Death Knight Intro - Walk-through / No Commentary

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The Birth of Revanok
In the final days before the plague swept through Lordaeron, Varon Drayce was a simple man of unyielding resolve. A humble blacksmith in the town of Harrensvale, he spent his days forging plowshares and horseshoes for the farmers who called the valley home. Though his craft was plain, his devotion to his family was boundless. His wife, Elira, and their young son, Caelan, were his world. They lived modestly, yet happily, untouched by the whispers of war and death creeping ever closer from the north.
But peace is a fragile thing.
The first signs of the plague came not with corpses but with desperation. Refugees streamed south, their eyes hollow and their stories chilling. Entire villages were consumed overnight, they said, their dead rising to slaughter the living. Varon dismissed the tales as exaggerated panic. "Let the soldiers handle it," he told Elira one night as they sat by the fire. "We've got our own work to do."
But when the plague finally came to Harrensvale, it arrived not as a slow wave but as an unrelenting storm.
The Fall of Harrensvale
It began with the grain. Farmers who ate from the tainted harvest grew feverish and pale, their bodies wracked with spasms before death claimed them. Then, in the dead of night, they rose again. Varon woke to screams outside his home. Grabbing his hammer, he rushed into the streets to find chaos. Neighbors he had known all his life were now shambling horrors, their lifeless eyes devoid of humanity. They tore through the town, their claws and teeth rending flesh as the living fled in terror.
Varon fought valiantly, his hammer crushing skulls and breaking bones, but it was a futile effort. The undead were relentless, their numbers growing with each passing moment. By the time he returned to his home, it was already too late. The door was splintered, and inside he found Elira and Caelan cornered by a ghoul. Elira had armed herself with a kitchen knife, her trembling hands slick with blood, but the creature’s strength was overwhelming.
Varon roared as he charged forward, driving his hammer into the ghoul’s head. It fell with a sickening crunch, but not before its claws had raked across Elira’s chest. She collapsed into his arms, her blood soaking into his tunic. “Save him,” she whispered, her voice weak. Her gaze flicked to Caelan, who stood frozen, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Varon held her until her breathing stopped. There was no time to grieve. He grabbed Caelan and fled into the night, the screams of his neighbors echoing behind him.
The Betrayal of Hope
For weeks, Varon and Caelan wandered the wilderness, evading roving bands of undead and searching for sanctuary. Their bond deepened as they relied on each other for survival. Varon’s hands, once calloused from the forge, became bloodied from countless fights. Yet, despite his efforts, the world around them grew darker. News of Arthas Menethil’s betrayal and the fall of Lordaeron spread like wildfire. Hope was a fading ember.
When they finally stumbled upon a group of survivors, Varon dared to believe they had found safety. The group welcomed them into their camp, sharing food and stories. For the first time in weeks, Caelan laughed, a small but precious sound that filled Varon’s heart with warmth.
But safety was an illusion. One of the survivors, desperate and paranoid, had been hiding an infected wound. The plague took him in the night, and by morning the camp was a slaughterhouse. Varon woke to Caelan’s screams as the boy was dragged from their tent by the reanimated corpses of their newfound allies. He fought with all his strength, his hammer breaking bodies and bones, but he was outnumbered. The last thing he saw was his son’s terrified face before a blade pierced his chest.
The Call of the Lich King
Death was not the end.
Varon awoke in darkness. His body, broken and lifeless, was no longer his own. The chill of Frostmourne’s will coursed through him, silencing his grief and hardening his soul. The whispers of the Lich King filled his mind, promising power and vengeance. He remembered his pain-the loss of Elira, the terror in Caelan’s eyes-and he clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.
“Serve me,” the voice commanded, “and I will give you the strength to avenge them.”
Varon Drayce died that day, his soul bound to the frozen will of the Scourge. In his place rose Revanok, a Death Knight clad in dark plate and wielding a runeblade etched with the runes of despair. His memories, twisted and incomplete, fueled his hatred for the living and the undead alike. He became a weapon of the Lich King, his humanity buried beneath layers of frost and blood.
Yet, in the cold recesses of his mind, a faint ember remained-a flicker of the man who once fought to save his family. It whispered to him, a quiet reminder of who he had been. Revanok ignored it, for the pain was too great. And so, he marched into the endless night, a harbinger of death and destruction, his heart frozen but never truly silent.