Gracie was everyone’s favorite dog. She had four white feet, a brindle coat, and a dark, tapered face crowned by a very expressive pair of big brown eyes. Not only was she adorable, obedient and charming, but she was also quiet. The only thing that could rouse her was the sickly scent of the undead, and the people of Darkshire were grateful for such a creature.

Many believed the murder of the town’s nobles in nearby Karazhan had put a curse on them. Others said the taint had first begun when the town had been razed to the ground during the First War.

Her owner enjoyed his anonymity and appreciated that Gracie got most of the attention. Nobody in town knew him that well. He did not have a home in the town but enjoyed a semi-permanent room at the inn. It was well known that he would go wandering in Duskwood for days, hunting undead on behalf of the Night Watch. Gracie looked forward to their long treks and the adventures they brought.

The river that snaked along the northern border was quiet and gloomy, but Gracie could smell the clear air of humans and wildlife that roamed the opposite shore. Stormwind was not far away. The west recalled the smell of tilled earth and grain. Sometimes they walked south, where the scent of thick desert ferns and trolls would waft across an old covered bridge. Her master would commonly meet with a Troll or Tauren here to buy herb. Gracie had no quarrel with these creatures and did not raise her voice to them. All strangers were put at ease by the friendly animal’s innocent demeanor, and they spoke freely of their travels and the news they heard.

To the east, they did not go. The road wound from Darkshire to a crumbled tower known as Beggar’s Haunt. Beyond that the haunted winds of Deadwind Pass. Beggar’s Haunt had once been more than a lonely ruin. Only the tower was mostly intact, but part of a high garden wall and a few tombs were still visible above the tall grasses. A cemetery for nobles and princes, old and unkempt since the days of the first war. Being careful not to rouse the tower’s current inhabitants, sometimes Gracie would follow her Master here, where he would take some time to repose next to a small pond, once tended and filled with koi fish, now grown green with algae.

They were here one day when Gracie wandered away from her Master. He was a drinking man, and when he came here, he would take a flask out of his side pocket. It was always wrapped in a worn purple handkerchief. He never wept, but the way he clutched the cloth in one hand, and drank in labored sips, he seemed to be in pain. Gracie was always a bit worried for him during these times, but then he would fall into a peaceful sleep. She usually stayed by him, but those in the tower were different from the mindless undead in most of Duskwood.

Today, it was a curious new scent drew her away from his side, towards the dreaded tower.

* * *

I only want to know where Darkshire is. No, I don’t want any company. Yes, I will meet you in Booty Bay. No, I don’t know when.

This was part of the conversation that took place between Hyzanthlay and Eucalypto at the zeppelin landing at Grom Gol. The rogue was rather dejected; he wanted to take her to Duskwood personally.

“Not to say the area is dangerous, my dear, but…”

“You want to hunt humans, go ahead,” Hyzanthlay snarled.

“But you also hunt a human, do you not?”

Hyzanthlay whirled around swiftly, and in her sudden rage she might have struck Eucalypto had he not already disappeared, by far one of a rogue’s most annoying talents.

“You mind your business,” she snarled into the humid air. Without another word, she summoned her felsteed and galloped north into the jungle. She thought she saw Tiponi wave to her as she did, but she didn’t look back.

The Horde generally spoke more openly of what had happened in Andorhol. The Alliance forces, especially the human race, were still choked by the horror of the plague and the terrible betrayal of Prince Arthas. This was partly what drove the humans of Azeroth so fiercely against the undead.

Every race had been tainted by the Scourge, but no other kingdom except Lordaeron had suffered the same horrifying fate. Their lands corrupted and sour, the earth filled with fungus and putrid insects.

Their own bodies rotted and rent, unable to live and unable to die.

Like Hyzanthlay, and the residents of Beggar’s Haunt.

The road from Grom Gol snaked north through the jungle. Hyzanthlay avoided it. Dodging the wild animals in the jungle proved difficult, and a few times Hyzanthlay had to dismount and fight them off. She took note of some of the better fishing spots and resolved to return fairly soon. The insects and heat had no other affect on the Warlock, and she rode through the night.

There was a small Alliance outpost at the northern end of Stranglethorn Vale. Hyzanthlay was careful to cross the border in the dead of night and give it a wide berth, even though the outpost was too small even to have an inn and was no real threat to her. It crossed her mind that this human she was looking for might show his face anywhere between there or even in Booty Bay.

The border between Duskwood and Stranglethorn Vale was a deep ravine. An old covered bridge, covered with moss and vines, was the only passage across. Hyzanthlay could smell the rank odor of Dreadmist Ravine to the east. Not exactly displeasing. She paused for a moment before driving her demonic mount across the thick wooden planks that made up the quiet, mossy bridge.

Hyzanthlay found Duskwood to be quite pleasant. It was dark and dreary like Tirisfal Glades, but more forested and dotted with orchards and graveyards. The garrison from Stormwind did not patrol this far, and she roamed the woods and back roads with relative freedom. In its very heart glowed a strange green light that stank of Night Elf and something else.

Darkshire was more to the east, and she approached it carefully. There were a few citizen militias that patrolled the dark roads, but as she watched them quietly from the dark shadows she saw no-one with a dog. It only took a few hours to profile every inch of the small city. Hyzanthlay then moved on to the closest thing Duskwood had to a Horde sanctuary; Beggar’s Haunt.

Within spitting distance of the entrance to Dreadmist Ravine, easily within sight of the last few criminals that had been hung at the shadowy crossroads, the Forsaken were relatively safe here. But they were also isolated, and it had been some time since anyone had stopped by. They were quite taken by their new guest for a variety of reasons.

