Hyzanthlay had never gone looking for the dog. It always seemed to find her as long as she was fairly close to Darkshire.

The first time she had seen her without her master, she had been gathering herbs near the small city, just like she was doing tonight. The dog had quietly walked up to her, sniffing carefully. Upon seeing her, Hyzanthlay had carefully drawn her sword, moving slowly so as not to spook the creature.

Slaying this dog would be a boon to any undead that travelled through Duskwood. Her orbs flickered around, quickly and thoroughly taking in her surroundings. It seemed odd that Torch Boy was nowhere to be seen.

The dog looked up at her with large, dark eyes, which strangely enough, seemed to dance for joy as she approached. Its tail wagged in frenzied happiness. Poor foolish creature, the warlock thought. I’ll make it clean and quiet. It was rather a pity that animals never tasted quite like humans.

Suddenly, the dog spun in a happy circle, lept to the side, scampered to the base of a nearby tree, and starting digging fiercely among the tangled roots. Hyzanthlay was still holding her sword firmly, ready to strike at anytime, but her curiosity got the better of her and she hesitated.

The dog stopped digging, poked her snout into the shallow hole she had dug, and took a few short sniffs as if to confirm the find. Then she sat back on her haunches, ears forward, eying the warlock with enthusiastic confidence.

Still brandishing her sword in case the dog decided to set off an alarm after all, Hyzanthlay slowly knelt next to the dirt and examined the find. It was Earthroot; not rare or valuable but fairly useful. And there seemed to be something else as well. No, it couldn’t be!

Ghost mushrooms!

Hyzanthlay was amazed. Such a rare thing, and to find them here! She had last seen them in the caves of Mauradon, when she had helped a party of Trolls and Tauren take revenge on a centaur stronghold. One of the trolls had mentioned there were some in the Hinterlands as well, far to the north, in a place that she herself had not yet ventured. The animal had proven her usefulness, and so far there had been no followers and no alarm. She smiled, and sheathed her sword.

“Good dog,” she rasped, and reached out to touch the dog’s head. The little creature’s tail wagged happily, and when the warlock rose up, she fell in step immediately.

***

Eucalypto was checking his mail frequently these days. Guild recruitment was keeping him busy. On this particular early morning he had a pile of mail in front of him at the breakfast table. Both he and Rik were shifting through it. One rather fat envelope caught Rik’s attention. It was from the priest. Rik had not met her yet, but Eucalypto was quite taken with her. An accomplished engineer, apparently.

“Shadow, I assume,” Rik said in a bland voice. He had yet to meet an undead priest who focused exclusively on healing. It was naturally difficult for the Undead to dabble in the Light.

“We need more healers, Euc.”

“She does heal,” Euc replied, pretending not to notice Rik raise one of his furry eyebrows. He didn’t have time for a follow-up question, as the chunky little envelope suddenly made a funny noise.

Rik sniffed it, and tilted his head back in surprise when it made the noise again. Eucalypto laughed, then reached forward and opened the envelope.

A small machine fell out. The way it buzzed and flashed reminded him of something a gnome would design.

“Ah, what they can’t build these days,” Eucalypto said. “Here, let me show you how this works.”

Rik watched with rapt curiosity as Eucalypto touched one of the flashing buttons. The annoying noise stopped repeating, and when he held it up to his face and started to speak into it, the Druid realized it was some kind of communication device.

“Greetings, my dear! How good it is to…” Eucalypto’s voice turned from cheerful to dour.

“Oh, well that is a shame. Yes. I’m afraid so.”

There was a tense pause. Eucalypto’s orbs flickered.

“Focus, Sorena. It’s still a bit dark. You can make it if you stay on the rooftops. Now, stop wasting time talking to me.”

Eucalypto pressed another button and put the device down. Rik waited for an explanation but the rogue didn’t offer one. His cheerful mood had become nervous and unhappy.
*       *       *
“I think we should get off the road.”

One of the gnomes was getting nervous. The wind whistled menacingly along the cobblestones, sending a whirlwind of leaves into their faces.

