(A female human warlock sits on a chair by a fire, downing her fourth or fifth glass of Kungaloosh at 10 a.m. A felhunter lays at her feet, asleep -- you think. The warlock gives a world-weary smile, as if to laugh at you in boredom)

The name is Vodkamartini, dear. The latest of a fine line of necromancers, sorcerers, witches, warlocks ... and drunks. Hah!

Mommy and Daddy? What a pair they were ... psh, not really. Mommy? Just another tailoring and cooking human wench. She died in ritual childbirth when she bore me. Daddy made sure of that. He was such a macabre necromancer. I'm surprised he didn't try to zombify me as an infant, but I guess he had enough gnomes in formaldehyde jars to know there isn't a market for undead newborns. Sigh. I wish sometimes he had done that to my older sister, Sinner, but she "saw the light" and ran off to become a disc priest. Daddy would also raise my mother up from the grave whenever he was fed up with me as a child. "Don't keep acting like that or I'll summon up your mother!" was his threat. Getting spanked by a brain-eating zombie that shares some resemblance is quite terrifying to a 5-year-old, but then you realize you can out run a zombie for a while. It kept me fit at least.

When it dawned on dear old dad that she couldn't catch me anymore, he turned my mother into a banshee and had her haunt me at night. Turns out she kept nagging on him too from the grave. "Haven't you dusted the house?" "Wear a clean shirt!" "Don't let our little pagan daughter dance naked on the mailbox outside in the winter!" He finally had enough of it and turned her into a soulshard. That's one of the things that made me choose becoming a warlock over a necromancer. Sure, sulphur isn't much better than the stench of rotting flesh, but demons are nothing compared to angry dead family members being summoned over for the holidays. In fact, Mommy's soulshard became my first soulstone, and I used it in my first self-loathing test when I hopped into the living room bonfire. "Obviously it was HER soulshard you used," he told me upon my rez. "You came back twice the b--ch."

Dad was so disappointed with my choice. More likely it was the timing of when I told him. He'd just ravaged a troll village and was to give me 30 corpses to practice on. In the end, I guess he realized he could live with me being just as damned as him. The Scourge, the Burning Legion (I renounce, I renounce, I'm loyal to Stormwind now), there really wasn't much of a difference then. But dear old dad did teach me about herbalism. That made money. I taught myself glyph making, and made more money. And he also taught me the secrets of making alcohol! Kungaloosh, fishing ales ... if only I got his bloodwine recipe. One day when this is all over, I plan to rebuild the family plantation in Southshore. Only a major cataclysm will stop me.

As for Dad? He had correspondence with another necromancer named Kelthuzad. He received a letter from the bloke, telling him to come up to Naxxramas. Kel was impressed enough with Dad's persistent requests to aid the Scourge. He was told he would have to work his way up the ladder, but he'd be one of many lucky fellows assisting a fellow by the name of Gluth. He left immediately, brainlessly overjoyed like a zombie at the prospect. (Sneers) Personally, I hope he's chow for some undead mongrel, otherwise, the next time I see him, I'll just metamorph into a demon form and ignite the SOB into a cinder. (Angrily tosses her glass into fire, which roars a sickly green for a few minutes)

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