Simon Spencer was dreaming.
He was plucking some amazingly juicy apples off a tree in the orchard. His intent had been to spend the entire day there, just lazily harvesting. Cassandra, his wife, packed him a lovely loaf of fresh-baked bread that he had been savoring all morning with some homemade butter. That was, until he saw the troops moving across the farm fields around mid-day.
He recognized them as Prince Arthas's men – the army and the militia alike – with their trademark banners and tunics. He watched them curiously with bits of apple hanging out of his mouth, wondering what their business was there. He couldn't understand why there were so many men, fully outfitted. Then he heard the screaming.
Looking back towards town, he saw that another brigade had approached from the opposite end. Several men in the unit seemed to be arguing, at which point a tall blonde paladin drew his sword and drove it into the chest of one of his officers.
Simon dropped his basket of apples on the ground and ran towards the end of a cul-de-sac on the main road where his farmhouse was situated. As he approached, the blonde paladin turned to survey the villagers; he appeared to mutter something. Simon recognized him as Arthas then, and fear seized his heart. Why was he in the village?
He reached his doorway just as the soldiers began scattering through the streets like a flood, kicking open doors, grabbing men and women by their hair, then dragging them outside to cut their throats. It wasn't long before the blood began running in rivulets down the creases in the well-kept cobblestone roads.
"Cassandra! Cassandra!" he had yelled frantically as he threw open the door. He desperately needed to flee with his family. He barged into every room of the house, and that was when he heard it – the terrifying undead wail of his infant son. The baby was in his bassinette, screaming in the most wretched inhuman way. Simon stared in revulsion at his son's ashen decomposing flesh. The shock of what was before his eyes set up a mental barrier against what was happening outside. The blood-curdling, howling cries faded away into the background, and he sank to his knees before the crib.
"Cassie," he choked. "Where are you?"
Someone threw a torch in through the window, sending jagged shards of glass across the floor. The curtains caught fire, and it quickly spread across the rug and ceiling. Not knowing what else to do, he scooped up his child to shield him from the flames. The baby seemed to snarl, and dug his tiny fingernails into his father's shirt.
Simon never had a clue that his wife had been a Cult member until she silently slid the dagger in between his ribs. He turned to see her glaring menacingly at him, eyes blazing, and her fist still clasping the jeweled hilt. This confused him more than anything. The pain of her deception was far greater than the pain of his wound. She had pierced his lung, and blood bubbled and gurgled out as it collapsed.
"I don't understand," he struggled for breath. "Why..." his struggling voice left him as he sank towards the floor, his glazed blue eyes begging Cassandra for an explanation. She took the baby away from his clenching fists as he fell. Leaving the dagger in his side, she stroked her husband's thick, dark hair before stepping over him and walking away. He tried to drag himself after her, but only made it as far as the front doorstep.
And then, Simon Spencer died alone in the street, in a growing pool of his own blackening tar-like blood.