Sorena only rode as far as Grom Gol. She dared not stop anywhere sooner. Not only did she need to send word to Eucalypto, but she needed to be sure that she was no longer being followed; either by night elves or mysterious benevolent warlocks.

She considered taking the zeppelin, as the long and lazy ride would have calmed her frazzled nerves, but she had an important errand in Undercity. Even as an undead, she preferred her existence to be relatively calm. That was the main reason she had chosen the smaller guild of DPS Very Slowly rather than one of the many larger and more popular ones that had also pursued her. She could not deny that the roguish charm of the guild’s ambassador had something to do with it. He exuded an innocent, almost childlike quality that warmed what was left of her heart.

It only took a few moments. The hearthstone glowed fiercely, and she was gone.

* * *

Strellabelle wasn’t sure of the Dark Lady’s plans, but she had been told by higher ranking members of the Clan to stay by the monastery and await further instructions.

She followed the orders without question and hoped that Hyzanthlay would eventually learn to do the same. However, she did harbor some misgivings about who she would be meeting here. She remembered that young warrior that they had met in the Sepulchre, and how carelessly Hyzanthlay had tossed her a number of valuable healing potions of her own volition.

The undead warlock scowled. Such insolence! And then running off to Darkshire with barely a word! Fraternizing with old friends, familiar surroundings or even more dire, former family members, was dangerous.

On one hand, raids and skirmishes that took place In Darkshire and even Elwynn could be very effective. The mere sight of a single Forsaken riding freely down the main road would strike terror in the heart of almost any human. Tearing the Alliance down from the inside, attacking their hearts and their spirits. To show any vulnerability, however, was a mistake. The Undead must always exude an air of cruelty, apathy, and unwavering obedience.

It was the Clan of the Fallen that had pointed out the suspicious trips a certain Priest had been making into Alliance territory. It had also been their suggestion that Hyzanthlay be sent to confirm their suspicions. If Sorena had agreed to join them instead, perhaps the Clan would have looked the other way. A priest who could wield the Holy Light! Such a talent would have to be studied and exploited, for exclusive use of the Clan, of course.

Instead, she fell in with that Druid, another face she remembered from the Sepulcher. The darkness in her face deepened. They had formed a guild and were still in Booty Bay, a likely place for an upstart guild of vagrants and freaks. It was also a shame that this Eucalypto had ignored her requests. He barely even showed his face in Undercity. Apparently he had some connection to the cockroach vendor but, being a rogue of exceptional quality, he kept his secrets well.

The sources the Clan had at their disposal were keeping an eye on the new guild, and so far they had nothing incriminating to report. The easiest way to usurp a guild’s coveted membership was to tear it apart. The Clan had done it before.

Some angry yelling and a series of awkward crashes and thuds interrupted Strellabelle`s train of thought. From her vantage point, she saw a Tauren running across the grass and recognized the warrior from the Sepulcher. The humans in pursuit had already turned back. The wilderness in this part of Tirisfal Glades was too dangerous.

I should have known, she grumbled inwardly, and sent her minion to attract her attention. Unilke Hyzanthlay, Strellabelle preferred to let her demons do most of the work. And she had to admit, the look on the average Tauren’s face when suddenly faced with a large voidwalker was quite comical.

This particular Tauren disappointed her, however. Apparently she had already seen a number of demons, perhaps thanks to befriending Hyzanthlay, and did not react with any sort of surprise or consternation. She looked past the voidwalker to find the warlock who must have been hiding somewhere behind it. In fact, she barely even took note of the thing.

“They’re gone,” the undead female appeared from the undergrowth. “They find strength in numbers but all humans are cowards at heart. They won’t follow you. Are you ready to enter the Monastary? That’s some fine armor. Where did you get it?”

Tiponi was expecting to meet Hyzanthlay here, and was taken aback by this undead stranger who seemed to know her. The voidwalker continued scowling at nothing in particular and offered no explanation. Tiponi had grown rather tired of the games the undead played after the time she had spent in Undercity.

“Who are you?” She asked, putting her hand suggestively on her weapon. “Did Hyzanthlay send you?”

“We have met, but you would not remember,” the undead replied with a mocking bow. “I am Strellabelle. I was with Hyzanthlay in Shadowfang Keep. You are the Tauren that was wounded in the Sepulcher. She gave you some potions.”

As the warlock spoke this last part, her voice seemed to grate more than usual, in an almost threatening way. Tiponi did not respond to this. One thing she had learned about the undead; most of their more annoying habits were designed to provoke a reaction, as if they were forsaken children.