His three companions ignored him. They had found some succulent fungi and were distracted from their jittery companion. But he could hear unmistakable hoofbeats approaching him, and the thought of a felsteed galloping towards them got the better of his nerve.

“Get off the road!” He exclaimed, jumping behind a nearby tree. “Quick!”

His friends finally took the hint, and scrambled into hiding with him, still whispering to each other about the succulents that they had found. What finally hushed them was the fiery snort of a warlock mount, and the unmistakable hiss of an undead’s raspy breath.

She stopped by the tree, and it almost sounded like she was sniffing the air. Then she dismissed her beast, and reached past the tree. The gnomes froze, thinking that she would grab one of them. Of course she was going to snatch one and eat them as a snack! They never should have trusted that gunfighter from Tanaris!

They all exhaled with relief when she reached past them and ripped a few fragrant herbs from the ground. She turned her head, revealing a grey and yellow scarred face, and grinned at them wickedly.

“‘You…you’re the Warlock?” One of them asked, cautiously standing up.

The undead female put the herbs away in her pack and bowed in acknowledgment. Then she reached into another, much larger pack and produced three large bags. She threw two of them on the ground, and the third she set down with considerable more care.

“Kingsblood, of course,” one of the gnomes said, examining the first bag. “It’s more than decent as far as quality goes, anyway. Shouldn’t be tough to move.”

“Dreamfoil!” The second gnome exclaimed. “And Steelbloom! This stuff is tough to come by!”

“This is what we were waiting for,” the first gnome said, carefully examining the third bag. “Firebloom, and still highly volatile.”

“Firebloom!” One of them hissed, than lowered his voice, “our engineers are going to have a field day with this!”

He was quickly shushed by his companions, one of which was already counting out a sizable amount of gold for their unwelcome guest. He handed it to the undead warlock and backed away slowly. She held the bag of coin in the palm of her hand, savoring its weight, her smile widening to show rows of pointed teeth.

Without a reply, she summoned her felsteed back. The gnomes (at least the ones that weren’t distracted by the bags she had left) slowly backed away. She didn’t return to the road, but instead drove her flaming mount into dark woods.

***

At seven feet tall, Lafti was actually an average height for a Night Elf. It was the stark, ropey muscles, bodily scars, filed teeth and tattoos that made the humans in Stormwind raise their eyebrows when she strode past. She wore an imposing double bladed axe that looked more like it was made for an orc. In truth, it had been; she had pried it from his cold, dead hands in Warsong Gulch and taken it for her own after defeating him.

Her companion, Zephe, was a hunter who had not suffered the same ritualistic body scars that mark the militaristic Sentinels. With her tight leather clothing and smooth purple skin, she was more of a stereotypical night elf and drew attention for different reasons.

On this early morning, she let Lafti lead their way. They would need the element of fear for the hunt they were on in this dark hour.

The area in question was in a dark corner of Stormwind’s Trade District. The humans, in their usual arrogance, were notoriously lazy about keeping vigil in their own city. True, Stormwind was well supplied and guarded, surrounded by thick walls and populated by any number of elite heroes all day, every day. The flagship city of the Alliance deserved no less. A Night Elf knew how quickly such fortunes could turn, however, especially one like Lafti. Behind her cold grey eyes was a memory of the Sundering, a great cataclysm almost ten thousand years old.

The relatively new enemies represented by the minions of the undead (both Scourge and the Forsaken), had been targeted by the Darnassian priests and druids as worthy of the Sentinels’ attention. Lafti lived to hunt and slay anything that threatened the already ancient and venerated Night Elf civilization.

Lafti had grown tired of slaughtering trolls and orcs in the misty northern forests, and taking her fearlessness and vicious countenance into consideration, she had been sent the Eastern Kingdoms to face the undead. And what better companion than a hunter, who could detect an undead within a few miles and could kill a blackfly with a single shot from a hundred feet away?

“She is here,” Zephe whispered, as they neared the ramshackle house. Apparently, the city’s security had been breached, and a Forsaken spy was hiding in a dank little room by the wall.  No doubt a rogue, or one that had been helped by a rogue.

