Character Analysis : Bigwig

Anyone who knows me in private life or has read any of my gamer fanfiction already knows how much I love the novel “Watership Down.”

The most recent adaptation from Netflix caught my eye, and I’ve seen a few scenes. This was waaay back in 2017 and it has since fallen down the memory hole.

To be honest, I was unimpressed. I could live with the poor computer graphics if the characters I love weren’t so maligned in this interpretation. Hazel is defined by his problems with females, which is silly for a rabbit. It’s one of the few advantages to being a rabbit. Ask Donnie Darko, one my favorite movies, partly because it references this book.

Bigwig, the great and gallant hero who fought off the fearsome Woundwort, is portrayed as, to put it bluntly, a fucking asshole.

There’s this crucial scene in the Netflix adaptation when Hazel and Bigwig first meet. Bigwig actually threatens him. This isn’t something Bigwig would do, this is something Toadflax would do. That’s why Hazel and Fiver have their encounter with Toadflax first, to emphasize that Bigwig, unlike other Owsla officers, has some redeeming qualities.

In the novel, Bigwig has a mocking tone, but it’s friendly and totally non-threatening.

I’m not sure how or exactly when the trend to make jerks into the heroes got started, but pandering to the worst human beings for popularity and money is a tale as old as time.

I’m reminded of other leading men in the media like Christian Grey, people like Varian Wrynn from World of Warcraft, and the new incarnation of the Beast from the recent live-action remake of “Beauty and the Beast.”

These are not good people. They are abusive jerks. The original characters had redeeming qualities and acted on them. Varian Wrynn is an interesting case, and I think a more sinister one. That deserves its own WoW essay about how they got away with all the cultural appropriation and laundering a villain into a hero because he happens to be a white guy.

That might be the topic of my next essay. The point of this one is that Thlayli-rah is a hero.

The Evolution of a Hero :

Bigwig from “Watership Down.”

By Kristy Ambrose

It might be a children’s story, an adventure book, or a chilling vision of a dystopian society. Richard Adams seems to have combined them all in “Watership Down.” The characters that we meet in the course of our journey across the English countryside are familiar literary figures. Many groups of adventurers have among them an archetype who starts as a rebel but evolves into a hero.

In “Watership Down,” this role is filled by the irrepressible Bigwig, a typical fighting man, or rabbit in this case.

The character’s introduction is important. It takes place during a crucial moment at the beginning of the novel.

The readers learn that the name Bigwig has two connotations. His fellow rabbits mean it literally to describe him using the distinctive tuft of hair on his head. The first translation from the Lapine word Thlayli is actually given as “Furhead.” (Adams, 6) This is an interesting call-back to insults like “hairbrained.” This term denotes a character of lesser intelligence, and we soon find out that although Bigwig is compulsive and rebellious, he isn’t stupid.

This might be why Adams adopts the name Bigwig as a translation instead. This is a slang term from English that means a person in charge. Other terms like “Boss” or “Big Cheese” might be used in this case, and neither has anything to do with intelligence.

Classical References

Bigwig is similar to other characters that are written in the same mold. The rabbits follow the same journey as many other human heroes from both ancient and modern times. The long journey of The Odyssey has been retold many times, and the destruction of the Sandleford Warren echoes the ruins of Troy in The Iliad.

Shakespeare’s Kent meets King Lear much like Bigwig meets Woundwort, as a mercenary in disguise.

Joseph Campbell himself compared Bigwig to Han Solo of Star Wars, arguing that both are pragmatic and materialistic, but essentially compassionate. (Campbell and Moyers, 129) The essential difference between the two is that Bigwig has more agency. He volunteers his skills and energy to the adventure with more enthusiasm at a much earlier time in the story, even if it means he bullies his way in as the easiest path to leadership.

The picture of Bigwig as a hero isn’t a happy accident. Richard Adams was inspired by Joseph Campbell’s work on the hero’s journey. (Bridgman, 108) By the time the rabbits assault Efrafa in the second part of Watership Down, Bigwig has learned to defer to Hazel based on brains instead of brawn. A mission like this would have been impossible for him to complete earlier in the novel, as he would have relied on sheer force.

Although strong and loyal, this heavyset rabbit does not volunteer his trust lightly. Despite his strength and prowess, his natural instinct to do the right thing for himself and those around him keeps him from becoming an elitist like the Thearah or a tyrant like Woundwort.

Adams describes Bigwig, or Thlayli in the rabbit language, as having a “warm and impulsive nature” that is defined by compassion and sympathy. (Adams, 189) It’s because of these core traits that he can evolve. He starts as little more than a practical and selfish buck, but by the time the story concludes, he’s an essential and renowned member of the community.

Bigwig rejects authority generally and acts impulsively when left on his own. This indicates that he isn’t afraid to act against the Thearah, but it also means Hazel will have to work that much harder to earn his respect. The leader of the lost band of rabbits sizes up Bigwig early in the journey.

Hazel realized wearily that Bigwig was probably going to be troublesome. He was certainly no coward, but he was likely to remain steady only as long as he could see his way clear and be sure of what to do. To him, perplexity was worse than danger; and when he was perplexed he usually grew angry. (Adams, 18)

Hazel compliments Bigwig’s character instead of clashing against it. Although he is dismissive of Hazel initially when he asks for an audience with the Thearah, Bigwig does remember his name and deduces that Hazel should speak to the Chief. He is not overbearing, nor is he rude, unlike the rough and angry Toadflax.

The Lapine Shakespeare

Bigwig is the Shakespearean idea of the model knight. He quotes Kent from King Lear when first speaking to General Woundwort, “I can run and fight and spoil a story telling it.” (Ibid, 186) This is a slight variation of the original quote from the play, “I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it…” (Shakespeare, 1. 4. 564-565)

A mix of warrior, rebel, and sometimes the joker, Bigwig’s rebellious and compulsive nature is both beneficial and detrimental to the group as a whole.

Until the appearance of Bluebell, it is Thlayli who acts as the comic relief. We laugh at him when he “growls appreciatively” at a reference to El-hrairah’s sexual prowess, (Adams, 16). Like a proper Shakespearean hero he always seems to have a few creative insults to hurl. “Moonstruck field mouse” (Adams, 66) and “U embleer hrair” (Prince of Stench) (Ibid., 267) are only two stellar examples.