“I was happy to have her help,” Tiponi decided to give this Strellabelle a dig of her own. “Is she so highly skilled that she doesn’t need a demon?”

Of course, Tiponi knew better. But the way Strellabelle`s face twisted angrily when she said so that playing the naive cow was worth it.

“Hyzanthlay prefers the cruder of the disciplines, Destruction,” Strellabelle sneered with disdain. “Messy and simple, but effective. The Clan is happy enough with it. We need our share of vicious killers, after all.”

Tiponi did not reply, but continued to stare fixedly at the warlock. She repressed the urge to glare at the voidwalker, who would have been breathing down her neck if it had breath.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t demonstrated her abilities on you yet,” Strellabelle hissed, looking over the Tauren warrior with a casual indifference. “She really is a heartless creature. I can’t imagine her caring at all for an…ahem…cow. She made a joke about steak while you were lying there, senseless.”

“Are we going to the Monastary, or not?” Tiponi was troubled by what she had been told but was careful not to show it.

“Hyzanthlay will arrive directly,” Strellabelle hissed. “I have been told she will bring a healer. We will wait out of sight. There’s a small cemetery and a gallows close to the entrance. Even your bulky frame will stay hidden.”

Without waiting for a reply, Strellabelle turned and stomped into the undergrowth. The Tauren and Voidwalker followed in silence.

***
Hyzanthlay glumly made her way to the Royal Quarter. She stomped down the stairs and marched past her usual haunts; the bank, the Apothecareum, that spot on the mossy bridge where she usually went fishing.

Focus on the Monastery, she thought fiercely, and think of all that bright blood you’ll be able to spill.

Yes, all those sweet Crusader guts squishing under her heavy step…she smiled and licked her lips. Something else drew her there, the same morbid curiosity that had driven her to Duskwood. She did not ask herself what it was, in a way she was not even able to. As an undead warlock, she could only think of the most immediate and visceral. She had not killed humans in a while, and Crusaders were especially succulent.

It was the way they first looked at her, with disdain and disgust. She loved to watch that look turn to fear and horror, then the grim resignation of their fate. Some tried to run. Those were the ones that initially approached her with the most confidence. Those were her favorites.

The passage that led to the Queen’s chamber seemed longer than usual. She ignored the guards that saluted her as she reached the end of the passage. The dreadlord Varimathras filled her field of vision, blocking out anything else as she slowly mounted the steps that led to the throne.

“Kneel,” he sneered at her, his voice thick with a heavy darkness.

Hyzanthlay managed to hold in a defiant look and slowly descended to one knee.

“Lower,” he rumbled.

A barely perceptible hiss slipped through Hyzanthlay’s teeth as she put both knees on the ground and touched her forehead to the floor.

“Lower,” Varimathras rumbled, and laughed loudly when she finally looked up at him defiantly.

Sylvanas let Varimathras finish, then beckoned to the warlock.

“Rise and report,” she said, her eyes glowing with a white light that Hyzanthlay now associated with night elves. “You successfully tracked the priest, did you not?”

“I did as you command, my Queen,” Hyzanthlay now stood up but remained bent at the waist, her head lowered. “It was not difficult, as she made little effort to conceal her movements.

She visited a small farm, of little consequence, and possibly abandoned. Foraging for supplies and frightening the odd human. I have nothing further to report.”
There was a strange, heavy silence that filled the chamber. Varimathras twitched his leathery wings but said nothing.

“Are you certain, Warlock, that you have no further information?” Sylvanas spoke in a cold, angry voice.

“I have nothing further to report,” Hyzanthlay repeated in the same cold, dead voice that Sylvanas had used, but she raised her glowing orbs in defiance as she did so.

“Very well,” Sylvanas said heavily. “And now, we will hear another report. Are you so arrogant to think you were not followed as well?”

She let this hang in the air for a moment. The warlock remained unmoved.

“Sorena,” the Dark Lady nodded towards a dark corner of the room, “approach the throne and give your report.”

Well, that makes sense, Hyzanthlay thought. And now priest, we’ll find out what kind of undead you are.

“My Lady,” Sorena curtsied gracefully, and remained on one knee. “I followed the Warlock as you commanded. She is drawn by the herbs and raiding that the dark woods have to offer. You would be proud, my Queen, to see the havoc she has wrought upon our enemies. They flee before her horrible visage. I have nothing more to report.”

Impressive, Hyzanthlay thought, holding back a toothy smile. Perhaps, priest, you and I do have something in common.