Lafti nodded, having no doubt that her friend was correct. The Stormwind guard had already been notified, including SI-7. A few guards were waiting outside. Their captain approached Lafti and Zephe as they walked towards him. He puffed out his chest in a way that suggested he was about to tell the imposing Sentinel something she didn’t want to hear.

“We’re taking care of it,” he said, proudly and stupidly. “I’ve sent my best men in already.”

Zephe raised an eyebrow and shook her head. Lafti narrowed her eyes, which had begun to glow fiercely.

“You were given very specific instructions, Captain.” Lafti spoke Common with dull, flat tone that grated on the ears of most humans. “The orders were for your own protection.”

The Captain replied to this with a mocking snort.

“I think we can handle one little dead girl,” he said.

Lafti seemed to ignore this. She turned to Zephe and said something quietly in Darnassian. The hunter nodded calmly and started to prepare her bow. Lafti walked towards the dark doorway, past the Captain as if he wasn’t even there.

“I said, I’ve sent my best men in already,” he said in an annoyed voice. “They’re bringing her down now.”

“No, Captain,” the Sentinal replied without looking back, “your men are already dead.”

***

Sorena had ridden through the dark night. From the little farmhouse by the cemetery she had driven her skeletal mount north, across the river, taking a cautious sweep past the sleeping city of Goldshire, then to the secret place on the wall that she and Eucalypto had prepared. The sloping, rocky hills were not well guarded, as it was mistakenly believed that they made the thick walls even more secure. Most of the Stormwind guard were prepared for an open assault with larger numbers. One or two covert spies did get in from time to time, usually stealthy rogues.

Or, in this case, an ingenious priest.

She was working on a map of the city at the time, piecing it together with clues she and Eucalypto had gathered. They were trying to formulate a plan that involved setting communication devices in certain opportune places to plan raids and counter-attacks.

Then she heard the heavy clump of metal boots on the hollow stairway, and realized that their hideout had been discovered.

She barely had time to turn around before the door burst open, and she was faced with several armed guards. Two already had their crossbows trained on her. Two others had their swords drawn. The fifth had a thick pair of manacles ready.

Sorena spoke a horrible word. The two guards with crossbows screamed in uncontrollable horror as they turned and fired their weapons on each other. In the second that it took for them to fall in a crumpled heap on the ground, Sorena had turned to face the unfortunate guard who had been holding the manacles.

She broke his arm, and then cast a devouring plague that sucked the life out of his body and threw him across the room, knocking one of the swordsmen down. The other was attacked by a malevolent, invisible force that seemed to leap from the upper corner of the room. Both stricken swordsman were afflicted by pain and disease, and neither got up from the floor.

It had taken Sorena only a few seconds to finish off five of Stormwind’s best men.

She did not run. There must be more outside waiting. She dismissed her shadow fiend, reached into her pack, and pulled out a device that Rik would have recognized. It also had flashing buttons and lights. She pressed a button and waited for a moment before hearing Eucalypto`s voice.

“We’ve been discovered,” she said shortly. “Perhaps this line was traced.”

“A Sentinel.”

“I’ll have to hurry.”

She hung up the phone and stepped towards the door. When she looked into the corridor, she was able to discern a pair of angry, white eyes from the distant doorway. She did not stay long enough to see the flash of the Sentinel’s huge axe. The priest turned and ran, not looking back.

She could hear the heavy footsteps on the corridor, smell the old scars on her skin and the worn but still sharp edge of the massive axe.

The Sentinel could run unhindered by petty annoyances that would slow down a human. Darkness would not stop the night elf. Sorena also sensed her advanced age. A creature that had witnessed the apocalyptic Sundering would know little of fear.

The Sentinel that pursued her would be resistant to the magic that had destroyed the human guards. She would have to be quick.

And lucky.

A balcony at the end of the hallway gave her easy access to the roof. She and Eucalypto had arranged an escape route that would lead from the rooftops to the outer wall, then the rocky cliffs.

How far in advance had her pursuers anticipated her escape? If they had their cat mounts ready, she would not be able to outrun them.