Bigwig’s attitude changes towards leadership from the beginning of the novel to the end. Initially, Bigwig values size and strength more than intellect, but he eventually comes to love and respect the much physically weaker Hazel.

This touches on one of the novel’s themes, that intellect is more powerful than strength. It culminates in a dramatic victory when Hazel crafts the ultimate trick to foil the strongest rabbit they’ve ever encountered. Bigwig’s role in this final battle is essential, and by the time it happens, he is ready to admit that strength is not the last true authority.

When Bigwig gets into trouble, it’s often because he ignores Hazel or Fiver’s advice. This attitude almost costs him his life in the Warren of the Snares, where he learns the peril of ignoring both the hard way.

Bigwig, a character that symbolizes physical strength, is the only rabbit from the Sandleford to get snared at Cowslip’s warren.

A snare is a device set and fastened by brains, not brawn, and it is the intellectual power of Blackberry and Fiver that frees him. Once again, this stresses the theme that might does not always make right, and intellect is more important than strength. As Bigwig himself confesses to Fiver later. “You’ve bitten through a bigger peg than the one I’m dragging.” (Adams, 70)

This is the first time that Bigwig defers to a physically weaker rabbit. Up until now, he did what he wanted regardless of what Fiver or Hazel thought was best. They were more like equals in the chain of command. After experiencing this vulnerability, Bigwig asks Fiver, one of the smallest and weakest rabbits in the group, to give them an order.

Several other rabbits will out-think him throughout the novel, and he supports their efforts.

Bigwig is set up in direct contrast to three other rabbits in positions of authority. The Thearah, the Chief Rabbit of the Sandleford Warren, Holly, who is of a higher rank in the Sandleford Owsla and more authoritarian, and Woundwort, a paranoid and sadistic tyrant.

Two of these are introduced in the initial chapters, while the final and most intimidating is saved for last. As a leader, Hazel could be compared to these characters in a separate essay, in particular, the brutal and iron-fisted General Woundwort.

Woundwort never understands how a rabbit as strong as Bigwig can defer to a weaker one for any reason. Thus, we have Woundwort’s fatal flaw, and this blind spot is his undoing. He is badly shaken when Bigwig confesses that he is not the Chief Rabbit of his warren.

Thlayli’s reply, when it came, was low and gasping, but perfectly clear.

“My Chief Rabbit has told me to defend this run, and until he says otherwise, I shall stay here.”

“His Chief Rabbit?” said Vervain, staring.

It had never occurred to Woundwort or any of his officers that Thlayli was not the Chief Rabbit of his warren. Yet what he said carried immediate conviction. He was speaking the truth. And if he was not the Chief Rabbit, then somewhere close by, there must be another, stronger rabbit who was. A stronger rabbit than Thlayli. Where was he? And what was he doing at this moment? (Adams, 269)

In this crucial moment, Bigwig permanently declares that he defers to the power of the intellect. He’s no longer the sassy rabbit who sneered at Hazel or called Fiver names, the careless rabbit who questioned crossing the river in Chapter 8, or disregarded Fiver’s advice in Chapter 17.

Woundwort, on the other hand, always assumed that he was the Chief Rabbit because of his size. The only conclusion he can draw with his myopic view is that there is another rabbit nearby, even bigger and stronger than Bigwig. Woundwort is a Shakespearean villain to match a Shakespearean hero.

Bigwig, The Hero

When news arrives of the incoming Efrafan assault, many rabbits argue that they should run away. Hazel is adamantly against this and cites two main reasons: Clover and Hyzenthlay.

Clover is currently nursing a litter of kittens, only hours old, and can’t move from her burrow. Hyzenthlay does not have any kittens yet, but she is “heavy with young.” (Adams, 245) Even if they run, he argues, Hyzenthlay and other does sharing her condition won’t make it very far. In the final scenes, the duty of protecting the new, fledgling warren falls to Bigwig.

This doesn’t just mean the greater macrocosm of the community. In a detail that gets overlooked, as Adams never explicitly states it, Bigwig and his companions have their own families to protect at this point. The next generation and their home, Watership Down, must be protected. (Adams, 245-246).

Any number of does could also be carrying kittens at this time, but it is interesting that Hazel points out Hyzenthlay, a rabbit close to Bigwig, to drive his point home. It’s never explicitly stated, but it’s fairly obvious that Bigwig is the bunny daddy, making the stakes higher for him.

Protecting the new home they forged symbolizes the culmination of the effort made during the hero’s journey. The defeat of Woundwort and the survival of the next generation represent the emergence from the Underworld. The symbolism of the underground in the daily life of rabbits is used by Adams numerous times throughout the novel. Despite the dangerous path, the quest must not be abandoned.

Like the classic hero, Bigwig does not emerge from his battle with Woundwort unscathed. He gets the best of his opponent, but he is “scarred from head to foot” (Adams, 267) emotionally as well as physically. The reader might recall the price that Blackavar had to pay when he was mutilated for trying to leave Efrara, or how El-ahrairah lost his ears and tail to the Black Rabbit.

As the story comes to a close, we learn that Bigwig is the Captain of the Watership Owsla, and happily trains young bucks who have never seen cats about how to fight cats. There is some echo here of how the children of peacetime can’t understand war, and how the younger generation might take their safety for granted.

At the same time, the innocence of the young bucks, who love him dearly, is touching. This is Bigwig’s gift to them from the Underworld, an existence of peace and idealism.

Not every hero can enjoy a happy ending. Rabbits have a different idea of the value of life than humans do, another important theme in the novel, and Bigwig understands that he is now more than he ever asked to be. The gallant captain lives happily ever after, so to speak, as a scarred veteran in a world of children who know nothing of war.

Works Cited

Adams, Richard E. Watership Down. Rex Collings, 1972.

“Archetypes.” Hillsborough Community College Home, http://www.hccfl.edu/media/724354/archetypesforliteraryanalysis.pdf.

Bridgman, Joan. “Richard Adams at Eighty”. The Contemporary Review (The Contemporary Review Company Limited) 2000.

Campbell, Joseph, and Bill D. Moyers. The Power of Myth, Harmony, 1988.

Shakespeare, William. “King Lear: Entire Play.” The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, shakespeare.mit.edu/lear/full.html.

Snider, Clifton. “Brief Outline of Jungian Psychology with some Archetypal Images, Themes, and Symbols.” California State University, Long Beach, web.csulb.edu/~csnider/jungian.outline.html.

