They found me among the rats and bones.
There is fogginess. I cannot recall more than the hazy memory of instinct.. gutting, slashing, gnawing. Then, clarity as sharp as a knife in the gut.
I have broken a dozen mirrors. Better to have bad luck than see my rotting form. I avoid the Undercity like the Plague (HAH!), preferring the dry heat and relentless sun of Kalimdor to the constant reminder of my abhorrent nature.
Out there, alone in the wilds, I can almost remember who I was.
Ribcages remind me of piano keys. I sit atop the eviscerated corpses of my foes and tap at their bones... In some ways, I can hear the music, the wonderful orchestral joy that I recall before the Scourge.
But, for weeks I wondered: who was I?
I record this now, frantically, upon the skin of a gnome. To my disgust, I am burning these letters into the fatty flesh. I will skin the poor fool and tan his hide to preserve the text.
For I have remembered who I am.
Don Saguli, the Master Violinist.
