At first Torax walked on with me in his tow, and with no words exchanged his army began to move with him. After a while, the horn of The Horde sounded again, but Torax nor his men were alarmed. I did not care either way; my feet dragged across the dusty ground in weariness, but more than tired I was sick, diseased beyond repair-it had already killed me once, and I found myself wishing for the gates to the Twisting Nether to be within my grasp. An end to the nightmare is what I prayed for, but no such prayer was answered.
A bony hand touched the flesh on my other arm. I began to pull away, only to push myself further into Torax, who set me straight after my fumble. The cold, dead hand grasped my arm again, and steadied my stumbling.
"Can you speak?" came a hissing voice to my right, opposite of Torax.
It took me a moment to understand the question. Surely they all could see my predicament, no longer possessing a lower jaw. Then the stories from The Cathedral in Stormwind sparked in my memory, and I comprehended.
Many Forsaken were unable to speak normally due to their previous life's injuries, and so a new language was created, formed of hisses and gurgles that require little vocation. The Forsaken beside me asked if I knew Gutterspeak.
I shook my head. It seemed that upon death you did not learn this form of communication, and it must be taught if I were to ever say another word.
"You will learn. So must we all." Said the voice, and upon further inspection it sounded feminine, despite the harshness. To confirm this, I swiveled my head to the right and shrugged my shoulders, hoping for some kind of response. Luckily, she interpreted my gestures, and answered.
"We head to Orgrimmer. It is a two day journey from us, but I have much doubt that it will be eventful. Expect a long and dusty walk." She paused a moment, and added, almost as an afterthought, "My name is Torgan."
I was surprised. I had never heard of any female, living or not, named Torgan. Some of my wonder must have been displayed somehow, for Torax chose that moment to speak.
"They forget their old names when they are given the chance. She has chosen Torgan, after the Scarlet Crusade captain, slew by her hand." Torgan said nothing.
Why do they treat me like so? It is as if I have never opposed them, as if I have always been in their presence. And why do I accept this?
Why indeed? Up to this point I had made no actual decisions, only reacted to situations. I could refuse their help and wander blindly through the world; not much of an existence, but one not contradictory to my beliefs. I pulled away again for a moment, and sensed their tension, before giving in. They had done nothing wrong in my eyes or that of the Church so far-accepting their aid was not heresy.
On we walked, across the endless Barrens grasslands, with only two strangers and my dark, sightless void to keep me company. Unto this was I introduced to my beginnings; here would start the marbles of a child's game in motion, knocking into one another until they could travel no more.
Upon the grasslands of Kalimdor my turn started, and my pieces were set in motion.