I Quit Facebook

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

It was actually several years ago when I made my first attempt to quit. The event that triggered a hasty exit was a sudden and surprising demand.

Facebook said that I had to use my real name.

I was just doing what I did every day. Log in to Facebook. But my account was locked, and the only way to get back in was to use my real name. This presented a real puzzle for me, because my first reaction to this was, I thought I was already using my real name.

Did Facebook think I was someone else? Had that bitter gnome that I had ganked and corpse-camped so many years ago hacked my account and altered my vitals? Did the folks at Facebook know something that I didn’t?

I’m not exactly sure what prompted Facebook to clarify my name that day. Maybe it was trying to differentiate me from the other Kristy Ambroses using the platform. It’s not an uncommon name. But even then, why? My friends knew who I was. Why would FB want to know, or even care, whether or not I was using my real name?

When I first discovered Facebook I wanted to pretend the profile belonged to my cat, and as he studied his human subjects he was using the medium to record his progress. I thought it would be a cool exercise in RP and a nice way to start Cat of the Tao. But that was not allowed. I had to use my real name and a real profile picture.

I caved back then, but this time something stopped me. This felt like bullying. I was already using my real name, despite FB insisting that I wasn’t, and my information, photos, links, and other precious junk was being withheld until I did what the Machine wanted. And something about that put me off.

It took an hour to deactivate my account, including deleting all of my personal information and making copies of anything relevant or useful that I didn’t want to lose. Even then, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t do a thorough cleansing and I don’t want to go back and find out. For those quitting today, check out several handy tips and advice to make sure you follow the four Ds – decrypt, deactivate, delete, and drop out. I also have to admit, this gave me an excuse to take another step towards “no contact” from certain people I was in touch with on Facebook.

It was easy at first but it gets harder when you start to feel left out. When I first moved to Puerto Escondido two years ago and I was looking for a new circle of friends, that was when I came pretty close to coming back to Facebook. What stopped me the second time was what happened at a dinner party.

The conversation turned to some photos that a friend had posted about another friend. Neither of them were present to confirm or deny any of it. Some rather snide words were exchanged about the number of people this girl was talking to at the bar. I’m not sure how this came about just because of the pictures or about the guy that had posted them in the first place, even though they were evidently friends and the photos didn’t contain anything incriminating. The drama that erupted around a few pictures posted on Facebook was pretty impressive. No wonder people would freak out over pictures that actually contained something scandalous.

I concluded at that point that Facebook was little more than a glorified rumor mill for people that had no talents or hobbies and didn’t mind being sold as a product. Exceptions could be made for people who stayed on to communicate with friends or family, I thought, but how essential was that really? Don’t you have email?

If something happens twice, it has to happen a third time.

Then I decided to get out of the content mill business, which is a process you can read about in another post. That would mean I would have to revamp the blog and get my own writing more exposure, which means taking advantage of social media. For a moment, I briefly considered opening a whole new Facebook page that was dedicated solely to my writing. I would avoid the social angle as much as possible, I told myself. I can use it professionally and post only writing-related material and nothing else.

That was only a few scant weeks ago. Then the news about Cambridge Analytica came out, followed by even more sleazy connections the company has to Russia and Jared Kushner. Even Zuckerberg himself was dumping the plummeting FB stock last week. Only days later, I’m proud to say that I Quit Facebook before it was trending on Twitter.

I make a home on MeWe these days. Things are quiet in the neighborhood at present, but as Facebook crumbles and other equally vapid social media platforms like Twitter and Instagram fall apart for many of the same reasons, users like me will start looking for alternatives that value privacy and anonymity.

The Past is Prologue – Classic WoW

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

My first thought when I saw the preview was,”Oh, hi Chromie!” as if seeing an old work colleague. It was that easy to step back into the World of Warcraft again. It’s been about three years since I last signed … Continue reading →

Chapter 19, The Dreadsteed

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Tiponi’s blood sang with the rush of fighting. Her body pulsed in rhythm, her blood, her breath, her killing stroke. As the scarlets fell around her, as she brought death, tears, pain and blood to the living, Tiponi chanted an internal mantra.

“I have the flower. Everything will be alright. I will right the wrongs. I have the flower. Everything will be alright. I will right the wrongs.”

Her body moved automatically. Her trained warrior instincts snapping with precision.

She ducked a blow, parried, countered, dodged. She deflected a bolt of the human’s magic with the blade of her weapon, all the while muttering under her breath.

“I will right the wrongs. I have the flower. Everything will be alright.”

This single act represented her redemption. She had fallen so far. In the pursuit of frivolous excitement and adventure she had become the very thing she despised. She had wanted to help others, not cut them down like stalks of barley, and certainly not enjoying it. She had committed so many wrongs. Would her people even recognize her now?

The single act of returning a flower to an unmarked grave might seem insignificant, but to Tiponi it represented her last chance to redeem herself. Her last chance to save her soul.

She ignored the blood. She ignored the screams. She ignored the rasping breaths of the dying. She was suddenly surprised when it was over.

“The Light has spoken,” said the healer.

Tiponi regarded the two dead bodies on the floor. It had all been for this? They looked no different from any other human she had fought since this massacre began.

“Good.” Said Tiponi, “We are finished then.”

Then the looting began. Morgraine had a handsome two-handed mace and some very fine mail gloves. Tiponi graciously offered the mace to the Druid, since she was quite happy with Ravager. Whitemane’s chapeau was clearly for clerics and healers, and was promptly given to Sorena.

The fires that had started in the library had moved on to the other wings. They were unchallenged as they left. No doubt any survivors would have retreated East to the Plaguelands or perhaps Southwest, if they thought they could make it past Undercity to the human stronghold of Ambermill.

They found many an abandoned tabard as they walked. The Scarlet Crusade had fallen out of favour in Azeroth, and any wearing their colours would have a difficult time finding succour.

The party was strangely quiet; now a staggered group of individuals again. Strellabelle was elated, and clearly could not get to Undercity fast enough. Doubtless word had already reached the Dreadlord and the Dark Queen. The pillar of black smoke was barely visible in the distance, but a clear signal for all to see, even for the human residents of Southshore.

Hyzanthlay hung back, trying to find an excuse to take the zeppelin south with Sorena. But the fact is she had to go to Undercity as well. The pile of Pure Hearts were weighing her down. She also had to admit some degree of curiosity as to what Varimathras would reward them with. As single-minded and incapable of planning as she was, she was still a Forsaken warlock, and hardly immune to the temptations of greed and power.

