Amaeria strode through the city streets, shivering despite the warm night. Why did she still feel so cold? She nearly walked into a magister and his whore, and both of them gave her dirty looks even as she weakly apologized.
Ignoring the nagging sensation in the back of her mind that something was horribly wrong, Amaeria started walking again, heading home. The Scourge hadn't made it to Silvermoon yet, and she'd been so relieved to be able to warn them. While she'd offered to help prepare, thinking to give insight onto the different monsters she'd seen, the magisters had merely told her that they'd call her when they needed a healer and had dismissed her.
Amaeria couldn't help but feel as though she'd done something wrong. As she drew closer to her street, she noticed a couple walking toward her. The woman gave her a sour look and then leaned into her lover, whispering loud enough for Amaeria to hear. "She makes everyone think she's dead so that it's some miracle that she comes home. Honestly, how could she do that to the ones she claims she loves?"
"Because she doesn't care," the man muttered as they passed her. "She's just a class hopper, nothing more."
Amaeria felt sick. She didn't care if everyone else thought she was just trying to move up in the world, but did Gryst'lyn? She picked up her pace, turning away from her original path and setting off toward the Emberdawn manor. Home could wait, she needed to see Gryst'lyn.
It seemed like an eternity as she hurried through the streets. When she reached the Emberdawn's home, she stopped. The gate to their home was askew and she couldn't see anyone within the courtyard in front of their home. She stepped past the gate and felt the world grow colder.
She knew this cold, though she couldn't place it. Shivering despite herself, she ran into the house, calling out for her lover. She raced through the empty halls, upstairs and through what felt like a maze. As she stopped in the doorway to his room, she pushed the door open and froze.
Gryst'lyn and Prynn were together, their naked bodies tangled in the bed sheets as he thrust himself into her. Prynn's lips brushed against his neck as her gaze flickered toward the door. With a frown, she lifted her head up.
"Oh, you're back."
Amaeria felt tears pricking her eyes, and she staggered backwards. Gryst'lyn paused to look over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow at her. "You didn't expect me to wait for a dead woman, did you?"
She felt like her heart would stop. Wanted it to. She shook her head. "This isn't...real."
A scream from outside caught her attention, and she drew herself away from the sordid affair, toward the nearest window. Ghouls were chasing people down the streets, catching them and slaughtering them as they screamed for help.
Even as she tried to steady her breathing, Amaeria felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Prynn standing behind her, half of her face already beginning to decay. "Why did you lead them to us?"
~"~
Amaeria let out a shriek as she snapped awake. Various pains overtook her as she reached consciousness, and she almost welcomed them as they temporarily blocked out her dream. She tried to reach up and rub her eyes, but one of her hands wouldn't come to her.
It took her a moment to remember that it was tied down to the table. Her knuckles were gray and pale, most of the blood flow cut off at the wrist by the rough rope. Hunger gnawed at her gut, and she was half grateful that she wasn't really back in Silvermoon. She didn't want Gryst'lyn to see her like this. Her long hair had been hacked at different lengths, making her look like a shaggy street wretch, and she was getting so thin... In the past few days, she'd started to have trouble lifting her head. She couldn't remember such things taking so much energy...
She tried to move so as to alleviate some of the pressure on her wrist and her back burst into a fresh wave of pain. There was something sharp resting beneath her. Well, more than one.
Biting her lip to keep herself from breaking out into sobs, she took in a few ragged breaths and debated what would be worse, losing her hand or trying to move over whatever was underneath her.
"Pleasant dreams?" A voice came from behind her.
She didn't look toward him and gave up trying to move to make her pains stop. He wouldn't let her have any respite.
Sure enough, she felt one of his gauntlets on her arm, and he jerked her toward him on the table, dragging her back over what had to be glass shards and snapping her wrist. She whimpered despite herself.
Bloodsworn let out a soft chuckle as he flipped a small dagger in his fingers. "Where shall we start today, hmm?"
Amaeria didn't answer. She tried not to speak to him or to any of the 'friends' he brought to her. She'd spoken with the first one he'd ever thrown in with her and after the way he'd killed the poor child...he always killed them quicker if she stayed detached.
