The Doll Named Pamela

My name was Darion Mograine. I was the son of Alexandros Mograine, the lord of Southshore, master of the Ashbringer, and a hero who could rival the Paladin Uther.

When the Scourge ravaged the land, the mighty Kingdom of Lordaeron and the Kingdom of Gilneas both suffered its depredations. Lordaeron even fell as a kingdom. But Southshore, small and weak as it was, became a haven from the Undead, protected by my father alone, with nothing but his sword. Countless commoners who survived the disaster passed through Southshore on their way to the safety of the south. And, of course, many brave souls chose to stay, following my father and fighting the Scourge.

My father was busy. What I remembered most clearly from that time was the sight of his back as he left. It was as solid as a mountain, and the image was etched deep in my mind. It showed me what a great hero my father was.

But even a hero so respected and beloved never returned from an expedition after the Scourge had been driven back. No one returned from that battle. Along with my father, I lost my brother.

My brother, Reno Mograine, was a hero too—or at least, he was in my eyes. He wasn't as beloved as our father, nor was he as powerful, but he was Father's most capable aide, and he went with him on every campaign. I often overheard him grumbling that Father favored me and was too hard on him. But I envied and admired him. I envied him for fighting beside a father who was a hero, and admired his courage and exceptional bearing. Sadly, it all came to nothing.

I didn't understand why people were so forgetful. Father had done so much for them. He had given