Tiponi and Kohanna had no wish to visit Undercity. Tiponi in particular, who seemed downcast and tired, was anxious to return to Mulgore. Her mood seemed to similar to that of Sorena’s, but less muted. The priest had not announced that she was planning on taking the zeppelin to Grom Gol, but they assumed that she was heading to Booty Bay. DPS Very Slowly was not exactly a famous guild, but it was well-known that it’s headquarters were based in the goblin city. Naturally the priest was going there. Strellabelle did make one wheedling effort to try and change her mind.

“Come to the Dreadlord with us, Sorena,” Strellabelle smiled as sweetly as an undead warlock possibly could. “Are you also not a Forsaken? Part of this glory is yours!”

“I respectfully decline,” Sorena said quietly. “My guild awaits my report. Many thanks, my friends. We have done Azeroth a favor, and regardless of what the humans say openly, nobody will be more grateful then them.”

Sorena caught Hyzanthlay’s eyes for a brief moment as she turned her mount towards the zeppelin landing just outside of Brill. They both remembered the book of the Dancing Trolls; no doubt Sorena was on her way back to that quiet little farmhouse. The two Tauren quietly followed after the usual formal farewells. Hyzanthlay turned to follow Strellabelle into Undercity.

Word had already spread throughout the Forsaken capital that the Scarlet Monastery had been raided, looted and was burning to the ground even as they went about their unnatural daily lives. Many of their brethren bowed low before them, some were even audacious enough to shake their hands and congratulate them openly. Hyzanthlay was glad to remain behind Strellabelle and let her lap up the attention. The Affliction warlock mistakenly took this as deferment, and was content that Hyzanthlay had finally learned her place.

The truth was that the Destruction warlock felt hollow and dull. The raid of the Monastery had been satisfying on a number of levels, but her hunger remained unsatisfied. She craved even more now, and not just the taste of blood and guts, but the sweet milk of revenge. How hard had she worked to hone her skills and train her vicious nature to raid the monastery, only to have an even greater mystery and more powerful enemies appear before her? The Bulwark, and the ruins of Andorhol that lay just beyond, loomed in her mind’s eye.

The residents of the Royal Quarter knew as well. Varimathras and Sylvanas rose when they entered the chamber, the guards saluted them as they marched past, and the entourage that had gathered behind them hung by the door.

“You are welcome, most honored among the Forsaken,” the Queen smiled broadly. “You have accomplished what many before you could not. This is a great victory for the Forsaken, as well as the Horde. You will be duly rewarded for your most valiant and awesome efforts.”

She motioned towards the Dreadlord, who was also smiling. His long teeth bit into the top of his dark blue upper lip. He looked quite pleased, but not exactly thrilled or amazed. Hyzanthlay wondered what it would take for a Dreadlord to bend his knee.

“For you, Strellabelle,” and the warlock bowed low as he spoke to her. “May the Prophetic Cane guild you to many more victories. And for you, Hyzanthlay, I understand you are not partial to staves. In that case, may the Sword of Omen cut you a path to victory.

For the Forsaken!”

These last few words boomed through the chamber and sent all that were there into raucous cheering. Even Sylvanas flattered them with a round of polite applause.

Strellabelle was greeted and congratulated by members of her guild. Many also wanted to have a word with Hyzanthlay, but in the chaos of cries and cheers she had quietly slipped away.

“Ah,” Apothecary Farnell was bent over his vials and potions as usual. “My dear lady! I heard that you had returned.”

Hyzanthlay nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. She lifted her heavy bag and dumped the pile of soggy hearts on his workbench.

“My, what an abundance of lovey gore you have brought me, Hyzanthlay!” He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Your efforts have been most excellent! Along with a commendation from Varimathras and the Dark Lady herself as well, no doubt!”

“My efforts have proven to be very fruitful,” she said, and drew her new sword to show off a bit.

“Most excellent indeed!” He then lowered his voice and said, “You should tell Faustin about this…as I’m sure you’ll be heading south again soon.”

Hyzanthlay smiled and carefully sheathed her sword. She took her leave of the Apothecary, and after a brief visit to the bank and the tailor (who recognized her and gushed incessantly about how honored she was), she had changed into her fishing gear and was riding out to the zeppelin landing.

***

“Well, if it isn’t our esteemed priest!”

Sorena entered the Salty Sailor tavern in Booty bay to barely a look from the other patrons. Perhaps it was too soon for word to have reached the isolated pirate cove.

Eucalypto might have been an undead rogue, but no one could ever say that he was not a gentleman, and that he did not look after his guild mates. He immediately rose and greeted her, then pulled out her chair and ordered her a drink. She said little, and was clearly quite downcast.

“The monastery has fallen,” she confirmed. “No word here yet?”

“The goblins already know, but many are keeping it quiet.” Eucalypto smiled. “Don’t want to frighten off any investors, I suppose. This may hurt certain prominent human families in Stormwind and Tyr’s Hand. And why the long face, my dear? I would expect being in your old haunt would have brought back some fond memories.”

“That was part of the problem,” she sighed, and gratefully took the full flagon of mead from the goblin waitress, whose eyes widened when Eucalypto handed her a handful of coins,

“Keep them coming, and another round for myself. We’ll also need a third glass.” He said.

“Yes sir!” She answered enthusiastically, not taking her greedy eyes off the shimmering pile of gold clinking in her hand.

“I know what will cheer you up,” he said. “A friend of yours is here, arrived just a few moments ago. Came straight in from Undercity.”

Sorena assumed that the third glass would be for Rik, so she was both surprised and happy when Hyzanthlay, grinning from ear to ear, came down the stairs and sat next to her.

“You were held up in Duskwood,” the warlock smiled. “I caught up to you. Did the boy like the book you got him?”

Eucalytpo raised his eyebrows a bit (what was left of them) but said nothing. Sorena’s head seemed to sink even lower.

“I couldn’t give it to him, or even leave it for him,” she said quietly. “The house is standing empty, completely locked up.”

A dark silence settled over the table. Sorena continued.

“Perhaps…they were tracking me. The undead activity there seems to have increased. My father-in-law, he has a tavern up at the logging camp. I will try to find him there. It’s just as well. Safer for…them.”

Sorena drank deeply and Hyzanthlay joined her with the full mug that the goblin had just placed on the table.

