“There’s a rogue following you.”

Strellabelle first mentioned the pressing need for bat pelts and thread before mentioning their unwelcome companion.

“Since Deathknell,” Hyzanthlay acknowledged, insulted that Strellabelle had taken it for granted that she didn’t know.

Despite the stoicism and mutual hostility, the two warlocks were likely candidates to clear some of the spiders, bats and other vermin (such as Captain Vachon and his Scarlett friars) from south-eastern Tirisfal Glades. The monastery would have to be saved for later. They resolved to return, with friends.

Hyzanthlay stood greedily by the Apothecary as he brewed his latest potion. A dwarf and human had been kept in the cellar of the Gallow’s End Tavern. Hyzanthlay was more interested in testing out her concoction on the dwarf. Her native curses certainly sounded impressive. She was fierce and strong, but terrified, and no match for two creatures that know neither pain nor fear. They did not hesitate to hold her down and force the putrid liquid down her throat and paid no heed to her cries of agony. They watched with detached fascination as her skin curled and yellowed like old paper before bursting into puss-lined boils and reducing her to a rotting pile of screaming mush.

Hyzanthlay examined the hissing remains with appreciation. They were too putrid even for the most famished undead appetite.

“I want to be an Alchemist,” Hyzanthlay announced to Strellabelle as they waited for the zeppelin. Her voice had as much enthusiasm as the breathless undead could muster.

“I thought you might. And what do you think happened to our skulking little friend?”

Hyz squinted and didn’t answer. There had been no sign of the rogue since their departure from Brill. Perhaps they would appear in Kalimdor, the land of their most powerful allies, the Orcs.

The bright, harsh sun of Durotar distracted Hyzanthlay. Strellabelle had been here before, and strolled casually from the zeppelin landing without looking back. They had an unspoken agreement to meet in Orgrimmar later. After spending a few days together on the small, noisy zeppelin, Hyzanthlay was glad to be on her own for some time.

“I suspect Durotar won’t be to your liking, but no matter,” Strellabelle had said when the sandy, rocky coast started to take shape. “You will see the Forsaken in these lands, and you are compelled to lend them aid as you can. Do not forget to endear yourself to our noble hosts.”

Hyzanthlay took an extra moment to observe the crusty, red earth and scorched rocks that made up the landscape. She walked past the two orc grunts that stood before the zeppelin tower, and when she turned to take a second look, they stood unmoved.

They were tall and heavyset creatures, unashamed of ugliness or cruelty. Their weapons and armor were cut in a way that was designed to look crude, but the effect was deceptive. It would take the blink of an eye for an orc warrior to turn into a sharp steel projectile lined with blades and teeth. There was darkness in their eyes that the Warlock could not pin down. It was not the abyss in the shining orbs of her brethren, nor the bloodlust of a Troll. It was a shadow Hyzanthlay did not understand, but the smell and aura were familiar. In spite of this, she was pleased with her allies so far, and turned towards the city gates. She had only gone a few steps when a voice spoke.

“Tis the demon’s blood, madam, that which vexes the Orcs.”

Her secret admirer had returned, and she felt rather stupid for becoming distracted and forgetting him.

“You follow me all the way from Brill, hiding in underbrush and shadows, only to reveal yourself in the full light of day. You foolish Rogue, what do you want from me? Speak plainly, and leave me in peace.”

The Rogue appeared at her side, this time in fill view. His wizened, hunched frame and rotted face bent before her in the dust. She concluded that this pathetic creature must have succumbed to plague before rising to join the Forsaken. A few scraps of bleached hair and flaked skin crowned his head, which he only held up with some difficulty as he bowed before her. Gaps of rent flesh lined his cheekbones, giving his wide grin a comical, grotesque look.

“Allow me to introduce myself. EucaIypto is my name, and I must correct thee, madam, ’twas all the way from Deathknell.”

“The Orcs have drunk the blood of the demon Mannoroth, and it seems to still burn inside, even though the curse has been lifted and the demon long slain. As thou art also a student of the dark arts it also vexes thee. I never saw an Orc in life. Were you also as fortunate, my Lady?”

Hyzanthlay stopped walking. She searched her memories, staring intently ahead as if she expected them to walk towards her out of the thin, hot air. A red flame. A book. A rat. And nothing more.

