobb dropped his hands and shot her a look that could kill. Literally, he realized. “What is wrong with you. My father is dead because of me. Because of what you've taught me.”

“And good riddance to him, boy! Serves him right for beating you. Beating you bloody instead of letting you be who you really are, trying to force you into a mold you were never meant to fit.”

“No, instead, you've turned me into a monster!” Cobb could feel the tears coming down his face, and he wiped them away in anger. His mother had seen what he'd done, the whole thing. She was the one that had called him a monster, used those very words, and backed away in fear and shock as her husband burned down to his bones after striking Cobb across the face for the last time.

The Crone shook her head. “No, boy, not a monster. Powerful. You could be truly great, if you get the chance to continue your studies. These half-wit villagers wouldn't recognize true talent if it spit on them.”

She turned away then, to continue gathering up supplies, putting them away into an old traveling bag made of stained leather. It was only a moment later, though, that she stopped, ear cocked towards her door. The smile fading from her face.

“Cobb, child, take this,” she said, her tone hushed, pushing the leather bag into his arms with more force than he realized she could muster. He wanted to protest her constantly calling him a child when he wasn't one, but the urgency in her voice kept him silent. His blubbering confession of what had happened not an hour before had given her a strange, manic energy and unusual strength. And something else, too, something beneath the surface that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It made him uneasy.

Cobb listened then, too, holding his breath to catch whatever it was that she thought she had heard. It didn't take long before he realized the shouting from the village was getting louder...and closer.

The fire, he thought to himself. Why aren't they putting out the fire he started?

“Oh,” the old Crone whispered. “They're coming here.”

Her eyes got big as plates, the whites shining in the flickering light of her hearth, and that strange, otherworldly energy made them seem even brighter than usual. Bright, and green, and almost mad.

She whirled around, making Cobb jump, and gripped his shoulders so tight, he knew he'd have a new set of bruises over his father's old ones. “Quick, boy. Grab whatever else is useful, and climb out through the hatch up above.”

Cobb nodded, wiping stray tears from his eyes again, and frantically grabbed what few herbs he recognized from her tutelage, along with a wine-skin and an old cloak. Throwing the cloak over his shoulders, he climbed the rickety ladder up to the loft, and eased himself over to the loose part of thatch that the old woman would prop open on good days, when the weather was dry and the sun could shine in.

The shouting had grown very loud now, and flickering lights from torches could be seen through the little window below. He looked back only briefly and saw the old woman whispering over a bit of purple glass, which she then tucked into her robe.

He shook his head and opened the hatch in the roof just enough to squeeze out, and shut it behind himself as he clung to the top of the hut. Below, he heard the Crone screech at the small mob that had gathered, like a pack of hungry, rabid wolves.

“Begone! You have no business here! Begone, I said!” She shouted from her doorway. Her voice cracked, and Cobb swore she sounded almost excited. Like laughter was threatening to bubble up in between her curses.

“Witch!” some of the villagers cried, while others in the crowd just screamed, “Burn it down!” or “Kill her and kill the monster child!”. He heard his mother's shrill voice among them, calling out “Damn you witch! Damn you for cursing my boy! My beautiful boy!”

You were the one who cursed me, mother, by never protecting what should have been your greatest treasure, Cobb thought to himself. Cursed me to live a life of pain and solitude. He wasn't surprised she was part of the mob. She was meek and stupid, and followed others orders instead of thinking for herself; she always had. He hated her as much as he had hated his father, for her unwillingness - or inability - to shield him from his father's abuses his entire life.

He was forced back to his new and terrible reality when he heard the old woman screech sharply in pain, like a wounded hawk. He carefully crawled up to the top of the roof, peeking over the edge to get a glimpse of what was happening below.

The villagers had surrounded her, grabbed her roughly, and pulled her away from her hut. They were building a pyre. They wouldn't! He thought to himself, horrified. They wouldn't dare...not without a trial of some kind! Not without proof she had done something wrong!

But the fervor, fear, and anger of the village would not be quelled. They pushed and pulled at the old woman, tearing at her already tattered clothing, scratching at her face and arms, keeping her prisoner while they piled more branches high, and bound her hands together tightly, waving signs against evil and spitting at her.

Cobb was terrified. These were the people he had grown up seeing every day, and most were common folk more likely to invite you in for tea and freshly baked bread, than harm another person. Yet here they were, preparing to burn his mentor alive.