It was a point of pride for him, showing her that she couldn't save them.
She heard a horrified gasp from somewhere beyond her line of sight, and her stomach sunk. Another lost soul. Even as she wondered who it was, Bloodsworn dug his dagger into her waist, and she fought back a shudder. She didn't scream anymore. She didn't have the energy to.
Bloodsworn left the dagger in her side and frowned. He'd been growing impatient with her of late, and she hoped that sooner than later he would grow bored and just kill her. She'd never thought she would long for death so whole-heartedly.
Sometimes she tried to remember what it had been like in Silvermoon, with Prynn, her father, and the Light. With Gryst'lyn. It was all so hard to remember. Sometimes, it terrified her to realize she couldn't recall the color of Prynn's hair or the feel of Gryst'lyn fingers running down her back. Everything was slipping away.
Terrifying as it was, a shameful part of her was trying to help it along. If she couldn't remember, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. If there was nothing left of her, maybe he would see that he'd won and toss her body out with the rest of his toys.
Bloodsworn smacked her head into the table, and darkness closed in on her world. She prayed to the Light to at least let her have happier dreams this time, though she wasn't sure she really wanted them. Remembering that she'd been loved once upon a time only made it worse to wake up to this hell. Maybe she wouldn't wake up at all.
That was something to pray for.
~"~
Thalach Battlecleaver scratched at his chin as he surveyed the land sprawling before them, twisted and tainted and dead. After some night elf druid had made it back to report that the plagued lands were far worse than anyone could have imagined, Thrall had decided to send a small detachment of soldiers to see if territory could be won back.
There was a great deal of reluctance in Orgrimmar, for their new pacts with Theramore and the like were tenuous at best. The tauren were just making a permanent home in Mulgore as the orcs helped them fight back the quilboar, and Orgrimmar itself still hadn't been completed.
A plague on the human's continent didn't seem like something that the orcs needed to deal with. Unfortunately, while Thalach may have been one of the youngest to hold such a position in the orcish forces, he still didn't rank high enough that he could tell the warchief of the growing Horde that this was foolishness.
It didn't matter. There's was little different than the druids' mission before them. They were to explore the might of this undead force and—after properly gauging how strong they were—report back with suggested numbers needed to quell the problem, should it become any more dangerous.
As he let his gaze wander toward the north, one of his men stepped up next to him. Both of their armor were covered in blood and rot, though Thalach's hands were still steady. His subordinate gripped the hilts of his daggers, as though to hide the shaking in his hands.
"They say there used to be an elven kingdom up north, but communications have ceased."
"You think the elves are dealing with the undead, then?"
"If they're strong enough," the rogue murmured. "Regardless, I…"
Thalach turned slowly to look down his nose at the orc standing beside him. That gave the rogue pause, though it was just for a second.
Taking in a quivering breath—pathetic—he finally nodded to Thalach. "We need to turn back. Whatever this is, we shouldn't be here."
"Your warchief disagrees," Thalach dismissed. As much as he would have loved to go home—his wife was heavy with their third child, and he'd still been mulling over names—he wasn't about to give up on their efforts until he'd gone at least as far as those pathetic druids. "Get some rest. You're more useful to the corpses than to me with your hands shaking like that. We'll head further inland just before dawn."
Though the rogue looked like he wanted to argue further, he stopped himself when Thalach drew his blade, giving him a look that simply dared the orc to try to disobey a direct order.
As the rogue stalked away, not even bothering to hold his head up with some semblance of dignity, Thalach looked back the way he'd been watching before. What the rogue hadn't seemed to notice—likely because he was too concerned with turning tail and fleeing—were the occasional lights that Thalach could make out through the trees that way.
Something was there.
There'd been reports of a town with prisoners.
Even if they were humans, Thalach supposed that the least they could do was save the poor bastards the druids hadn't been able to get to.
They had to be close to where that had happened, surely, for the undead presence was getting far too prevalent, and Thalach refused to believe that he and his men couldn't endure as much as a bunch of tree huggers.