“You’ll find him,” Hyzanthlay shrugged, wondering why she even cared. “Eucalypto, you should have been with us! The spoils, the hunt, the great feast that it was!”

“So many humans, so little time,” the rogue snickered. “And what did you find, Hyzanthlay?”

“Not what I expected,” the warlock said, her mood darkening for the moment, but not to the same degree as Sorena. “But that Strellabelle…she’s after the Dreadsteed!”
“And so are you,” the rogue said, smiling.

“Indeed I am,” the warlock confirmed proudly. “And I found out that you would know,” and she turned and poked the Priest, “about the Dreadsteed.”

“I know nothing of your Dreadsteed,” Sorena answered shortly, and took another swig.
A voice from outside the tavern cut into their conversation.

“Extra, extra, read all about it! Special edition! Scarlet Monastery in Tirisfal burns, leaders thought dead, Horde takes credit! Read all about it!”

An excited wave of chatter swept through the tavern. Many glasses were raised and many toasts were declared;

Here’s to the fall of the Scarlet Monastery! For the Horde! Huzzah!

Sorena could not help but smile. Hyzanthlay lit a fat cigar.

“We’ll talk about the Dreadsteed later,” Hyzanthlay drained her glass and leaned back behind a plume of heavy, satisfied smoke.

Chapter 13, DPS Very Slowly

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

AZEROTH POST

Eucalypto;

You will be pleased to know that my raid through Darkshire was rather amusing but unproductive. I have gained a torch. That is all.

Stonard is, as you said, a festering swamp filled with amphibious, flesh eating monsters. And trolls. I am rather enjoying it. I’ve sent along some herbs for your enjoyment.

The desert is covered with edible fools, whole towns of them. Not as much treasure as I expected, but the entertainment was priceless.

Virtually no sign of the Scarlets here. The same as the Swamp. And those fools still won’t let me past the Bulwark.

And how is Rik? Did that guild ever get started?

Hyzanthlay

* * *

Rik awoke with a bit of a headache, but the warm morning light and smell of fresh coffee brought him some relief. The hot, bitter liquid was a luxury in Mulgore but the goblins of Stranglethorn were legendary for their trade in it. Eucalypto seemed to have a taste for it, no doubt from what had been a privileged upbringing in life. Just how privileged was something Rik was to find more about directly.

Eucalypto was considerably more cheerful and seemed to have forgotten his unhappy rambling from the previous night. He poured Rik some coffee and told him a few stories of the jungle and his forays into Duskwood. Every time Rik tried to raise the subject of the guild startup money, he was politely deflected. Was he playing another game, or perhaps he didn’t have money after all?

Rik would be rather miffed if he found out he had come all the way from Mulgore just because His Roguish Highness had been feeling lonely. And that’s exactly what he said the next time his host tried to stuff another bit of breakfast pastry into his mouth.

“And you know sugar doesn’t agree with me,” he added curtly.

“Oh, you let business interfere with a nice brunch!” Eucalypto quickly finished his coffee. “Fine, then.”

Rik expected Euxalypto to open a cupboard and see a waterfall of gold and jewels spill out. Perhaps he would lift up a floorboard and reveal a locked and booby-trapped chest filled with various bank notes. But no; Eucalypto had thrown his cape over his shoulders, picked up his hat, and was preparing to head out the door.

“Where…” The ruffled Tauren looked with confusion at his friend.

“To the Stranglethorn Trust Bank,” Eucalypto answered, straightening his cap and throwing his cape over his shoulders. “You wanted to get to work, didn’t you?”

Well, if the fund was so vast that it had to be kept in a bank, that was something Rik could live with.

Mornings in Booty Bay were typically quiet to compensate for the late, noisy nights. Only a few locals were out and about, fishing from the boardwalks or shopping for breakfast. They took little note of the undead rogue and his hulking Tauren companion, who kept yawning and stretching.

Rickle Goldgrubber was more than a simple banker. The funds he was responsible for formed the economic basis of most of the Eastern Kingdoms, and he loved his job. Thus, his face was a strange mixture of terror and enthusiasm when he saw Eucalytpo. He smiled nervously and motioned a lackey towards him.

“Good morning, Master…ehm…Eucalypto. You wish to access your funds?”

A nervous little goblin, no doubt a scribe or clerk, meekly asked if he could take the Master’s hat and coat, perhaps bring him some tea? Eucalypto graciously accepted, and could his Tauren friend have the same? The Tauren, who was only dressed in his leather kilt and linen vest, looked rather comical as he took the dainty teacup in his massive hand.

“One moment, please,” Rickle smiled at the Druid and motioned to Eucalypto. It seemed Rik was expected to wait a moment. There seemed to be some forms to sign. The goblins seemed horrified and submissive at the same time, and it was certainly not Eucalypto’s state of undeath that was putting them off. Why all the formality?

“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” the Scribe said gently, “but with this amount, and the…circumstances, your friend’s identity must be verified. Protocol, you understand.”

“Well, no, I don’t understand at all,” Rik said. “Isn’t my friend just taking money out of an account?”

“Oh,” the goblin faltered awkwardly, “not exactly. Actually, he…well I’m afraid that’s not my place. The bank manager will be with you shortly. Can I get you anything else? Are you certain? Enjoy your tea, sir.”

She seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Eucalypto smiled and asked quietly for more tea before letting her scurry off. He had that look on his face that was quiet and reserved, but Rik knew he was laughing hysterically inside. Rickle looked like he was containing a nervous breakdown but at the same time his face was flushed and he was breathing rather deeply. He was clutching a bundle of papers in his hand.

“My friend, Rik, will have access to any and all the services you have offered to me,” Eucalypto said, continuing a conversation that had already been in progress. “Would you be so kind as to explain to him the terms of our contract?”

“Certainly,” Rickle almost sniffled, “It seems that certain investments that the Stranglethorn Trust previously thought were remaindered due to accident and death, have been accounted for. Certain prominent families…”

At this point, Eucalypto carefully touched his knife, not to threaten but to warn. It seems a point of discussion had been the use of his identity. Just because it was in the contract doesn’t mean it had to be on display. Rickle paused, nodded, and continued.

“…that shall remain unnamed have been unable to claim their vast investments for some time. However, the Venture Company has made a pledge to honor the interests of its shareholders. In exchange for keeping this account in trust with the party of the first part, that being the Stranglethorn Trust Bank, will extend all credit and hospitality to the party of the second part, that being the Guildmaster of DPS Very Slowly. The executor of which is one Rik, Druid of Mulgore.

