Spence.

Was someone calling him? Was that even his name? But...I have no name. Individuality was not known to him. He, among thousand of others, were nameless. They had been, at least, until it seemed as if they woke up all at once together. And that's when the nightmare really began.

"Spence...Spence! Where the hell are you?"

He jerked awake at the sound of someone barking his name, which successfully resulted in him toppling over backwards in his chair. The orc that had entered the blacksmith house jumped with a start, not expecting a seemingly empty chair fall over on its own.

"Spence," he growled, "I swear to the heavens that better be you." He drew his weapon and it raked ominously against its scabbard.

Spencer stood up and readjusted his armor before dropping his stealth. "It's me," he muttered.

The orc, Malek, sighed in relief. "Can I ask what you're doing in here? You're supposed to be guarding our resources." He was met with a scowl.

"There were like ten of us out there. We were standing around for two hours doing nothing, so I came in here to guard the chest." He pointed at the enchanted chest in the center of the room that regenerated the health of anyone that touched it.

"Well, it looks like most of them left. Get your ass outside."

Shaking off the nauseating remnants of the dream, Spencer made his way out the door. He was surprised with himself; normally he didn't just drift off like that in the middle of the battlefield. He usually didn't drift off at all, in fact. He rarely slept, not only because he didn't really need to, but also because of the nightmares. They were always the same. There was no peace for him. He hated to sleep.

"INCOMING!" a warlock named Constantina screeched. Quickly, he faded into the shadows and waited by the corner of the building. After several moments, a dwarf crested the hill riding one of those absurd goats. Spencer grinned darkly as he skirted the edge of the building to get closer. He found himself remembering the first time he ever killed a dwarf.

It was not long after he was released from the stupor imposed upon him by the Lich King that he gave up on humanity, for humanity had given up on him. He was running through the woods clawing at his tear-streaked face in disgust, trying to glean the rancid skin from his body. His hair was matted with congealed blood and his disintegrating limbs were exposed at the joints and sockets. The first time he ever saw his reflection in a piece of glass, he smashed it with his fist and tried to impale himself on one of the long splinters. It didn't work.

So he ran. It seemed ridiculous to try and run from himself, but it was all he could do. After running tirelessly for hours, he had come to a road in which a group of Alliance was traveling to a nearby outpost. He threw himself into their path, lamenting, calling to them for help. He needed them desperately, and he had been convinced they would greet him eagerly and show him mercy.

Greet him eagerly they did, with terrified cries, grimaces, long sharp blades, and attack animals. So he ran again. Many of them tired long before he felt an urge to stop, but there was a dwarf on one of those ridiculous goats that would not give up tracking him. The thought crossed his mind to just let himself be slain (undoubtedly by thorough disembowelment to ensure his demise), to end his agonizing, revolting existence. He was an unforgivable monster.

Spencer thought of his wife at that moment, and his son. An empowering yearning for vengeance consumed him then, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he had nearly decapitated the dwarf with the same piece of glass he tried to use on himself.

Now, in Arathi Basin, the inward bound dwarf was begging the same fate. Spencer stared at him and idly wondered how such a small man, no bigger than a child, could wield such intimidating weapons.

No matter. He wouldn't wield them much longer. As soon as the dwarf dismounted, Spencer advanced on him. The last thing the little chap heard before his spine was neatly severed was the creak of the rogue's leather boots and the jingle of his spurs. For good measure, Spencer ran the goat through with his sword as well.

The Alliance had forsaken him, and for that they could never be forgiven.