This last thought made Sorena catch her breath and focus on escape. As she lept from the first rooftop to the second, a low whistle on the wind distracted her. A dull, searing pain in her side followed. Of course, the Sentinel had not come alone. She had brought a hunter, and despite Sorena’s speed and agility she had not been able to dodge or even sense the approaching arrow. Even if she had, her shield would have to be saved for the jump from the cliff. She could not have used it against the soldiers either; it would not have recharged in time.

She was reluctant to reveal her knowledge of the Light to the Alliance, but had she not cast a simple healing spell on herself in that moment, she would have careened from the rooftop and into the arms of the Hunter and the Stormwind guard. Even then, the wound and the poison the arrow had carried slowed her pace. The Sentinel was close enough that Sorena heard her draw her breath in anger and surprise.

The priest could not look back. She jumped again and landed on another rooftop. Pain and fear did not affect her speed. The smell of the oiled metal of the axe filled her nostrils.

She felt the heavy steps of the Sentinel shift as she drew the weapon.

Sorena jumped, and the blade nicked her cloak. The weight of the swing shook the air. It could have easily sliced the frail undead creature in half. The next swing was sure to hit her.

The Sentinel was unwounded and determined. Her pace had quickened.

The priest lept again. The axe sailed through the air, this time a solid hit. But it never reached the Priest. It was deflected by a Divine Shield. However, this compromised Sorena’s ability to protect herself from the fall from the cliffs, and she was badly wounded as she landed on the grass by the other side of the wall.

The Sentinel could not make the same jump and didn’t have to. Even if it took a scant few seconds for the night elf to find another way down, Sorena would need a good head start to outrun the cats. For a moment, she wished she was a warlock. It was unlikely that there were any here, at least any that would help her.

***

Hyzanthlay had little use for the herbs that grew in Elwynn now. She gathered a few with the intention of donating them to the Clan as a means of appeasement, but did not plan to stay long. She was debating whether or not to use her hearthstone to return to Undercity and report, or ride south to Grom Gol and perhaps even visit Eucalypto in Booty Bay.

Then she heard the alarms from Stormwind. It seems some serious trouble was afoot, as the alarms from Goldshire also began to sound. Whatever was troubling the humans of Elwynn, it was on the move and trying to escape.

The Warlock was still near the road, but she also could hear and see much of what was in the dark woods. If it was running from Stormwind, it would likely cut north through the forest and head for Duskwood.

In a few moments, she was not surprised to see a skeletal horse lumbering through the underbrush, and the way that the rider was hunched over indicated that she had already been wounded.

It was Sorena, the priest she had been watching not two hours ago. She was riding hard, but the undead mounts of the Forsaken were known for their resilience and not their speed, and she would not be able to outrun the two nightsabers that were pursuing her. So involved was their pursuit, however, that they did not notice the Warlock`s glowing eyes nearby, glaring at them with utter contempt and disgust as they drew closer to their quarry.

Hyzanthlay waited for them to pass by before summoning her flaming demon mount. She would be able to catch them and overtake them easily, but she was more interested in an early breakfast. She had not tried night elf, and from the smell she suspected the taste would be equally putrid, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. Maybe a nice scorching would improve it.

***
It had only taken a few seconds for Lafti to find a safer place to climb down from the wall. They had anticipated that the priest would take this route. Zephe was already waiting, as were their two nightsabers. The beasts could smell the thrill of the hunt on their mistresses, and ran as swiftly and silently as shadows over the dark grass.

The night elves did not need to speak. Zephe knew her shot had hit sailed straight and true, and from the determined but content look on Lafti’s face it was clear the priest was injured and near capture. Zephe knew she was close, heading east, and their mounts were faster. With any luck, they would be able to catch her before she even crossed the river.

The undead horse let off a luminous glow that bobbed and weaved through the trees. Lafti spurred her mount on ahead. Zephe fell back, drawing her bow, and prepared for another shot.

Lafti drew her axe and prepared to strike the priest. She would knock her from her mount, perhaps try to keep her alive for a few minutes. Communication would be difficult, but they might be able to get something out of her before hacking her up.