He covered his mouth to keep from crying out and laid as flat as he could while still keeping an eye on the angry mob below. He thought at first he might try to escape, try to run into the woods, but the men of the village had brought out their dogs, and there was no way he could get away without being seen. Even now, the beasts circled around the milling people, howling and barking and growling.

The pyre was finished almost as fast as they had started building it. They dragged the Crone over to it, and up to the top, tying her there to a single pole they had erected at its center. She was too old, too frail, and in too much pain from the beatings they had given her already to fight back much. Cobb was sickened by what he saw, but he couldn't look away. The only person in his entire life who had cared about him was about to be burned alive.

Men poured pitch over her head, and over the branches and twigs at her feet. She screeched obscenities at them, each in turn, and at the village as a whole, and at his mother in particular, and his father, who would never hear her particularly nasty opinions of him. There was a pause, then, as those bearing torches gathered around, closer and closer. I'm going to be sick, he thought, and turned his head to quietly retch, praying to the Light that he would not be heard over the commotion below. As if the Light is watching out for you now, fool. Not after what you've done.

They tossed the torches without fanfare, and the flames caught fast, licking up the Crone's ripped robes, now stained with her blood, and dancing up into her frizzy, gray hair, now sticky with the pitch.

She leaned against the pole, barely able to stand, her arms pulled tight against the bonds that kept her in place as her back arched in pain, but then...then, she laughed.

Cobb was struck as silent as the crowd. They all stared at her, in shock, like deer suddenly caught in the open, stupefied by her cackling. It was a full-throated laugh, which quickly morphed into a manic cackling, her voice cracking along with the logs at her feet, as the fire burned hotter and hotter, pushing the spectators back. Her robes burned away, her gray hair too, and her skin seemed to blister and melt, yet still, she laughed.

The villagers began muttering, making the sign against evil, backing away, as scared of what was happening as Cobb was. “By the Light, what are you?” a village elder cried, his eyes wide with fear.

The old Crone fell silent then, finally, the fire roaring as loudly as a lion, and they could barely make out her shout, “Done with you lot, is what I am!”

The fire suddenly burst into a bright green flame that roared up high above the Crone's head, and acrid smoke poured forth, causing the people gathered to panic and run in all directions, coughing and sputtering, tears running down their faces as they choked on the ash. Cobb wasn't quick enough pulling back over the ridge of the roof, and caught a face full of it himself.

It burned down his throat, in his eyes, in his lungs, and he lost his grip on the old, dark thatch of the hut. He slid, then rolled down, off the back of the house, and landed unceremoniously in a heap on the ground, coughing and gagging, and completely out of breath. Run, he heard in his head, a squeaky, annoying voice. Run before they find you, stupid!

Gasping, he dragged himself to his feet, using the vines growing up the crumbling hut's wall and ran into the forest. It was dark under the leaves of the woods, and he didn't know them well. He could barely see through the tears, could barely breathe from the burning in his lungs, whether from running or from the smoke he had inhaled, he couldn't tell.

His foot caught on a root and tripped him up. Stumbling, he hit the loamy earth hard, dead leaves exploding outward where his body hit the forest floor. His nose was filled with the smells of earth and decay.

He scrambled back to his feet, running again, only to cry out as something bit into his shoulder. It hurt. Far worse than any beating his father had given him. It was sharp, and stinging, and he could smell blood, feel it running down his back. Glancing back, he saw the shaft and fletching of an arrow, and realized they had shot him.

They mean to kill me, same as the old woman, he realized.

So run, stupid. That voice again, high-pitched and giggling. He was going mad. He giggled too, at the absurdity, at what his life had become within the course of only a few hours.

They were close behind, and he couldn't get away with his shoulder feeling as though it was on fire. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. It was all just noise and pain.

One of the hunting dogs slammed into him from behind, suddenly, from out of the dark, biting at his head and neck. He rolled, instinct taking over, and kicked out at the furry form that had brought him down. He grinned wickedly as his heel found it's mark, and the large dog yelped and whined, pulling back and wary to attack again.

But the damage was done, as the men who had followed after their beast were now close enough to see, and loud enough to hear, clearly enough for Cobb to recognize their voices. There was Gregor, the innkeeper, and Harold, the fletcher, who he no doubt had to thank for the arrow still lodged in his back.

Even drunken Braed, who was almost never seen without a tankard or a flask, and did all he could to shirk his farm work, stood close by, a pitchfork in hand. They were all so angry, all wearing the same faces his father used to, when he'd come home from the tavern, drunk and surly. Looking to make someone feel as bad as he did. The difference was, these men were sober, and terrified.

