Thunder rolls across the night sky. The accompanying lightning had flashed over eight seconds before. He had counted. That meant the lightning had struck about eight miles away, right? Yes, that's how that works. At least… he's fairly certain that's what the teachers in the Cathedral of Light of Stormwind City had taught him. It's been so many years since then… twenty-five at least.
Of course… that is a rough estimate. He has no idea how long he's been dead.
He sits cross-legged beneath a tree in the Tirisfal glades. The rain hasn't started yet; he supposes he'll have to move before it does. He'd rather not rust in place again. He stands to leave, taking note of the humans in the field before him. Cutting across the field would be faster than skirting it…
His voice is an emotionless, grating, gurgling emanation. Fortunately, he still has vocal chords. "Cutting it is, then." He hefts a single-bladed two-hand sword to his shoulder, his hunched form heavily cloaked and hooded. He begins to shamble into the humans' field.
Strange, squeaking, metallic grating sounds come from beneath his heavy cloak.
A human with an iron tipped shovel uproots a large weed directly in the grating walker's path. The human looks up and around, wondering what that odd sound could be… He spies a pair of glowing yellow eyes peering at him from under a hood almost twenty feet in front of him. The human shouts in Common, raising his shovel as a makeshift weapon.
The cloaked walker heaves his sword in both hands, charging the shouting, shovel-wielding human with fierce and sudden alacrity. Lightning flashes and thunder claps at the same instant, directly overhead. That means the lightning is on top of him.
The cloaked walker cuts the human down with a single, mighty stroke. His blade enters the human at the base of the neck and carves an arc downward, maliciously cutting off the human's right arm and removing a great deal of the human's torso with it. Blood rushes from the mortal wound as the human lies on the ground, gurgling out a cry of sheer agony as he watches the world around him turn to infinite blackness.
The cloaked walker leaves the quickly dying human, continuing his almost casual trek across the humans' field. There are other humans appearing from the heights of the struggling agricultural vegetation. He supposes they must be rallying to the dying human's cry. The walker tightens his grip on his sword and grinds his jaw; a sickening grinding noise of bone and steel. His eyes flare in cold expectation of the coming storm.
Another human, this time armed with a pitchfork, runs toward the walker. The cloaked figure once again raises his sword, this time thrusting the long blade through his would-be attacker. The human is left in a puddle of his own red life-blood, clutching hopelessly to a torn out abdomen.
The walker utters no vocal sound as he continues onward through the field; the only noises heard from him are the whoosh of his sword through the air and the strange metallic sounds coming from beneath his cloak. He leaves a trail of death in his wake. Humans charge him in an effort to avenge their fallen comrades only to be cut down, dismembered, decapitated, and generally mutilated by this grating, cloaked walker.
Lightning flashes once again and thunder roars in the ruined ears of the cloaked sword-wielder. Rain begins to pitter-patter down from the black-clouded sky, landing noisily upon the dead ground of Tirisfal and upon the cloak and hood of the walker. He utters a guttural growl, silently cursing the sky. Raising his yellow eyes to survey the farm, he spies all of the corpses of the human's he's killed… and a farmhouse. Better than rusting in the rain.
The walker approaches the farmhouse. He can see a dim light inside one of the windows that has miraculously remained unbroken. The others must be covered with some form of cloth, or they may be boarded. He doesn't know.
A figure passes by the window, a female human by the looks of it. The walker frowns, his gaze lowering to be hidden by his heavy hood. He lifts his sword and strikes down at the rotting wood of the door. It easily splinters under the blow.
A human woman's voice shrieks in a blood-curdling cry through the dreary night. Lightning flashes across the heavens, its accompanying thunder rumbles six seconds later. That means the lightning is about six miles away… at least, that's how he thinks it works.
The walker is no longer cloaked. His cloak is lying on the table in the kitchen. A human woman lies face down on the floor, dead, her blood splattered over several of the walls of the kitchen. A human man also lies, dead; his body dismembered and lying grotesquely about the bedroom upstairs.
Steeljaw, the walker, wonders if the man and woman were married, or, at least, lovers. The undead man's face is sunken, pale, and boney. His lower jaw shines in the light of the kitchen fire, and as he chews at the human man's lower arm, his jaw makes a sickening, metallic grinding sound. His lower jaw and all of his teeth are made of steel, carefully crafted to fit the man's face in un-death. The Forsaken also has joints of steel; his elbows, knees, and hips all. They make an odd, metallic grating sound as he walks.
Steeljaw silently scoffs at the humans' foolish attempt to live in secret outside the Undercity. Steeljaw seethes in hatred as he chews on a limb of the race into which he was born. Steeljaw swears vengeance on the Burning Legion and on the Scourge for killing him. He inwardly envisions the destruction of Lady Sylvanus Windrunner for turning him into this… thing… that he has become; a walking grotesquery of flesh, bone and metal. He will have his revenge. He will kill them all.