Hey Grin,

This is the beginning of a chronicle I will be writing to explore Porkflower's character. I will be making (hopefully) weekly installments, and will later put it on the Ve Co. forums.

If you enjoyed reading Diary of a Lizardrat (something I recently turned into a short story that has been published in a magazine) I am sure you will enjoy this. If anything, The Adventures of Porkflower will be far easier to read & comprehend...

Anyway, here we go!

The Adventures of Porkflower, Lord of Misery

It would be remiss of me to allow you to assume that I am the legendary Porkflower, Lord of Misery. No, no. My place in this world is much less than that of the great priest. Porkflower often told me that he was but a lame pawn upon the chessboard of the Gods, so I suppose that would make me one of the fibers that composed his being.

You see, I owe my life to Porkflower. He saved me, once, long ago, when I was a cut throat bastard who preyed on the weak. I had been stabbed by an Alliance guardsman when my band’s attack on a merchant caravan went sour, and as I writhed in the dust, moaning life, cursing the Gods, there was a flash of violet light in the sky above me, and it raced towards the earth like a drunk goblin in a rocket-car across the Shimmering Expanse, (before the Cataclysm, of course). The light grew closer, and the heat intensified. It was Porkflower.

Porkflower, Lord of Misery, rode a legendary phoenix that he had wrested from the iron grip of an ancient elven lord. It darted through the sky and left a trail of billowing smoke and flames that danced amongst the clouds. Porkflower explained to me, later, that the spirit of the phoenix was one of great evil, and that if any rider with less will than he tried to command the fire bird, it would incinerate the fool and tear across Azeroth, leaving a fiery wake of destruction. Harnessing this foul fowl and keeping it alongside him as a travelling companion was pure penance for the priest.

“Porkflower,” I asked him, once, “Does the fire of the bird burn?”

“Deliciously,” he said.

O, Porkflower, Lord of Misery. Where are you, my friend? When the Demon Lord tore the soul from your body and threw the shard into the twisting nether, what became of your brilliant spirit? Are you down there, somewhere, in the underworld, adding more weight to the albatross of penance that you carry upon your rotten neck? With this bastion of light departed from our mortal reaches, I find it is my duty to spread the story of Porkflower, Lord of Misery, so that we, the maggots who crawl and feast upon the flesh of Azeroth, might learn the holy ways and hear the echoes of the teachings of Porkflower.

Forgive my tangents. The death, or relative death, for I am not sure that Porkflower can truly be slain, has left me shaken and disturbed. As I said, I was a common brigand who had been left wounded upon the side of the road in the Redridge Mountains. I had no hope of survival, I knew my bleeding wounds were too great. I thought, as the phoenix roared across the heavens, bearing my savior, that I had surely eaten too much Peacebloom that day.

Porkflower abandoned his fiery steed in the sky and floated down towards me upon a pillow of clouds. My nose was filled with the putrefying stench of burning undead flesh, and I wondered what hellish creature had been sent to deride me in my final gulps of agony. I later learned that Porkflower made a habit of dismounting the phoenix in the air, so that the foul beast could not get close enough to the plants and animals to do its will, which was to burn EVERYTHING. So, the smoldering priest lazily levitated down towards me, the bleeding brigand.

“What have we here?” He asked in a horrible voice. It is a miracle Porkflower could speak at all, for you see, the bottom jaw of his face was missing. He claimed it had been stolen some decades ago by the imp of an enraged warlock he had imprisoned in a cell made of enchanted dragon bones. “A wounded human. How… tragic.”

It is worth explaining that Porkflower was loyal to only one thing: penance. He had no concern for the Alliance or for the Horde, and while he gained infamy serving as a healer for the notorious Blacktooth Grin, he only did so because, in his own words, “Nothing could bring me greater displeasure.”

It is worthwhile now to describe Porkflower, for he is, or was, as attractive physically as a trogg is smart mentally. He was a Forsaken, raised personally by Sylvanas herself. His bottom jaw was missing, and so when he did not want to offend the sight of those around him, he wrapped a white cloth mask around the bottom half of his face. His hair retained the baldness he bore in life, and the lank, green hair that remained in his head smelled like the acrid pits of Felwood. He wore simple clothes, a grey tunic, grey pants, slippers. They were all worn by his journeys. His pants were burned badly by riding on the phoenix. He carried with him, always, the Maw of the Dragonlord and the Ledger of Revolting Rituals. His eyes were twin pools of pure light that he could use to bring hope to his allies in the most dire of situations or despair to his enemies when they had the upper hand.

So, Porkflower, the legendary undead priest, watched me as I bled out on the street. I was too weak to talk, and the only sound that escaped my parched lips was a faint note of horror as a hexed troll voodoo mask floated up behind Porkflower and started gnawing on his rotting skull.

Porkflower swatted the voodoo fetish away. “Not now!” he screamed, and said something in a tongue I do not dare pen here. The floating voodoo mask, painted into a face of hideous agony, shrieked and clattered in what seemed to be rage before slowly vanishing from sight. Porkflower apologized for the strange mask while he stood over me, watching the life ebb from my eyes.

“You see,” he explained, paying no heed to the fact that I was about to die, “that voodoo mask is the trapped soul of a very, very nasty troll witch doctor that had a quarrel with me a few years ago. I can’t remember exactly what it was about.” He stared up into the sky for a moment. “I think it had something to do with children. And dinner.” An awful sound came from behind his mask, something like a cough.

To cut my story short, for it is one of the most minor deeds of Porkflower, I died that day. He watched me as I died. Then, the moment before my spirit fled my body, the healing hands of Porkflower forced the light of life back into my broken being. I was alive! I sat up and coughed blood into my hands, and got down onto my knees and thanked salvation, thanked the undead for what he had done. He kicked me in the face.

“Get up,” he spat, “I only saved you because knowing that I helped a shit like you is going to cause me years of misery. Get up, get up.”