The little demon stared at her with its buggy, lidless eyes.

It resembled a frog with long, springy legs and a long tail. It bounced sideways from foot to foot when it was excited. The demon’s name was Ziltip, but she never had to use its name. As Maximillion had instructed, it was bound to her by the demonic summoning spell and had no choice but to cater to her every whim. Since this mostly consisted of hurling small firebolts and cackling, this vocation pleased it.

The new denizen of the Forsaken still seemed unsure of her own calling. Maximillion and Mordo had used the word “warlock”. The term sounded familiar. Perhaps she had studied some of the dark arts in her previous existence. Mordo had warned her that some things from her old life would follow her into undeath.

The moon had moved below the horizon as Hyzanthlay had risen from the tomb. Now the dull sun limped across the perpetually hazy sky. She had spent those hours wandering the ruins of Deathknell with little more purpose then the mindless zombies that made up the current population. The plague had swept through the town quickly, and the residents succumbed to the will of the Lich King before his minions had even come near the place. She had thinned their numbers using a mix of fire and bolts of shadow spells while scavenging for supplies, and Maximillion had rewarded her with a demon. The task he had just asked of her had more gravity to it. He had raised one of his rotting hands and pointed north.

The mossy hill sloped downward. Hyzanthlay’s joints bent more freely now, fastened tightly by her ragged clothing. Some bones were badly damaged and the marrow showed through. She had discarded the shabby dress and now wore a less ragged flax vest. The gaping wound over her heart was now completely hidden. The empty orbs of her eyes glowed gently as she crouched closer to the ground. There was movement in the distance.

One of the camp sentries drew nearer. A young woman, with a mail shirt, brandishing a sword. It seemed like she was alone. Hyzanthlay prepared to attack. She planned to draw the enemy into the dark mists, away from the camp, before slaughtering her.
Her first few spells were simple. Maxmillion had been impressed with how quickly she learned to cast a Shadowbolt. Too quickly, as if she already knew something about it. The song seemed to go along with the thoughts in her head.

The spell hit the sentry squarely, and wounded her, but she did not falter. Her counter-attack was fierce, no match for the novice warlock. Hyzanthlay fell heavily to the ground, her small dagger knocked from her hands. The sentry began to rain down cool but persistent blows with her heavy shortsword on the figure below her. Ziltip enthusiastically threw a firebolt, which missed her and exploded a few feet away, attracting the attention of another sentry closer to the camp. Ziltip didn’t even have time to protest before he had been returned to the nether, and the Scarlet Convert and his initiate turned their aggression back to the undead creature.

Hyzanthlay had raised from the ground enough to face them, and turning to the first sentry raised an open glove and spoke a horrible word. The sentry screamed as her skin exploded into bloody cracks and lesions. She staggered backward, scabby boils spreading over her stricken face. The second sentry stepped forward and raised his sword. Setting his teeth, he tensed his muscles and prepared to strike.

The undead creature raised her eyes but no other part of her moved. Her face was gaunt and expressionless. She was already dead, and could feel nothing.

The sword glinted in the failing light of dusk, and it shone for a moment on the tabard the initiate was wearing, the same tabard that all those bound to the Scarlet Crusade wear. A red flame burned against the pure white background. Hyzanthlay saw the flame, and the emptiness in her chest was suddenly filled with a great and terrible rage. She awoke to a fiendish and burning desire to hunt and kill all that belonged to that white flame, the mark of the Scarlet Crusade.

She could hear something. A long loud wail, a cry of confused terror or the music in her head, but it was a burst of sound that exploded in her ears and left them numb.

The sword fell, and missed. The awkward creature had surprised him with a sudden movement. It had lunged closer, slipped the small dagger from his belt, and swung a misshapen arm around his waist and driven it into his lower side. He howled with pain and leaped back, almost tripping over the stricken sentry. She had struggled to her feet and drawn her sword. The boils on her face now nearly rendered her blind.

There was no hesitation or doubt in Hyzanthlay’s movements now. She struck with all her might at the red flame that she still clutched in her clawed hand. The dagger was well tended, and struck deep. It slipped easily through the mail jerkin and shirt and rendered the flesh beneath. Blood gushed forward from the jagged opening as the force of Hyzanthlay’s skeletal arm jammed it in past the hilt, the growl in her throat rising to a crescendo.

Blood poured from the Initiate’s nose and mouth as his ribs and lungs were torn apart. The sentry staggered to her feet just behind him, perhaps hoping to get away. Up to her wrist in gore, Hyzanthlay reached forward, past the sentry’s twitching body, and grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to stand directly behind her hapless companion. His back burst as the blade drove through his spine and into her chest. He slumped over, sagging between them like a scarecrow, his corpse still leaking blood and bile.