“And no less the warlock who slew Arugal!” Deathstalker Faustin saluted her with a flourish when she appeared and introduced herself. “Apothecary Zraedus will be delighted!”

The bottom floor of the ruined tower had been converted to a makeshift lab, where a proud member of the Royal Apothecary Society did most of his research. He greeted his guest with the usually formalities but did not hide his surprise.

“My dear lady, Hyzanthlay,” his orbs glittered with shock, and he lowered them with a bow, composing himself. “What brings you to Duskwood? We would think after your triumph in Shadowfang Keep and your recruitment into the Clan you would be serving the Dark Lady personally.”

“I admit, Strellabelle has aligned me with the Clan of the Fallen and I have all but accepted. But,” and she raised her hand dismissively, “I do not take their orders. My will is my own.”

“Oh, is it?” Zraedus seemed to take a keen interest in this. “Not even the Dark Lady herself, then, can bend you to her will?”

Hyzanthlay laughed quietly, sensing that the Apothecary was testing her loyalty. She had heard rumors about Zraedus’ self-imposed exile from the Undercity. He was a notable member of the Royal Apothecary Society but his allegiance to the Dark Lady was a tenuous one.

“If I have a guild, it is the Forsaken, and my guild mistress is Sylvanas. You, yourself, Zraedus, could have a place in Undercity next to Putress herself. And yet here you are, in this ruined tower, many miles hence.”

“Ah, Putress,” Zraedus smiled rather fondly. “So long since I’ve seen her dear rotted face! The Royal Apothecary Society has become a powerful force under her strict and relentless guidance. And you are also an alchemist with…shall we say, an independent spirit?”

Faustin and Zraedus nodded to each other silently, and Hyzanthlay sensed that something else had just happened.

“Come, the sun will be coming up soon. It doesn’t make much of a difference in Duskwood, but the shade in the tower is preferable. We have much more to discuss.”

* * *

Gracie sniffed along the overgrown path as the sun started to rise. She resisted the urge to charge along the path yelping at the top of her lungs. The air was thick with the smell of the undead. Normally the tower only had two inhabitants, but a third was among them and was staying for longer than just to ask directions. She could hear the rustle of excited whispers behind the heavy slate walls.

But there was something else that drew her; a soft, intricate kind of smell that was distinctly familiar. She couldn’t quite place it and that was a source of bitter consternation.

Carefully staying close to the ground, she raised her snout and took in as much air as she could. Her ears strained forward to catch any note that flitted by.

A sharp whistle startled her. The light was creeping over the dewy grass; her Master had arisen. In a flash, she had covered the distance between the tower and the path and was standing attentively by his side, her bright eyes and bushy tail a stark contrast to her rumpled master.

Jonathan had emerged from his drunken stupor slowly and achingly. He rubbed his neck and groaned. Sighing sadly, he replaced the cap on the now empty flask and carefully wrapped it up again. It occurred to him, as he slowly rose to his feet, that Gracie had wandered off. That was not so unusual, but he always hoped that she would not wander any closer to the tower. A quick whistle brought her back.

“Hm,” he exhaled and put a hand on her head, “you weren’t over by the tower, were you?”

Gracie’s only reply was filled with a dewy eyed and thoroughly innocent silence.

Jonathan sighed and stroked her fondly before pocketing the flask and strolling down the hill. Gracie tagged along behind, and he couldn’t help but notice she seemed preoccupied. He was a bit distracted himself. Althea would be asking where he had been.

It was still fairly early and not many of the villagers were awake. Jonathan thought he had crept successfully into the inn unseen, but he was just starting on his first cup of coffee when the Commander of the Night Watch marched into the inn and parked herself decisively across from him. Gracie sank to the floor, ears pressed against the sides of her face, anticipating what was about to happen.

“Where were you last night?” Althea asked angrily.

Jonathan sipped his coffee and lowered his eyes.

“Well, I…” He started to say, but was cut off.

“You were at the Tower again, weren’t you?” She said, her voice quiet but bitter.

“No, not…” Jonathan shifted uncomfortably and tried to hide behind the rim of his coffee cup, “not the whole night.”

Althea stared at him, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. After a few moments of angry silence she spoke again.

“All night you were up there alone? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“No, of course not,” he laughed, oblivious to the anger in her voice, “Gracie was with me.”

“And so was she. Your true best friend!” Althea snarled and her hand thrust forward into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. She clutched the flask and yanked it out. The purple cloth fell to the floor between Gracie’s paws and the silver flashed in the morning light.

“Empty,” Althea sneered. “So, this is what you spend your nights with? Rather with this, instead of with me?”

Jonathan opened his mouth to answer but he was cut off again, this time by Gracie. She had started barking, and this usually meant only one thing. Althea dropped the flask and drew her sword. Two city guards who had been watching the scene with interest now lept to their feet. Althea signalled them outside. Jonathan had drawn a pistol from his side and was checking the powder, but then he took note of Gracie.

Yes, she was making enough noise to wake the dead in case there weren’t any walking around already. But her hackles were not raised, her tail was not erect and waving stiffly. She was not squinting or growling as she typically did when danger was nearby, but instead her eyes were wide open and filled with playful joy.

“Gracie?” Jonathan leaned closer, and the little dog spun and crouched as if to play. Her bark sounded like a laugh.

“Gracie!” He said again, this time more severely. “What is wrong with you?”

The dog abruptly stopped, but continued to fitfully wag her tail. She whimpered at him as if in apology, and then lay down. And that was when Jonathan saw the purple handkerchief lying on the floor in front of her.

She thrust her snout into it, looked at him imploringly, and barked once more.