Cobb fought back. For once, he thought to himself, or maybe it was that unknown, mad voice in his head, he wasn't sure anymore.

He bit, and scratched, and kicked out, but there were too many of them, and they were all too strong, and too burly. They held him down, hit him, beat him, until he stopped fighting back, until he couldn't fight back anymore. He could only cradle his head and pray to any gods still listening that they would stop before he blacked out.

But he had been beaten too many times in his life to hold out much hope. He knew exactly what every strike would leave behind, these ugly souvenirs of rage. That one will leave a bruise, black and blue, and yellow later. And that one cracked at least two ribs, he thought as a random kick hit him in the side. The next one hit him low in the back, and he felt an even deeper pain, and he knew, deep down, they weren't going to stop.

They were taking it in turns, as more and more of the braver souls in the village found their way into the woods where the men had dropped him. One eye was already swollen shut, but the other made out his mother, and he realized she was shouting for them to stop, to spare her boy.

She moved forward slowly, her face illuminated by the dancing torchlight, inching her way up to where her son lay bleeding on the ground. “Cobby?” she asked, voice quavering. “My boy? My beautiful boy...what did she do to you?”

Cobb choked on a laugh. “Beautiful?” he heard himself sneer, almost choking on the blood. Even now he couldn't bear the falseness of her. Never once had she stood up for him against his father, never once had she spoken out to spare him. In all of his 17 years, he could not recall a single moment where she stepped in to stop his father from taking out his anger on his son.

Even this time, he was certain, she was doing it only out of fear, knowing that if she let the villagers kill him, she and her precious daughters would be alone with no man in the house to care for them. “Beautiful boy? Not so beautiful, now, mother. The Crone did nothing to me!” he choked out, and his mother recoiled, fear back in her face. “She never cursed me! She taught me how to love myself because you would never love me as I deserved!”

He was filled with loathing, and pain, and all he wanted now was for her to suffer as much as he had. He grinned then, his teeth red with his own blood. What he couldn't see was the green fire in his eyes.

His mother did.

His mother saw the fire very clearly as she died in it, screaming like her husband had, as her flesh melted away and her bones turned black. He never stopped grinning.

It was the last thing Cobb saw, before the mob rushed in around him, and then pain, and finally, darkness.

.. :: | :: ..

No one noticed the woman standing on the edge of the clearing, quietly watching the mob beat the young man to death, his one, still-open eye turning glassy and empty, even as it was focused on the pile of smoldering ash that used to be his mother's bones.

She was tall and thin, her face angular, almost gaunt, framed in curls the color of clover honey. She wore a dress of dark green velvet trimmed in gold, and a hooded cloak to match. She stared at the dead body and the villagers slowly realizing what they had done with eyes as green as emeralds and as bright as candlelight, but which held no warmth.

Her former apprentice was almost unrecognizable now, after the mob had finished taking out their fear and rage on his body. The woman sneered and turned away, walking briskly into the dark of the forest, leaving her former home behind to be burned to the ground, as she had no use for it now.

Trailing after her was a little green imp, the tip of his tail smoking faintly with felfire. He skipped after his mistress, his yellow eyes flashing in the dark.

“A pity, yes, mistress? He held promise, didn't he, mistress?” his voice was squeaky and grating, and pleading for attention.

“Silence,” she snapped, and looked over her shoulder to ensure they hadn't been followed. Once she saw there was nothing behind them, she sighed and frowned.

“Yes, Azkol. It is a shame. The boy was easy to manipulate, and he did indeed show some promise. He was willing to kill his own kin, after all, and took to my teaching so readily.”

“At least he got his revenge,” the little demon said, giggling.

“Mmmm, yes,” she replied, humming, a cold smile tugging at her lips. “He did, indeed, get that.” She pictured the look on that stupid cow's face as she burst into flames born purely from her own son's hatred of her. It had been so easy teaching the young man how to hone his skills and control the fire that had already been slowly growing inside his mind and soul. The abuses he had endured from his father were terrible enough. The fact that his mother was hesitant to shield him out of fear for herself and her daughters, and no one in the village bothered to save him from his lot in life only made matters simpler for her. If she had cared about anyone but herself, she would have found it all terribly sad. But she didn't. This had all become simply an inconvenience.