Varimathras nodded in approval. The Dark Lady hesitated a moment before continuing.

“Then continue to strike fear into the hearts of even our most zealous enemies,” she said, her voice reaching a powerful crescendo. “To the Monastery, Hyzanthlay, and Sorena will aid you as you raze it to the ground! Now GO!”

Hyzanthlay and Sorena bowed low, and walked from the inner sanctum of the royal quarter side by side. The only exchanged the occasional suspicious look until they reached the gooey green moat that snaked through the four quarters of Undercity.

“I’m riding out through the sewers,” Hyzanthlay wanted to get out of Undercity as soon as possible. “Do you need to stop at the bank, or get repairs?”

“I do,” Sorena said, her voice strangely calm and clear compared to Hyzanthlay’s grating rasp. “A few parts and bolts and I can do some worthy damage, even if I am busy healing. How many others do we have?”

Another small detail was that they needed someone who wore plate to lead them through the Monastery, and from what she gathered from Tiponi it would not be her. She would be worthy with her weapon but her destiny seemed to be taking a different path.

“We need a warrior, or a druid,” she answered, following Sorena to the engineering trainer. “You know Rik, don’t you? I’ve seen him in his bear form. Can he come with us?”

“I sent a cable to Eucalypto in Grom Gol,” Sorena answered. “He would have answered by now.”

“I’ll meet you by the back entrance,” Hyzanthlay didn’t look at Sorena as she veered off to see the Herbalist. A visit to the Apothecaruem would also be in order.

They separated without another word. Both had many questions, but these walls had ears.

* * *

Tiponi lounged across the earth and rock like a rich human would lounge on pillows. She was disturbed by the manner of this Strellabelle and retaliated with exaggerated self-assurance. This warlock seemed to be looking for a fight, and easy to provoke. She irritated Tiponi’s nerves, as she paced beside her demon in impatience. Tiponi embellished a slow yawn in mockery, and went back to preparing her supplies. It would not be long now, she had said. Tiponi finished sharpening her dagger and returned it to its snug sheath at her waist.

As she stretched out a roll of linen before her to make a few bandages, she studied her newest companion. Her big blue demon did not stray far from its mistress’s side.

It was strange, she mused, it hadn’t been so long ago that she would have been afraid of the demon, and angry at its very existence. An “affront to the Earthmother”, an “unnatural abomination” she would have called it. She now barely even noticed the thing. Perhaps that realization should have disturbed her, but it didn’t. She began to tear strips of linen from the cloth, smiling at Strellabelle while she did so. The warlock glanced her way and rolled her eyes, and Tiponi grinned more broadly.

It would not be long now, she thought. Finally the wait was over, and it would all be worth it. Soon, very soon she would be in the Scarlet Monastery, surrounded by pathetic humans. They would attack her, confident in their impending victory, and oh! How she would surprise them. She could hardly wait to see the moment of realization in their eyes. They would laugh at her, and then they would slowly begin to comprehend their impending demise. They would learn fear and pain. When she looked into their eyes and saw death in them, she would laugh. She let out a stifled giggle, and remembered where she was. The warlock was looking at her curiously now and Tiponi glared at her in return.

She quickly returned to her work. What was she thinking about again? Oh yes. She would join her friends in honorable combat. Soon everything would be alright.

***

What Hyzanthlay had referred to as a “back door” was really a rough tunnel that was once the ventilation shaft for the Lordaeron capital city sewers. It was mostly unguarded, as if the Forsaken were daring anyone with the courage or foolishness to try and enter it.

Many had tried, and few had returned to tell what they had seen.

Sorena had received word from Eucalypto. They had a Druid. Not Rik, however. Hyzanthlay was not surprised, as she had usually seen him healing.

They rode in silence along the misty road, Hyzanthlay constantly checking her mount so as not to leave Sorena behind. They came to a halt where the road to the Monastery began. Hyzanthlay took a moment to stare longingly at the Bulwark, barely visible above the misty haze in the east.

“What are you looking for?” Sorena’s voice, still unnaturally smooth for an undead, slipped through her thoughts. “What do you expect that little dog to dig up?”

She was not asking about what she was staring at, but what she was doing wandering around in Duskwood.

“I have no memory of my life before I rose as an undead,” Hyzanthlay answered flatly, her voice grating. “I know I died in Andorhol, most likely in the siege. That dog and her cowardly master seem to know me. But I expect they will tell me nothing. It seems my only recourse is to ride east, to what is left of Andorhol, and see for myself.”

