Thus Hyzanthlay’s first voyage to Kalimdor began. On the whole, it was relatively brief but memorable. As her sarcastic friend had predicted, the bright sun and dry heat were not to her liking. In spite of this, she was pleasantly surprised to find that the harsh Barrens had a few isolated, dirty secrets that she could enjoy.

Refuge for an overworked Forsaken could be found in the leafy oases that surrounded the Crossroads. Every so often the pungent odor of centaur swept over the slimy, still water, driving away the more faint of heart. She gleefully hacked away at their numbers to prove her worth to the local Tauren.

After an entire camp had been raided and slaughtered, and her boots were sticky with horse blood, she boldly settled in an open, grassy, but shady vantage spot to fish. Her mere presence made the near feral horse-people nicker and gallop away in fear. But when the wind turned to a cool northern breeze, the reek of night elf wafted across the grass.

There were few undead here, but a fellow Forsaken and apothecary in the Crossroads had asked her to find him some fungal spores in the local wilderness and while she was at it, he recommended she try her hand at fishing.

“Not that you need to eat…food,” Apothecary Helbrim had explained, when she grimaced at him, “but cooking might suit you as well. And what sinks to the bottom can prove to be quite…useful.”

What drives away a night elf with disgust will lure the undead with fierce curiosity. The mire that covered the Forgotten Pools did indeed contain a myriad of useful junk, and Hyzanthlay was not too proud to trade even the most meager items for a few copper before heading to Thunder Bluff. Many vendors here were too happy to give her anything just to make her go away. She offered the friendly apothecary in the Crossroads her catch, thinking he could use it, but he recommended she keep it; “especially since you are an alchemist yourself.”

The sun was unbearable, and the meager shelter of the Crossroads offered little relief. The humble hamlet was little more than a transit point in the vast, rocky plain that stood between Kalimdor and Mulgore. Hyzanthlay’s natural undead hunch actually seemed to increase as she turned her head away from the blazing afternoon heat.

The inn, if it could even be called that, was a round, fat clay hut with a grass roof, identical to most of the buildings in town except slightly bigger. It was cool and dark inside, reminiscent of the Shallow Grave. Hyzanthlay wondered how soon she could return to Tirisfal Glades. Strellabelle had mentioned a place that needed more immediate attention, at the personal request of the Dark Lady and the Dreadlord Varimathras himself. They would meet again in a place called the Sepulcher, a Forsaken outpost near the lake. But that was some days away yet. She moved toward the smoking grill near the bar, which seemed to be the most active area at the moment.

The flames licked hungrily around the meat on the barbeque. The grizzle bubbled in angry protest. A troll customer licked her bright green lips and waved her tankard in the air as she spoke to the chef.

The Orc cook wielded a huge knife that he would occasionally turn on its side to use as a tenderizer. Bits of meat and bone would constantly fly from the cutting board to the ground, only to be quickly snapped up by the crocodile curled up on the rough floor. It looked upward constantly for the next morsel to fall, alternatively staring at its troll mistress for scraps. Sometimes she would grab a large bone, horn or hoof from the cutting table and carelessly let him have it. She cooed with adoration and bragged to the other patrons about her pet’s nasty disposition and boundless appetite.

Hyzanthlay felt a strange emptiness as she stared at the Hunter and her pet, and wished her imp wasn’t such a snivelling coward. She was comforted by the thought of summoning more powerful entities from the nether as her demonic knowledge increased.
She asked the cook, in her best Orcish, if he had fish on his menu, and if he didn’t, would he like add it?

“You keep the fish,” the Orc replied, regarding her with no surprise or disgust. “You buy this from me. I have good recipes.” He waved his bloody cleaver in the direction of the bar, where a disorganized shelf of supplies stood, including some scrolls. A few drops of gore dripped from the knife onto the crocodile’s face. It twitched happily in response.

The troll slammed down her mug. The she laughed and said;

“Don’t you hear what he say, that one good, this one bettah.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a scroll that didn’t look any different than the few the cook had tucked away behind the bar.

Hyanthlay respected the strength of the Orcs, but saw disdain in their eyes when she drew near to them. It was not so much a fear as a primal apprehension. Tauren’s regarded her in much the same way, but their dignified manner also hid deep pity and unspeakable horror. It was only when she spoke to Trolls that she found more of a profound understanding. Their deeply set eyes and yellow fangs make them more like demons themselves. They fearlessly worshipped the gods that Hyzanthlay and the rest of the Forsaken had met personally in the Land of the Dead.

“This has strong medicine,” she reached into Hyzanthlay’s pile of fish and grabbed a certain one. It looked a normal fish; its skin was dull grey and it was barely big enough to keep, but a dusting of small red flecks distinguished it. Turned to the light, it shone gold. The troll grabbed it and split it open with a little knife before tossing it on the fire with some herbs.

“They call it Deviate Fish,” the troll said. “This one priest from my village, they say he have powah, they say he strong medicine. And I go to his temple where he be. And he split me open and he eat me, eat me like a fish! How fierce be the troll gods when they hungry!”

The other patrons roared with approval at her sordid story. The trolls were famous for their lechery and lack of shame. The raw flesh spat and fizzled on the grill. Hyzanthlay curled her lip, appreciative of the tale in spirit but now dead inside to such longings.