For a moment, she and the undead creature stared at each other. Such a look of surprise on her mangled face! Thin threads of blood dripped from the corners of her mouth and down her chin.

Hyzanthlay stepped back and let both bodies fall to the ground in a steaming, tangled heap. The smell of fresh gore drove her into a new frenzy. She hungrily slurped at the sinew and flesh that dripped from the handle of her knife and forearm. Hyzanthlay was shameless as she knelt before the prone bodies and gorged, instinctively knowing her hunger and how it could be satisfied. The living blood and flesh restored her. The executor’s words returned to her as she was satiated.

Bring me proof, should you return.

The moon was bright and full when Hyzanthlay returned Deathknell, reeking of blood. Her teeth and mouth were stained with it, and it had collected in puddles on the nape of her neck. She threw the armbands at Deathguard Arren’s feet with reckless triumph and angry defiance, waiting expectantly for her next order.

He said nothing at first, and then laughed heartily before speaking.

“You truly are a warlock, Hyzanthlay.”

Arren looked at the documents the novice warlock had retrieved with interest. Apparently, Hyzanthlay had killed someone of repute during her rampage through the Scarlet Crusade campground. She was promptly fitted with some less bloody but equally modest gear and told to follow the road to Brill. There she was to deliver her correspondence to Executor Zygrand and await further instruction. Before she had left, Deathguard Arren had decided to demonstrate his dry wit and reward her with a weapon she could not use. It was a handsome enough staff, simple and balanced, but awkward and useless in her untrained hand.

What was she, a mage? Her dagger would suffice for now, she insisted.

Arren had laughed and told her to seek out a master of rustic weapons.

“We have some unlikely bedfellows, who have become powerful warriors using such simple things.”

Food and supplies were always needed. She was to lend a hand when ordered. She was also informed that the war effort was still ongoing and she was expected to contribute even if she was not skilled enough to fight. Her skills as a warlock would not be enough; she was to learn a trade.

Deathknell had become small, a place where spiders and mice skittered nervously under Hyzanthlay’s heavy and deliberate step. A training area for the most vulnerable, the path leading from the small jumble of tombs and chapels was protected by an embankment and a high wall. A few guards and messengers came and went but the place was otherwise quiet.

The road east was relatively calm but a deep undercurrent of uneasiness ran through it. At times, she was distracted by a common plant that would strike her as familiar. She picked some silverweed leaves and buds, a common tea and smoking herb. She mused that she might have some use for such things even in death, and pocketed it.

Hyzanthlay thought that she saw a shrivelled figure huddled in the leafy shadows as she turned to leave Deathknell behind, but when she cast her full, bright orbs towards it she saw nothing. A rogue, she thought. She had already seen a few. They seemed to be common among the Forsaken.

The road forked to the right and left. A sign directed her to Brill on the right, but the promise of a meagre reward compelled her to head left, where a small holdout of human farmers was in need of ravaging. She had also heard the word “Apothecary” and remembered Arren’s advice regarding a profession. The farm was near a ruined tower that sheltered a few more Scarlet stragglers. Hyzanthlay was able to slay a few before turning back towards Brill with supplies from the farm.

It had been too easy, she thought. Too many of her victims had appeared disoriented or distracted. Ziltip had also been agitated ever since she had summoned him again. He kept jumping on her shoulder, or clinging to her forearm, glancing furtively about, complaining incessantly.

“I’m not even supposed to be here today,” he simpered. Hyzanthlay ignored him.

The zombies on these lonely roads were aggressive, and their long claws and their sharp teeth were riddled with disease. Hyzanthlay kept to the road. Mangy dogs and bats also snuffled about in the dark woods. She expected that anything dangerous would sneak up on her, so was not alarmed when some obvious noise drew her a short distance from the silent road.

The abomination stood well above her, the folds of its naked skin exposing rotting organs and tainted, greenish brown flesh. A grotesque motley mix of stitches and misshapen limbs, this one was fighting off a bat and a feral dog. After Hyzanthlay helped him, he informed her that he was searching for a type of weed.

What does an abomination want with such a thing?

Apparently there were a few skilled Apothecaries in Brill, and the creature seemed grateful when she offered to take up the errand with which he had been tasked. With a wave of his hand and a billow of putrid stench, he lumbered back to the woods to continue his regular sentry duties. Hyzanthlay continued, unmoved by his smell or appearance.

Strellabelle was the first warlock that Hyzanthlay met. Upon reaching Brill, and confirming her chosen profession as an herbalist, Zygrand had pointed one of his boney figures towards the inn and told her not to go alone. Slightly more skilled, already accompanied by a looming Voidwalker minion, Strellabelle had been sitting in the inn, next to a dusty urn covered in cobwebs and filled with mouse droppings. The two had barely spoken before stepping out into the night together.