Sign here, please.”

Rik was annoyed at being expected to make his mark with such a flimsy little instrument, especially since his hands were trembling a bit. He didn’t understand the finer details, but it seems that certain wealthy families from Lordaeron had made considerable investments in the Venture Company. In recent years, the company had proved to be a success, and the value of the investments had shot through the roof.

In a single day, however, virtually all of these investors had disappeared when the kingdom of Lordearon has been destroyed.

All but one, it seems.

Eucalypto, even in undeath, was the last surviving heir not only of his families fortune but the fortunes of many. They had invested their money as a group, perhaps as an extended family or a guild. That part didn’t really matter.

What did matter was that Eucalytpo’s fortune was so vast that the bank and the Venture Company couldn’t pay him.

Therefore, had a massive account at his disposal, along with a line of credit, and probably a controlling interest in both the bank and the mining company.

And there was something else….oh no. Now he understood the look on Eucalypto’s face. He had been laughing at him.

Thanking the goblins profusely, Rik pulled Eucalypto aside, back out into the open boardwalk.

“DPS Very Slowly?” He exclaimed. “What kind of guild name is that? Do you think that just because you paid for it, you can name the guild?”

“Yes,” Eucalypto said frankly. “I do. I had a vision! And I’ll tell you all about it over a civilized dinner.”

They were out on the docks again, and the sun was rising into a clear sky, shimmering off the water. They paused and looked out over the ocean.

“Well…well…” Rik was a little overwhelmed, “we have a guild, do we?”

“You’re welcome,” Eucalypto said with a confidant smile, then took his cigarette case out of his pocket. It crossed Rik’s mind that he hadn’t seen Eucalypto smoking yet today, and the case seemed curiously empty.

Eucalypto lit one and sighed. Rik opened his mouth to ask about Hyzanthlay, but Eucalypto seemed to want to avoid that subject as well. He muttered something about the lovely weather and turned to walk towards the tavern. Rik followed, hoping that some day drinking would loosen Eucalypto’s tongue.

“So, you saw a cake, a cake, and it was on fire?”

The tavern in Booty Bay was humming as usual. Rik had decided to allow Eucalypto to buy him lunch, get him drunk, and try to explain the name he had chosen for a guild.

“No, no,” the rogue laughed and refilled his friend’s glass. “It was a flaming pie. And on that flaming pie…”

“…Was sitting Moroes the Castellan, and he said, ‘You shall name your guild DPS Very Slowly.”

“Yes,” Eucalypto acknowledged. “And when he said slowly, he meant very fucking slowly. He was quite emphatic on that point.”

“I see. What have you been smoking again?” Rik reminded himself to have a chat with Hyzanthlay when she reappeared.

How come she never shared her best herb with him? He was a Tauren and a Druid, after all. The night elves had a few very tasty herb smoking blends, and considering how Hyz felt about night elves she probably had no knowledge of them. He couldn’t help but smile when recalling one of his earlier days as a Druid; one of his colleagues in Moonglade had a jar of something that you could smell three fathoms underwater and ten leagues away. Two pulls had just about ripped his head off, but he still managed to impress his companion with his smoking prowess.

“So the rumors are true,” she had purred at him and smiled, “that your people have some herbal wisdom. This requires immediate and forceful discussion. You may have to stay the night. Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?” And the flimsy robe she was wearing slid away, exposing every inch of her soft lavender skin.

So the rumors are true, Rik thought. Night elves have seen too much and lived too long to be embarrassed by petty things like spontaneous nudity and cross-species coitus. What had happened to that girl anyway? Moonglade was far away and it had been years ago. He was rather ashamed to admit that he couldn’t even remember her name. Darnassian names were tricky anyway.

“You doubt the authenticity of my vision,” Eucalypto chided, with a mock fierceness that resembled the muted roar of a fervent preacher. “Doubt me not, friend Druid! We shall have one of the most infamous guild of which neither the Horde nor Alliance has seen.”

The days went by quickly in Stranglethorn Vale. Rik was busy fine-tuning the guild and exploring the nearby jungle. He had to admit, some of the beaches and flora were lovely. The environment was definitely something a druid would appreciate. Eucalypto grew rather somber but was of great help in the recruitment department. His cigarette case was now empty, and was starting to collect dust in the bank where he had left it. This worried Rik a little.

Where was Hyzanthlay?

“Somewhere in Tanaris, last I heard,” Eucalypto replied without looking up when he asked.

“Up to no good in the desert then?” The Tauren quipped.

“Hopefully,” Eucalypto replied in a calm, almost bored voice, but Rik could tell he was smiling.

Chapter 12, Torch Boy

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Just to be safe, Althea had returned to her duties and was distracted from Jonathan’s latest transgression. An extra patrol would be sent out this morning. She would personally check the perimeter of the town with an escort.

Jonathan had secretly been grateful for the false alarm in the tavern. He had abandoned his coffee as soon as Gracie had started barking, and after seeing to his pistol ushered her outside. A few town guards ran past them, as Althea had ordered them to re-enforce the patrols and bring lit torches and lamp oil with them. By now the light was strong in the sky, and they were meant to be weapons.

Jonathan insisted on going on his own as usual, but took some extra oil and tinder for his lantern, as well as an extra torch. Althea was busy and took little notice of him as he quietly slipped away.

Gracie didn’t make a peep as they started their usual rounds. Usually they didn’t take this route until the mid-afternoon. Their first patrol would circle Darkshire, starting with Manor Mistmantle, then turn abruptly south to the Tranquil Gardens Cemetery.

Gracie sniffed about half-heartedly. They had already been here not too long ago. Was her Master returning to his place of repose so quickly? Her heart sank a little when she saw him closely examining the purple handkerchief. Perhaps she had upset him.

Jonathan made sure that nobody was watching them or within earshot. He thrust the bit of cloth into Gracie’s face again, his face twisted with emotion.

“Well?” He whispered. “Is it…this?”

Sometimes he would raise it to his own face, as if his human nose could also recognize the smell. She wasn’t sure he understood it the same way that she did. The smell by the tower and the scent of the cloth were not exactly the same.

But they were the same.

She didn’t like the way he shoved it at her face, and turned away silently.

