It was dark.
But before the darkness there was the stench, a thousand rotting vegetables and meats outside the butcher's, it seemed. I could not move; it was as if I were wrapped in tapestry cushions, all around me was soft.
I began to come out of my haze, and first came my ears. A thundering noise? No, it was wheels, it must be. Hundreds of wheels…and footsteps. Perhaps millions of footsteps.
To my dismay, I could still not see. Apparently it was dark enough wherever I was to hinder my vision. I could not speak, it was if my jaws were not there; I could feel nothing of my face. Perhaps moving would answer some questions?
I experimented with my arms. Whatever covered me was too heavy to lift. The stench was making me ill, and I thought I would retch at any moment, but the sickness never came.
All noise suddenly stopped. The wheels halted, and the footsteps gradually ceased. With the stop of the wheels I lurched, informing me I was inside of something. Perhaps a sick wagon? Of the alliance, pray? I did.
Pray? I panicked. Where was my book? My holy books? Exerting great force and energy I rose, pushing upward. The strain was too great, and I fell, but not in vain. I felt my chest hit something hard and square. I was lying on my book, then. It was alright, and I relaxed somewhat. As for the others, I could only hope they had survived whatever had brought me to this place.
Suddenly, a mighty horn sounded off in the distance, and I, startled, began to contemplate my predicament. That horn was surely of Horde possession.
A Horde horn? Who do the Horde oppose that would cause them to rally an alarm?
Ah, the alliance. I am in a sick wagon then.
But my alliance would not march in these numbers or out of sequence. Who owns what I am in? Who do the Horde oppose?
The Scourge? An army of the Scourge? Then what contraption am I in?
The answer came into my head, by a dark and terrible voice, and pure fear and panic took control of mind and body as I began to thrash about underneath the heaps of rotting corpses.
A meatwagon.