The Troll laughed, and scooped up the barely seared fish. Another patron, also a Troll, boldly asked what she was taught in return for the offering of her body. In response, she picked the burning meat and gulped it down. In a puff of sparkling smoke, the troll was gone and in her place stood a human pirate! She smiled and laughed, sounding every bit like any comely lass in Goldshire. A roar of approval flooded the little inn, which had become more crowded as the afternoon waned. Hyzanthlay also enjoyed a long, husky laugh and clapped with appreciation. The disguise was a simple one that did not mask smell or fool animals, but the Alliance was a gullible lot and it would still have limited use.

“Now you be so ugly, you never learn no new recipe again,” another Troll jeered, a female with a yellow mohawk and a ring in her nose, clearly not impressed with her compatriot’s new appearance.

The warlock agreed. Humans, especially females, were so repulsive.

Hyzanthlay could see the tall grasses moving like waves in the moonlight as the zeppelin floated towards the Tauren capital city. Thunder Bluff hovered on four tall mesas above the windblown plains of Mulgore, starry and quiet in the night. The high mesas seemed to be even closer to the moon and stars, and shone just as brightly in the clear night.

From a distance, the Tauren capital of Mulgore might have been mistaken for a gnome or goblin city. The skyline was dotted with totems, the peaks of teepees and longhouses, but most prominent were the high towers and moving windmills. The lack of black smoke and mechanical noise in the air confirmed the difference.

The breezy wooden yurts and steady winds were ideal for the Tauren, but the Undead preferred the confinement of cold stone and stale air. Hyzanthlay had but a few errands to run before her return and she meant to be quick about it. The white light in the sky bore down on her like an unblinking eye and gave her no peace.

“I know he’s asleep,” Hyzanthlay said coldly to the young brave. “Wake him up.”

“I will not,” The Tauren warrior remained unmoved. “The Master rises early, and you will not wait long. You may find repose in The Pools of Vision, so your presence does not disturb our people.”

Hyzanthlay snarled in frustration, but there was little that could be done. She missed the sleepless denizens of Undercity, but they could only teach her so much. One thing she had already learned about the Tauren was they were well aware of their size and capacity for strength. They would not be moved, either from sentry duty or sleep.

There were few Undead in Thunder Bluff, much fewer than Orgrimmar, but a common interest in alchemy and herbalism was a common thread between the two races. Few Tauren ventured to the ravaged Tirisfal, but they knew of it, and saw the echoes of the Scourge appear in their own sacred lands, even a continent away. Hence Apothecary Zamah was allowed to carry out certain experiments and train the Forsaken that did find their way to Thunder Bluff; as long as they remained in the Pools of Vision, out of sight.

A brief chat with Zamah made Hyzanthlay forget her discomfort for the moment. The Pools of Vision were dark and eerie, and Hyzanthlay lingered for a while with her fellow Forsaken. Every one of them was there to train or research, with one notable exception, a rather sour creature named Clarice.

“It was my name in life,” she said, and Hyzanthlay was surprised. Here was yet another undead creature who had greeted her by referring to their former life. She certainly could not remember her own human name and was rather glad of it. She asked for an explanation regarding her clothing; her robes were untarnished, unstained, but faded with age and decorated with regalia of the Scarlet Crusade.

“As I’ve heard of you, Hyzanthlay, and what you did to the Crusade in Tirisfal Glades, I am honored to tell you.”

With no small amount of bitterness and animosity, Clarice recounted her last few weeks of life.

She described the depth of her faith, her adherence to the strict tenets of the Crusade, and her loyalty as a wife to a well known crusader. Most of her time had been spent serving the Crusade and learning only their wisdom.

When her husband left her to fight the Scourge, she ignored the pain in her heart and the feelings of anger and regret. She described her burial rites after succumbing to plague shortly after his war-torn body was interred in a nearby family plot, each funeral a feast of white flowers and frightened, drawn faces. Even snickering as she described how she had to lie still while they dressed her and laid her in a stone coffin, waited patiently until the mourners had left, before rising from her family crypt to the modest plot where her husband lay.

“I only stopped long enough to desecrate the headstone,” she snarled. “I heard his platoon reached the outskirts of Loaderon before they were cut down. Such a devoted fool in life, the both of us, Yuriv and I!”

Stillness fell over the Pools at the end of Clarice’s story. The dawn was coming.
“Always second,” she muttered angrily, “always second to his blasted duty and that bitch Abbendis. You have business in the Sepulcher, the site of my family’s tomb. Yuriv’s tomb is a modest one, closer to the cemetery entrance. I cannot bear to return; the thought of the place enrages me. Return this to his tomb.”

Clarice pressed a humble silver locket into the warlock’s hand, and said, “Do not think on your former life. Humans are the true scourge, Hyzanthlay, and it is evident that your hate for the Crusade runs as deep as mine.”

Hyzanthlay thanked the fellow Forsaken for her wisdom before returning to the Weapons Master. As she stood before the tent, waiting for the old bull to rouse himself, the dead woman’s words rang in her head.

That bitch Abbendis.
Your hate for the Crusade.
Do not think on your former life.

Hyzanthlay smiled, feeling her resolve strengthen. Clarice had certainly given her good advice. But she would not be able to take it.