"If there is one great truth about Hillsbrad, it's that this region is destined to live under the shadow of war."
-Huraan of Southshore
"World of Warcraft: The Wrath of Tarren Mill"
Prelude - Flames of the Lost
A chilled wind moved through the streets of Southshore; scaring away the gulls and running most of the town's inhabitants indoors. It was perhaps the only warning the citizens had of what was to come.
Melvin Proctor, a short and awkward man, stumbled out of his small dwelling with his torch. Every night, for as long as he could remember, he walked the streets in the exact same manner. Arm elevated, he touched the torch to the street lamps; which flared up brightly before easing back to a steady burn that would last the night.
It was a simple job, but the only one he could afford to do. Not much came easy to Melvin's mind easily anymore. An unwanted gift from the injury he sustained from the last great skirmish with Horde forces many years ago. He had been a soldier—an iron-clad, sword-wielding fist of the Alliance. Not that he could remember this time, sadly. An orc mace to his head made sure of this.
Simple was all that he could do now.
At the northern head of the main street through town—near the edge of the forest—he lit the flame of the last lamp. A gentle nod to himself gave him the gratification he needed and turned back to make his way home. It was here that he could marvel at his work. A fiery path cut its way through the houses and down towards the docks like a crimson serpent from the Burning Steppes. It was a battle between the light and dark that he had created, and for a brief moment he simply stood in awe.
A smile crept up his face; working muscles that hadn't been used in years. For once, since the age of his prime, he felt happy.
Melvin was nearly at the first house when he heard a harsh wind sprout up behind him. He whirled around quickly to find one of the lamps had gone out, leaving a patch of night on the road.
"St—Strange," he stuttered, moving in closer to inspect the lamp. The wind was still blowing, but the glass shutters around the flames typically kept them burning through even a harsh thunderstorm.
"Is anyone around?" Melvin called out. He thought that the children might be playing a prank on him, which wasn't out of the ordinary. "Keeping these lit is for your own g—good!"
He took his first steps to relight the lamp. His hand quivered slightly at the unknown. He didn't like to be surprised.
The torch touched the lamp, and the fire burned once again.
Melvin took a deep breath.
"It's for your own good!" he repeated, and turned back to town.
He nearly dropped his torch. Yet another lamp had burned out, creating a barrier of darkness between him and the border of Southshore.
"This isn't funny!" he shouted loudly. "Please! This is for your own—"
The lamps behind him began to fizzle out, one after another. Each one doused brought the night closer to where he stood.
He couldn't move. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion. Should he run? Fight? Call for help? Melvin's mind was far too damaged to focus in on any one thing. So he stood, until he was all alone—under a moonlit night with nothing but his torch to keep him company.
There was a dead silence that crept around him. No crickets. No birds. No wind. Not even his torch seemed grant him the sanity of sound.
Then he felt it. The blade. It slipped into his side and did its work.
Melvin flipped his torch around on impulse and caught a brief glimpse of his attacker: a rotting corpse of a man that had once been. A warrior of the undead. A Forsaken.
The creature's one intact cheek moved slowly up into a grin and the dagger was pulled from Melvin's side less-than-gently.
With its job done, the Forsaken assassin moved back into the shadows. From its throat, a guttural utterance of the phrase that Melvin had heard so many times during his last great conflict.
"Lok tagu Nogah…" it said.
In his fading moment, the dying man was granted a glimpse of his glory days. When he was a champion, not a torch-handler. And he recalled the translation of the phrase he had heard so many times on the field of battle, and it filled him with fear before he passed.
"For the Horde…"