Story: Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

[Darren Tereos]

Night Elf, Human, Gnome, Night Elf, Squid-Head, Spirit Healer, Cat, Dwarf; lots of the other former Scourge and lots of the Spirit Healer. I don't remember if we took control of the Fortress. I think we didn't.

“I should write things down.” Dayari mumbled to himself. “I should write things down.” The rogue looked at his work, tracing a bony finger along his script as he read. “I don't think this is what he meant.” The paper was then folded eightfold and slid into Dayari's boot. A fresh scroll of parchment was placed on the moldering stones in the sewers of Undercity and Dayari began to write again amidst the rats and cockroaches.

I didn't think it was special and neither did Tallow, but he sent me from Tarren Mill to Hammerfall anyway. It had something to do with Ogres: I didn't listen too well to Tallow while he was talking. Ogres killed, I went to Hammerfall to talk with Drum-Something-or-Other. Before I entered the town though, I saw a small group of Forsaken manning a military camp of some sort. It looked strangely like the command tents from Second War.

“You there! Every Forsaken must do their part against the League of Arathor. These Alliance fools are intent to take and control the rich resources there. We must show them that Arathi will never again be a home for humans!”

Looking at the impressive Deathmaster, I only nodded my head. Still new to the Forsaken, I at least could remember that we weren't ones for compassion or disobedience.

“Go to Arathi Basin and assault the mine, the lumber mill, the blacksmith and the stables. Pull down the enemies' banners, declaring those territories for the Horde.” She paused for a moment and picked at her exposed hipbone. “And, so I know who to find, should you fail or be seen cowering in some corner of the Basin, what is your name?”

Again, remembering the importance of obedience, I spoke my name.

“Go, Dayari. Report back to me when this task is complete.”

A toad leaping across the page left a smear of ink as the creature leapt upward toward freedom. Dayari watched as the creature ascended steadily and purposefully, no doubt fleeing from its Royal Apothecary captor. Returning to his writing, Dayari started work on a fresh sheet of parchment.

I was in Defiler's Den, surrounded by a variety of Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, and other Forsaken. Weapons were bared and the others stood patiently waiting for some signal. What that was I could not remember and it dawned upon me that I couldn't even remember why I was there. Someone had sent me, but the entire meeting with the Deathmaster was like something locked away, only visible in part through a keyhole. But, before I could ask anyone, the gates in front of the town hall opened and the masses charged forward with battlecries on their lips. I moved with them carried by their pressing rage.

Something about the stables, I had to go there for some reason. I moved forward and, as the group of warriors found the Alliance in droves and slew them, in droves, I found myself alone, running toward a building that I only guessed were these stables. And there they were, horses milling idly. I walked toward them and they whinnied nervously.

Dayari's hand paused, as he found himself momentarily lost in his own reminiscence.

I had one of these once. Not the bony phantom that I have now, but a living breathing creature. To market I went, using the dray horse to pull the cart along the dusty roads. I tapped my foot against the boards of the cart, keeping beat with the steady sound of the horse's hooves on the packed earth.

Shaking his head in another gesture long since rendered irrelevant by his undeath, Dayari cracked his knuckles.

I was lost in thought and reeled with surprise as I heard “For Khaz'Modan!” Registering the bearded Dwarf fast enough to draw my blades, but little else, I watched the axe cleave me in half, as neatly a cut as one could imagine. As I collapsed on top of myself, I only stared at the horse's dark eyes. The Dwarf ran onward, shouting incomprehensibly. I tried to hold myself to staring into the eyes, but all too soon, the Spirit Healer pulled me from my ruined body and summoned me into my rotting, but functional, form. On the battle raged and, over many skirmishes, I managed to fulfill the Deathstalker's request.

The story finished, the memories exhausted, Dayari read over his writings once, reading them as if someone else had written them, furrowing his plague-stained brow at details seemingly unfamiliar to him.

“I guess he was right, I should write things down.”