She would also have to be careful not to damage any of her belongings. An undead priest that was a master of the Holy Light, or so their sources had claimed. Some form of evidence or proof was required.

Using the weapon’s massive weight, she leaned back and prepared to swing forward and leap from her mount. The priest turned for a moment and looked at her, and Lafti was actually shaken by the resigned yet defiant look on her grey face. She bit her lip and swung.

A scream shattered the air and shook Lafti’s normally firm grip. The axe glanced off the Priest’s shoulder, knocking her from her mount but not mortally wounding her. She turned her nightsaber and watched with surprised horror as Zephe’s mount bolted past her, riderless.

A great swath of fire was stretched across the grass where they had just ran, and a hapless figure, covered in flames, came blundering out of it. It was Zephe, writhing in the grip of Immolate and consumed by Fear.

Then the great demon, snorting fire and pawing flame, appeared through the curtain of smoke and ash. The undead Warlock snarled proudly at the chaos it had created, its eyes filled with joyful fire.

Lafti gagged with anger, and forgot the priest. The air was still filled with Zephe`s screams. Flames began to lick at the limbs of the trees and the wind carried the small burning tongues over the dry grass.

The Warlock dismissed her mount and faced the Sentinel, who raised her axe and charged. Her world had shrunk, from the trees of Darnassus and the walls of Stormwind, to this single rotting Warlock’s neck. Where she had come from didn’t matter. All that mattered now was her messy demise.

She jumped and roared her challenge, and the warlock returned it by speaking a horrible word. The Fear spell did not miss, but withered and fell from the target, not strong enough to stop the enraged Sentinel.

The heavy axe swung, but like before on the wall, it bounced off its target. The force of the blow sent Lafti reeling through the dark space and hurled her into the burning undergrowth.

By the time she scrambled to her feet, both of the Forsaken were gone. She turned to Zephe, who was lying on the ground, her body still smoldering, her cheeks and eyes still swollen from the heat and pain. They were both calm, but also visibly excited. The thrill of the chase was still on them.

“She came upon us in the woods,” Zephe explained, as Lafti helped her up. “I only sensed her at the last moment.”

“One thing we do have,” Lafti said, retrieving her axe, “we have seen an undead priest use the Holy Light with no small amount of skill. And we know our informant is real.”

“Yes, he did mention a warlock.” Zephe took some potions and elixirs from her bag and consumed them. She offered them to her friend but the Sentinel refused. She was busy with their nightsabers, who had been thrown into a stubborn and agitated mood by the attack.

They did not speak again as they walked back to Stormwind, calming their mounts as they did so.

***

Hyzanthlay was tempted to take a bite out of that Hunter. She was pleasantly surprised to find that barbequed night elf smelled rather succulent. But that look in the Sentinel’s eyes made her think twice.

The priest’s bubble had saved her from a quick and clean decapitation, a certain death this time. Hyzanthlay was impressed that the priest had used the opportunity to save her with a Divine Shield instead of healing herself and running.

She followed the Priest at a safe distance for a while, more out of curiosity than anything else. She turned south after reaching Duskwood and continued to Stranglethorn Vale.

Hyzanthlay went no farther than the mysterious Twilight Grove. She was sure they were no longer being followed. The Sentinel had taken quite a fall, and her friend would eventually recover but had been badly burned. Their mounts had also been very spooked. Nightsabers were fast and fierce but skittish when surprised.

It was uncomfortably close to dawn, and Hyzanthlay had lost her taste for adventures. If she followed Sorena any further, it was possible she would be suspected of being an accomplice of one she was supposed to be following. All of these political intrigues made her feel even more hostile than usual. Hang Sylvanas, and the bloody Clan!

What she needed was a nice romp through a small human town to clear her head and cheer her up. Then she remembered the Scarlet Monastary. Oh, the sweet, fresh blood of Crusaders! It was just what she needed to clear her undead head.

Strellabelle was no doubt already waiting, as was the Tauren. But first, clear up this silliness with the Dark Lady.

She used her Hearthstone, and in a few scant moments she had returned to Undercity.