Scourge, everywhere, an endless sea, and for every one of the defenders that fell their numbers grew stronger. And there were so few defenders left at the moment, the Alliance having declared 'victory' with Arthas silent to the north and the Legion defeated in Kalimdor. The human kingdoms licked their wounds and prepared, so all that remained were the stubborn and the brave, the foolish and the stupid, the desperate, fighting a war already 'won.'
It had been long months since Tyra had returned to her homeland, and gone to defend friend and family in Lordareon. Long months of fighting and survival that brought back memories of the desperation in the last days of the Third war. But this was so much worse, for it dragged on and on and on and on. And then it was finally over.
It didn't hurt as much as she'd expected. Dying, that is. She lay there, blood pouring from her body like so much excess, coughs wracking her chest and she knew. The scourge swarmed her and there was a voice.
They didn't just break her body, they broke her mind. She struggled, she screamed voicelessly, clinging desperately terrified to images and memories, trying to retain any sense of her self. But they were torn from her and shredded, burned like a painting in a fire and gradually there came only blackness, save images of fighting and dying and the consumption of flesh. And always, always that voice.
So it went. Until one day, the voice stopped, and she grew afraid. Hours became a day, and suddenly she was attacked by things much like herself, yet unlike her. She fought instinctivly, living instincts in an unliving body, but they were far stronger. A club thudded hollowly against her skull.
There came a voice, but this was different. It called to her, beckoned her. She felt it prodding, challenging, berating. And with a scream, she found herself again, tattered memories and shattered soul, but she found herself. She remembered..some things. Faces and memories, but names escaped her.
That voice overlapped with one from her memories, "Tyra, you said your grandmother called you untamed."
"Might be," She rasps, talking for the first time since before she can remember, pulling together threads of memories and piecing together the shattered puzzle. There were faces, and she would find them.
"Take a new name," The voice says, alone without memories now. "For you are the same yet different. Broken yet never tamed. Tyra died in the Plaguelands and Thira is born Forsaken. Forget the past."
Tyra's face split into a grim smile as the voice departed, "No. Be no forgettin'. Be no forgettin' so long as I got me soul. Tha' Elf be right, tha' voice be right. Can break me, but can't tame me, and pray t'light or t'darkness that yeh don't stand in me way. Me name be Tyra, and I decide if I take a new one or no."
Another long journey awaited her, and she hummed softly, words swimming through her head;
Brought to darkness broken
shattered light
a soft voice spoken
Spear raised tall
sword glint of steel
broken, but I shall not fall.