Puddles of blight dot the Southshore landscape, forming a sort of barrier against the living who might otherwise trespass. In recent months the Inn had become safe haven for a group of Forsaken, an assorted lot of undead who rallied under the banner of ‘The Bones’, more formally known as the Nexus. On a good many nights, the Inn seemed to thrive as if it were open for business once more: Forsaken filtering in and out as they conducted business and sought shelter.
On more than one occasion, the Inn served as a way point for troops on the road. Tonight, the Inn served was a way point for two Forsaken: a female Deathstalker, and a male Lightslayer. Both were veterans of a number of wars. As they discussed matters of politics and religion, each paced the wooden tavern floor. Neither figure bore a name nor identifying marks, as both had fashioned themselves to be as generic and untraceable as possible. Faceless and nameless, both had distinct personalities and views.
The only thing that could break their concentration from the discussion at hand was the arrival of another, a third undead. A young Gilnean turned undead, the third man was but a common messenger that most Forsaken would deem a ‘shovel head’. Deathstalker and Lightslayer alike regarded the new arrival with the sort of wary contempt that their harsh lifestyles breed: who was he? Why was he here?
“Deathstalker….is there ah…..a Deathstalker Field Commander here?”, he’d mutter out. Without the benefit of a name, introductions and inquires were awkward. To this the Deathstalker stepped forward toward the messenger, her pose seemingly relaxed if only for knowing that the Lightslayer would easily address any threats as she played the role of bait. Just because someone was undead, did not make them a friendly force.
“I’m most likely the one you were sent here for. Why is it you are down here? What matters would press you to scurry out of our collective hole in the ground to favor the tavern?”, her words were offered in Gutterspeak. To the outsider, the words were horrific if not guttural sounds that bordered on the feral.
From the messenger there were no further words. He wanted nothing more than to deliver the paperwork, and be along his way. Once the messenger had departed from the Inn, the Deathstalker broke the magical wards on the paperwork and paused to review the missive at hand. It took her but a moment to review the order, and then lift her blind and hollow gaze to the pensive Lightslayer.
“It seems we shall need your services sooner than later. The Siege in Orgimmar is nearing its climax and with Garrosh’s fall we are the likely next target for the Alliance to home in on. It is time to go raise some new dead,” she would offer while walking over to the fireplace. There the paperwork was cast into the flames, and reduced to smoldering ashes.
To this the Lightslayer had little to say, their prior debate was over. Ever eager to join the fray, he simply awaited orders.
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