“And the gnomes?” Sorena asked. “If the dog would not damn you, that surely will. You must know they will use the herbs against us.”

Hyzanthlay cackled, as if this thought was actually rather pleasing.

“Any business I do in Elwynn is my own, as is the gold I collect. Any legitimate dealings within the Horde, and Clan would know of, and take a share of the profits. What do I care if the Forsaken fall from my firebloom? The shallow grave is still full, and do we not possess the same powers in death as the Scourge?”

Sorena smiled gently and nodded in agreement. Now it was Hyzanthlay’s turn. She regarded the Priest for a moment, taking note of her rather small stature, which was another contrast to her own. Hyzanthlay was not much taller, but had broader shoulders, and many of her still ropy muscles were clearly visible though her grey, papery skin.

They slowly passed by the Hanging Tree, where the Scarlet Crusade had strung up a number of their enemies as a warning to the others. The bodies, or what was left of them, drifted helplessly on the breeze.

“How is it possible, Priest, that you can touch the Holy Light, and not burn?”

Sorena hesitated a moment before answering, regarding the twisting bodies that dangled from the tree with regret, perhaps even longing.

“My memories of my life are very clear,” she said softly. “The child you saw me with by the farmhouse is my son. In the months before he was born, I was commissioned by the Alliance to use my engineering skills for the war. I was rather frail to begin with, and the work took a toll on me. The birth was a difficult one, but I was stubborn, and held on for a few days. Long enough to hold him and even nurse him, even if it was only once or twice.”

She fell silent. Hyzanthlay felt a strange, bitter taste in her mouth, and longed to cleanse it with fresh blood. That would have to wait; instead she distracted them both with a follow-up question.

“So…because you had a child, you can use the Holy Light?”

“Not exactly,” Sorena said, casting her eyes away from the Tree and to the warlock at her side. Her voice softened to a whisper. “When I hold my son, and think of the joy that I felt…dreams like any other mother.”

She stopped and turned away. The scowl on Hyzanthlay’s face had deepened. At the word “joy”, she had made an awful, guttural noise and spat on the ground.

“We should stay quiet from here,” the Warlock said gruffly. “There will be sentries soon. Will Rik be joining us?”

Sorena rode cautiously behind her companion, who was spurring her mount on and licking her lips hungrily.

“Rik is more of a healer these days, as the new guild has need of one. There is another Druid, one who is well-versed in the Bear aspect. We can wait for him…”

“He will come when I am ready,” Hyzanthlay hissed, and spurred her mount on.

***

Magnus took a moment to rest. Leaning against the haft of his hoe he straightened as best he could- no mean feat for a forsaken, who in life had spent his years stooped over plow and mattock. Old bones and weary joints protested as he eased his spine, wiping sweat (he hoped it was sweat) from his brow with the back of a slightly greenish hand. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, in fact a slight drizzle was just beginning to fall, but he had been working the soil for most of the morning and soon he was surrounded by an off-smelling nimbus of steam.

His family had tilled this patch for generations, back when there were generations. Pumpkins needed tending, and dark lady or no, he was not going to squander his second lease of life away when the only thing he ever knew remained more or less as it was. The soil was nearly barren, and occasionally reeked of disease like a necrotic limb, but the pumpkins still grew and that was near enough for him. Magnus liked pumpkins, they reminded him of himself. A hardy crop, they could survive almost anything.

Weather any storm, thaw when the ground freezes and they seemed (relatively) unharmed by the plague. Other seeds would wither and shrivel in that earth, but the hardy vines of pumpkins did well enough. Hoeing this patch gave him the one reason to exist in a time of war and despair.

From the south came the sound of hooves on stone. Magnus turned to look and strained his vision. His eyes weren’t as good as they were, he wasn’t even sure if they were his at all. After a moment a party of 5 came into view, three forsaken astride skeletal steeds and alongside strode two tauren. They headed east with intent in their eyes and proud smiles on their lips; those that had lips. They were armed and all looked eager for adventure.

Fools.

Everyone knew what lay that way. The scarlet did not take kindly to those with the dark lady’s blessing, nor those who entreat with them. A lot of fool nonsense and trouble is what they would find to the east. Magnus was not a one for violence; he was a poor, simple farmer. Even the bandits stopped raiding when they realized all their booty consisted of pumpkins.

Violence and tomfoolery.

Feh.

Magnus shook his head and turned back to the hoe. Driving the wide blade into the earth, tilling the soil, sweating in the fine Tirisfal drizzle. No adventures. No magic. No fool Scarlet to take his head. A man knew what to expect from pumpkins.