She was glad she had a soulstone prepared for such an occasion. She pulled the now dull and dark purple stone from where she had tucked it away, turning it over in her hands as she considered her next move.

There had been rumors for days of a strange cult, of people dying, of people rising from their graves to walk again and kill their former friends and family. The village had been on edge as the rumors fanned the flames of fear. This entire night's events were inevitable. It had only been a matter of time before something became the spark to light the tinder. She had hoped for a few more days to gather supplies and prepare her new apprentice. Oh, well.

But she had to be careful now. The crown prince himself had even been tasked with discovering the source of the sickness starting to make its way through the populace. Hopefully, she didn't cross paths with him on her way back to the City of Lordaeron. Running into Prince Arthas would make her job of preparing for the coming plague considerably more difficult.

“Azkol,” she gestured to her demon, “I believe the timetable is moving up a bit. We must get to the city quickly. There is still much to be done, and without an apprentice, it is going to take longer than I'd like.”

Her demon nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, mistress. You are so wise.”

The warlock rolled her eyes, but smirked. “Keep watch,” she ordered and began weaving her hands in intricate formations, muttering an incantation to summon another demon. Fire bloomed from the earth at her feet, and from the flames and ash rose a horse seemingly made of coal and flames. A felsteed demon stood before her.

The damp forest floor hissed wherever it stepped and plants wilted where it passed as it walked up to her, and stood still as stone, patient for her to climb upon its back. The only movement was its black tail swishing as it swatted at flies that could never hope to land on its burning back.

As she settled herself into a comfortable position, the horse-demon gave a blood-curdling whinny, and trotted forward, the felfire in its eyes burning brighter, illuminating the trees all around. The imp scampered alongside, easily keeping up.

“Come, Azkol. Our master's plan awaits us.”

The woman who had worn the face of a Crone, in a village that would soon be wiped from the face of the earth, rode off into the night, laughing, eager to aid the Cult of the Damned with killing every last man, woman, and child that walked this world and earn her place as a true servant of the Burning Legion, with power beyond her wildest dreams awaiting her.

.. :: | :: ..

He was cold.

He was cold, and broken, but the voices demanded that he get up.

He could almost hear his mother's voice calling up from the kitchen, warning him that if he didn't get up, his father would come fetch him from his bed.

That was enough to spur him awake.

It was blackness all around. His eyes were open, or so he thought. But he was blind. And it was silent.

Yet still, there were voices, or almost-voices, demanding he get up. He was called. He had to get up, and follow.

His limbs were sluggish. They didn't want to move. The darkness was heavy, pressing in all around him. He pushed back.

The relatively fresh mound of dirt covering an unmarked grave on the furthest edge of the graveyard near the village temple moved and cracked as a very bony hand burst up from underneath. A second hand followed as dark magic crept under the loose ground and compelled those buried there to rise up and join the Scourge army waiting just outside of town. As shallow as the grave was, the body inside was struggling.

Bones were already exposed in places where damaged, swollen flesh had decayed quickly. The dead thing slowly hoisted itself up into a sitting position, and rubbed dirt from out of its eye sockets. Greenish-yellow orbs of light slowly emerged from where the dirt had been, replacing eyes that were no longer there. A broken arrow could be seen sunk deep in what was left of the flesh behind the left shoulder. The body had been wrapped in the same cloak it had been wearing. It was stained with blood and dirt, and decay from being in the damp earth for many days, but it held together as the reanimated body slowly rose to its feet, swaying gently in the breeze.

A groan echoed out of the ghoul's mouth and it lurched forward, stumbling on legs barely attached with withered muscle and sinew. A leather back swung on a thick strap, making the newly arisen corpse's movements even more uneven. It finally settled at the dead thing's hip, and allowed for easier walking by the time the ghoul reached the cemetery gate.

Other sleepers were waking up as well, and the earth rumbled as more dead burst forth from their graves. It made the going a bit more treacherous for the newly reborn undead, as grave after grave opened to release the prisoners within, leaving holes to navigate around. Some of the dead were nothing but bones, while others still had dried muscle and sinew clinging on tightly. All were held together by the magic still coursing through the graveyard, making bones glow, and rattle in the night.

His master was waiting. The general of the army. The Death Knight.

Follow him. Kill. Feed. Obey.
Serve the Scourge.

Yes, the dead thing thought to itself, memories of mothers and fathers and kitchens and warm beds and fear slowly fading away. Yes, I will serve. And I will kill. Again.