The people of Darkshire where a somber folk. When the curse fell upon their land six years ago they stood stalwartly against the new foes allayed against them.
Hungering undead and vicious wolf men attacked their homes and villages, pulling the innocent from their homes to be slaughtered and eaten.
The once glorious land they lived in, once known as Brightwood became a land of endless dusk. Those who could fled into Elywnn Forest, hoping to remake the lives they lost, but those were few and far between.
Elywnn was fully populated and in a state of recession, the economy of Stormwind heavily taxed by the seemingly endless war with the Orcish Horde, there was little hope of anything but destitution.
So the farmers clung to their lands, and the workers, miners and hunters accepted that their lives simply held considerably more danger than they once did.
They paid the taxes, defended their land, and waited for aid. It did not come.
The only response Stormwind gave, nearly two years after their initial requests were sent, was that the war was too dire for them to spare even a single soldier, and that they had the deepest condolences of the Alliance.
The task of defending the land fell to the people, and the people alone. They had been completely and totally abandoned.
When word spread of the Alliances lack of care for their own people the majority of people stopped paying taxes, and many soldiers who had once been men of the Alliance withdrew from their posts on the warfronts to defend their home's and families.
Those deserters sometimes travled through hundreds of miles of hostile territory, taking months, even years to return to the shattered remains of the places they once called home.
Many were greeted by families hungering after their flesh and blood.
What few soldiers survived the journey home and the dangers inherent to Duskwood eventually banded together into a militia of men and women known as the Watchmen.
Embittered and furious the people of Duskwood gathered together, whole families staying on single farms, armed with gear provided by the Watchmen, for the protection numbers could provide. This tactic ultimately saved them from complete destruction.
With unity and desperation thousands clung together in small communities within small distances of each other, all easily capable of communicating with and gathering for aid against particularly dire threats.
Life was hard, and the world they now lived in was fraught with danger, but they had managed to keep their livelihoods by trading amongst each other.
So they stood stalwart, fighting the inevitable for years, before word began to spread of a change to the west.
The people of Westfall, who had been abandoned to bandits and criminals long ago, as they had been with the curse, had been freed.
Not by the Alliance, not by Stormwind, but by a furious necromancer who had once been a citizen. The people had united with the man, sharing his rage and disgust at Stormwind in spite of the darkness of his magics.
Within the span of three months the Defias had been all but purged from Westfall, and now there where whispers they planned a full seccession from Stormwind.
Duskwood held little love for necromancers, but they understood the anger and indignity of abandonment well. It was a month later that they recieved word Marcus of Moonbrook himself would be traveling to Darkshire to provide what aid he could.
The word was a relief to the people, even if they knew their problems where far from over. Understandibly the forces of the newly independent Westfall likely had little to spare by way of soldiers.
The fact they could send aid at all was a miracle in its self. The fact they would send the aid when Stormwind had ignored them for years was nothing more than a message.
The people came first.
A week after that the scouts and hunters surveying the land for the latest pack of Worgen or undead horde reported that a force could be seen marching from Westfall, one they could only recognize as Golems.
A hundred Golems, each twelve feet tall and equipped with brutal weaponry dripping with gore walked behind a pale man in a dark cloak they all knew could only be the mysterious savior of Westfall.
It was lord Ello Ebonlocke, mayor of Darkshire and ruler of Duskwood, who strode out to greet the man who had come to help them. The only noble who had bothered to stay and aid his people when the curse fell upon the land.
He did not look like a necromancer, Ebonlocke couldn't help but think, the man was pale to be certain, but most in Duskwood were.
This Marcus of Moonbrook was dressed in silk vestments and fine black pants, with a well maintained sword at his hip. On his back was a backpack, full but its contents unknown.
"Lord Ebonlocke, I presume?" The mans voice was smooth and cultured, though it had an accent he would almost call Elven.
He nodded, before speaking.
"You presume correctly, lord Marcus, but please, call me Ello. I would not have someone providing the first aid we've seen refer to me as anything less than an equal."
The man grinned, and outstretched his hand clasping it with his own.
"Of course, Ello. My only regret is that I cannot spare more aid, I can spare so little to the task."
Ello nearly sputtered at the words. A hundred Soldiers would be a godsend, but a hundred Golems was something else entirely. Almost a miracle.
Marcus looked around the shaded buildings, well maintained but aged.
"Come then, join me in my home, I'm certain we have much to discuss."
He knew why Marcus was here. Westfall had or would soon declare itself independent of Stormwind, and as such had no obligation to Duskwood.
This Marcus had come here to secure the allegiance of his people.
Duskwood was inclined to do so.
"How many people reside, if I may ask, in Duskwood?" It was a strange question.
Ello paused as he lead the man to his manor, looking to the grinning face of a teenage boy as he looked through the window of his home.
He had ordered the people to remain in their homes, in fear a large gathering would attract the attentions of the worgen.
"Its difficult to keep track of those who still remain, but we have around sixty closely scattered hamlets throughout the territory. The largest cluster of them holds about four thousand people."
The man motioned lightly with his hand, and the scare-crow like Golems spread out, standing guard around the town.
"Thats quite a number. You've done well in keeping youre people safe. Westfall's entire population may be half that number."
Ello frowned.
It was true he had done what he could to save the common folk. But to hear the Alliance refused to aid people in the midst of a near Genocide by the Defias was a reminder on why they had to have this conversation.
"We will speak more in my manor. As uncaring as I must sound, It seems like you have the space for refugees."
The man smiled.
"Of course."