“Perhaps I was,” Hyzanthlay replied. “I only know now that I am Forsaken, and remember little else. I am called Hyzanthlay, and yes, I speak to demons. If there is nothing else then, I will bid you…”

“Allow me,” the Rogue named Eucalypto interjected, “I have been here for some time and it would be my pleasure to escort thee in Orgrimmar. A lady of thy stature should not be….”

“I am no longer a lady any more then you are a gentlemen,” Hyzanthlay sneered, “If you’re a Rogue, then go steal a new shirt! You may have died a gentleman, and they may have buried you in silks, but the only Lady you will ever serve again is Sylvanas.”

By now they were standing before the gates of the city, and Hyzanthlay realized that the huge cloud of dust before them was not the wind but the movement of fierce sparring. The flat, dried rocks and thick sand outside the gates of the Orc city made a perfect venue for practice battles.

She had already seen a few Trolls in Undercity. Their lips were permanently stained with the blood of their cannibalized victims, murdered during rituals to their gods. The most ancient culture of Azeroth, and the keepers of many of its darker secrets, the Horde saw the Darkspear Tribe as a valuable asset.

Tirisfal Glades did not have many Tauren, and when one of the great creatures stood up and lumbered into the sparring area he even made the Orcs look diminutive. His step made the ground vibrate. It was apparent that he was a Druid when he took on his bear form. He roared, and the air shook. If Hyzanthlay had breath, she would have caught it.

“Stay, and watch,” Eucalypto smiled at Hyzanthlay as he spoke. “This is my Guildmaster, Rik; a very powerful druid. He usually finishes off his opponents rather quickly.”

Hyzanthlay thought of druids as healers, and was interested to see one that was a fierce warrior in his own right. An Orc was his opponent, and he wore similar armour as those by the zeppelin tower. Hyzanthlay watched with interest as his armour bent and turned perfectly with his movements. He was wielding an impressive jagged sword in each hand and threw himself fearlessly at the Tauren druid. The power of the demon was no longer in them, but when he moved Hyzanthlay felt its echo, that same jarring vibration as when she summoned her demons or cast fel fire.

She was surprised to see that the Orc weapons did little to the thick Tauren hide. So it was true; the skin of a Druid could be as solid as plate. Hyzanthlay resolved to remember this if she ever met a night elf druid. Suddenly bored with the spectacle, she turned and walked towards the city gate with not a word to Eucalypto. It took a moment for him to notice and he loped after her.

“The battles have just begun, my Lady…dost thou not…”

“I have no use for a duels; I only desire to kill Scarlet Crusaders for the glory of the Horde and the Dark Lady. Good day.”
Hyzanthlay moved towards the shade of the massive corridor that made up the front door. Eucalypto followed.

“Ah, so it’s true! Thou art the warlock that decimated the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal…”

“And thou art the rogue who secretly helped me,” she viciously mimicked his formal speech. “Why do you feign ignorance?”

With a woosh the rogue disappeared again. For a moment, Hyzanthlay mistakenly thought he had returned to the duels, but then she heard his voice. The loud cheers from the sparring match outside were still quite audible, but muffled in the tall stone corridor that led into the city.

“Yes, many of those early Crusaders also served me as pickpocket practice. But that first night, I had no plan to aid thee. That was a nice knife that boy had…and your cape would have looked quite fine over my humble burial clothes.”

Hyzanthlay turned and Eucalypto was standing before her, again in plain sight. He spoke slowly and stared at her intently.
“Such furious, vicious, unrelenting bloodlust. When thou didst rise to destroy them, then fell heavy and fulfilled upon their corpses, the path of Darkness opened up before me, and I knew what it was to be Forsaken. I see a great many more that will fall before thee. Return to the arena with me, and show me thy skill in the dark arts.”

Hyzanthlay took a step towards him and regarded the strange creature closely. Behind his long grin and sloping shoulders was a deep, melancholy gravity.

“My fury is saved for the enemies of the Forsaken,” she replied in a low voice, “The Scarlet Crusade more than any other. When the time comes to defile their most sacred places perhaps you will aid me.”

“Oh, my dear Lady, I would be most honored.” Eucalypto bowed low, and if a Forsaken could shiver with joy he might have done so. In this case, however, it was just the breeze ruffling his shredded shirt.

Hyzanthlay strode into Orgrimmar. Eucalypto returned to the sparring circle. They would meet again.