Jonathan angrily stuffed it back in his pocket, muttering to himself. The dog seemed confused and out of sorts. He did not like the thoughts that were running through his head. He had kept that bit of rag for ages. It was his only keepsake of her.

But Gracie had never done that before, and the little dog had loved her just as much.
The most obvious explanation was the one he kept trying to push away as he turned them south. Gracie had detected that smell elsewhere, perhaps by the tower. No, perhaps not. They were down by the pond. It was upwind. She could not have caught that scent from there.

But if she had…

It was inevitable that people would seek him out to ask about Andorhol. They had a relative, a friend, and perhaps he had seen them? Was this shop or home or landmark still standing when you last saw it?

And the most chilling of all, and spoken with the most terror if they dared to ask at all.

Did they fall…only to rise again?

The might of the Scourge lay in its power to corrupt the land and raise the dead, both of which they would bend to their will. Was there a chance that their loved one had risen, and walked in undeath?

He would usually lie, and answer no. It was what they wanted to hear. What result would a “yes” elicit? Perhaps a holiday to Undercity was in order? A nice family reunion over the tomb of the betrayed king?

She had always been a smart girl. Too smart, and too eerie to escape the notice of the Scarlet Crusade. For a woman of that age to live and travel alone, without a family…

It had been stupid. She should have known better. It was her own fault.

And if she was roaming these woods as a Forsaken, all that would drive her now was hatred. Perhaps she was seeking him out to exact her revenge. He could not deny he had played a part in it.

His hands trembled as he checked his gun again, and his heart thudded in his chest. Even in the bright morning sunlight, where even the most hardy undead were unlikely to roam, he found himself jumping at every bird chirp and twig snap.

From Tranquil Gardens they had moved west, through the Rotting Orchard and the old farmstead. Usually he felt a sense of harmony as he passed by the Twilight Grove but it did not come today. Occasionally they would run into other members of the Night Watch, but there had been no sign of any undead lurking near the town. Only the usual mindless zombies that roamed the abandoned homes and lurked in the graveyards.

Ah well, they said, patting the unhappy Gracie gently, can’t be right all of the time then, eh?

Jonathan laughed nervously, well get to it fellas, better safe than sorry!

By the time they had been through Raven Hill and had patrolled the Darkened Bank, it was dusk. A few bright stars were peeping out, and after a day of searching and sweating, especially following a night of fitful sleep outside, Jonathan’s fatigue was getting the better of his fear. It had just been a false alarm. Even the best dog couldn’t be perfect. He turned and looked at her tenderly. She was following obediently, nose to the ground.

They were within sight of the town’s lights, but in a dark part of the road. Jonathan turned away from the city for a moment and called to the dog.

She crouched in the shadows, and did not come. In fact, she lowered her head and whined a little.

That’s rather strange, Jonathan thought to himself. Was she hurt? He took a step towards her.

And then he heard a footstep behind him. The wind turned, and the limbs of the overhanging trees shuddered.

The foul stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils. He shivered, and turned, slowly, moving his hand carefully towards his pistol as he did so.

It was standing in the road, slightly concealed by the moving shadows. Its bright eyes were glimmering. He saw no demon, and it wore cloth. Definitely no mindless husk or wandering ghoul, or even an apothecary that had wandered further away from his lab than usual.

A mage or a priest, still reeking of blood from its last kill. It still had blood on its lips.

No, not a priest. It drew its weapon, a one-handed sword, and planted it decisively in the ground. Then it stepped forward slowly, keeping its hands raised. It was not threatening him.

He did not want to see its face, but at the same time he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Without taking his eyes from the undead creature, he opened the lantern and used it to light one of the torches. It blazed black smoke with the oil and wool cloth.

Gracie started to whine quietly. Why was she not barking? Jonathan thought angrily. They were so close to Darkshire. Members of the night watch could not be far away.

What was wrong with her?

The creature stopped, and then slowly reached towards its belt. He bit his lip and waved the torch threateningly. His fingers clutched the barrel of his gun. It did not seem threatened by any of this. In fact, it’s sickening grin seemed to widen as if it found the whole thing rather funny.

Jonathan then realized it was carrying a herb pouch, and from this it drew a few small, pungent branches, which it tossed on the ground in front of his feet.

Kingsblood, he thought incredulously. A herb of some repute and value. Could it be trying to trade?

Without moving any closer, it crouched on the ground, and wrote a word in the dirt in front of him with a gloved hand. It was a bit messy, as it was writing upside-down so he could read it. But it clearly said, “Andorhol.”

Joanthan’s hands started to shake. He had tried to avoid the obvious conclusion. But now that he could get a better look, he could determine that the creature was most definitely female. There was something familiar about its face. The high cheekbones and wide jaw. And still, Gracie did not bark, but continued to crouch close to the ground and whine softly as if wounded.

As of to answer the unspoken question, the creature raised herself to her full height and opened the front of her robe, exposing her rent and mutilated chest to him.

Jonathan cried out in convulsive terror. He threw the torch towards her in panic and stumbled backward, trying to twist his face away from that terrible vision, cramming the sides of his forearms against his eyes. Gracie started barking, raising a noise that all in the town would hear.

It only took seconds for the Night Watch to appear. Some followed the creature east in a futile but heated pursuit. The others found Jonathan crouched by the side of the road, the palms of his hands still pressed against his eyes, weeping and shaking his head in fierce disbelief.

Chapter 11, The Blue Child

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Rik had always liked Booty Bay. It was gritty and filthy and oozing with character. Virtually every kind of creature in Azeroth that could count gold and tip a mug had wandered over its crooked boardwalks. Even a creature like his friend Eucalypto could find enthusiastic and non-judgmental business partners.

Rogues were generally well off anyway, but Eucalypto was richer than most. He was a talented rogue and leather worker, obsessed with perfection. He knew exactly which ore held the most precious stones and always seemed to know exactly how much the blacksmiths would need.

So it did not surprise Rik when he got word from Eucalypto in Booty Bay. He had enough capital to start to the guild, after only a few days in Stranglethorn. He explained nothing in his letter, which was typical of his cryptic friend. Something that he preferred not be written down, no doubt.

And so, Rik walked cheerily into the Salty Sailor tavern expecting to see a happy wave from his friend, sitting behind a pile of gold and jewels, perhaps. Instead, he found him sitting quietly at a dark little table with his scraggy head in his leather hands. His tankard, sitting sadly next to an unlit candle, was empty.

“Good evening, friend! So nice to see you again!” The Tauren raised one of his massive hands in greeting, hoping to rouse the unhappy creature out of his stupor. But Eucalypto’s head seemed to sink even deeper into his hands, and he remained silent.

“Ahem…what news?” The Tauren asked, as he squeezed himself into the smaller seat and nodded to the barmaid, a plucky little goblin who launched herself in their direction.

“Welcome, friend!” She proudly displayed her sharp little teeth in a sincere smile, but her eyes also regarded his sombre companion as if to say, Are you sure you’re at the right table?

“Greetings! Refill my friend’s mug and I’ll have one of the same, and…” he pointed suggestively at the unlit candle.

“Leave it,” croaked Eucalypto. The goblin widened her eyes and scurried back to the bar with his empty glass.

“Does something ail you, Eucalypto?” Rik felt silly asking a zombie such a question but he felt like he was at a loss.

The undead rogue exhaled heavily, wheezing, and whispered something that Rik couldn’t understand. He seemed to be speaking a strange language.

“Whaddayasai?” Rik snickered and made a face as the goblin lass returned with two foaming tankards. Only her thick hoop earrings and the tips of her ears were visible as she waddled up to them. She didn’t look at Eucalypto before taking the gold Rik was holding out and bolting to another table.

“I…she’s…I can’t find her.” Eucalypto muttered into the table. “She’s gone, she’s been gone…”

“Oh, well,” Rik coughed, wondering who he was going on about this time. That Felstone girl, perhaps. “They…uh… sometimes they come back…”

“No, NO…” Eucalypto waved his hands helplessly, “She’s gone. They took her. We won’t ever see her again. Ever.”

“The Warlock?” The Druid asked. “Hyzanthlay?” She had earned herself some notable enemies, but it was difficult to imagine her being taken anywhere by anyone against her will.

“Your people spoke of her…”

“Our…our people..?”

“I used to watch her, too, but they took her away….”

“Took who, Eucalypto?”

“The Blue Child,” Eucalypto said said, raising his head. For a moment his eyes filled the table with a sickly yellow light before fading again. “They took her…she’s gone. She’s gone forever.”

Rik sighed as Eucalypto took a generous swig from the full tankard. The Blue Child was an old story from his childhood.

Once upon a time, Azeroth had two moons. The bright, white moon and another smaller moon that gave off little light and only appeared on occasion. They nicknamed her the Blue Child. But hadn’t it been a story? Had he really seen the moon in his childhood, or was he remembering an old dream from the fireside?

“Oh, Eucalypto,” Rik sighed and dug his flint and tinder out of his pack, “how do you expect to find anything at this dark little table? No wonder you keep losing things.”

As he spoke, he opened his tinderbox and began to strike a small spark.

“The Blue Child was pleasant enough, as the stories say,” he continued in his gruff but pleasant Tauren tone. “But she gives no light, so perhaps you need some of your own.”

The little spark caught on the bit of tinder that Rik was holding. How many rainy, windy nights in Mulgore had the light of a small fire been a beacon of hope for his whole family? These days he could light a simple candle in his sleep.

“There now,” the little spark clung to the wick and happily grew, “we can have light whenever we want it.”

Eucalypto blinked at the little flame, as if he had never seen fire before. He sighed again, and dropped his head.

“I’ll never see her again,” he mumbled.

Rik sighed and sipped his mead. Perhaps he had left his friend alone for too long. Any discussions about money or the guild would have to wait until morning.

* * *

Hyzanthlay crouched rather miserably in the dark shadows near the Swamp of Sorrows. The air reeked of dragons and herbs. Quite a pleasant place to stop and catch her figurative breath. The first few rosy fingers of dawn were creeping in from the misty ocean, and as soon as she was sure her pursuers had given up the chase did she turn and make her way to Stonard.

The previous several hours had not been very productive. They had begun well with the meeting in the tower but things had degenerated from there.

The three undead talked well into the afternoon. The small, narrow tower was soon clouded with smoke and hoarse whispers, punctuated with the usual laugh or angry outburst. Hyzanthlay didn’t always agree with her hosts, but it was refreshing to speak to like-minded undead, aware of their state, unashamed and unrepentant. They went on at length about the Royal Apothecary Society, the Forsaken, and the Dark Lady herself. Eventually, the conversation turned to more casual matters; namely, herbalism and her personal reasons for being in Duskwood.

“So, no recollection at all?” Zraedus said, rubbing the bit of flesh left on his chin.
“Not so unusual. It has been known to happen. It might be better to forget. But you think this human can help you?”

“I’ve seen these two, this man and the dog that the Troll spoke of,” Faustin said.
“They are fairly well-known. This man, he comes to the graveyard outside of the Tower sometimes. Some humans do, to pay their respects. Many died here during the first war. But he only comes and drinks and then falls asleep.”

“Careless fool,” snarled Zraedus. “If it wasn’t for the stink the damn dog would raise every time we move, we would have eaten him by now.”

This prompted a hearty laugh among the small gathering. Hyzanthlay grinned, but inside she was distraught. So far, he just sounded like an average human who had gotten lucky in escaping from Andorhal. If he even saw her, he would probably run and hide. And as for the dog, at best she would make a nice pair of leather boots for some young rogue. A promising lead was starting to feel like a dead end.

Even if she managed to meet him, and he did not run away, what could he tell her?

She thanked them for their gracious hospitality, and they apologized profusely for their humble offerings and invited her to return. When she stepped out into the night she did not have a clear plan. Destruction Warlocks were by nature poor planners, losing interest in anything that took more than three minutes.

Well, if he did business with Trolls and Tauren, maybe it was time he meet another illustrious Horde race. If he had survived Andorhol intact, how squeamish could he be?

Hyzanthlay took her time exploring the area near the tower. She saw signs of dog and man, enough to know that they came here often and had been here recently. There was no rush, as the hillsides were dark and quiet. She found dog tracks, clearly from a domesticated creature that didn’t think about leaving prints in a familiar place.

A human had rested here the night before, and Hyzanthlay could still smell the blood in his veins as much as the booze that had tainted his breath. There was no trace of smoke in the air. She touched her herb pouch and hoped he would appreciate their exchange.

Chapter 10, Gracie

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

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.

Chapter 3, The Pools of Vision

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

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.

Chapter 2, Eucalypto

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

“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.