She awoke in the dead of night. Her head spun, her limbs hurt. Everything hurt. Even her mind felt like it would explode from the screaming within. The screaming. The screams of the dead of Southshore. The screams of the dead she found herself lying on. The last screams of the bodies whose cold white hands still clutched her clothes in their last attempts to escape death. She lay in the cold for what seemed like hours. The cold. Like a winter’s chill that penetrates the joints and digs into your very bones, and yet, it wasn’t winter. Slowly she pushed the two corpses which half lay on her to the side. She heard it all. Every thump, each time two skulls cracked as the bodies rolled down the heap of bodies and collided with others. Finally, she heard that final dry thud. She heard it all. There was not another sound around her. Not a creature left alive, or perhaps, even the crickets were too horrified to sing on that night.
When her body finally moved she brought her hands in front of her face. The full moon’s pale light was just enough. Enough to see her pale skin. Enough to see the grime covering them. Grime. Blood. Both. She couldn’t tell but deep down, she knew it was blood. Her own. The cold, the pale skin, the weakness that governed every muscle of her body. She had lost a lot of blood. She would die there, atop the bodies of everyone she knew. Her hands dropped on her chest. Yes, she would die. In the quiet, in the cold, she would die. And yet, a voice grew in her mind. A voice, urging her to get up, to fight, to live. It was her time, and yet, she didn’t want to die. Mustering all her strength she forced herself to roll to the bottom of the pile of corpses. There, on aching joints, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. West. There was nowhere else to go. If she could make it to Arathi she might live. If she could make it to Arathi she might be able to cheat death’s cold grip. She could hear the river. She could almost see it in the pale glow of the moon. West. She started to crawl.
Slowly she made her way across the terrain, pulling herself across the damp ground and pools of sickly smelling mud until she reached the riverbank and allowed herself to slide down the muddy bank into the water. For once, the icy water that flowed From Alterac felt less cold the air around her. She lay in the water for a few minutes, before she begun cleaning the filth away from her hands and face. Then, she drank. She drank to quench an unquenchable thirst that burned in her throat. The waters of Alterac, usually pristine, tasted foul. She choked and coughed. No doubt there were bodies upstream, but still, she drank. She drank until in the distance, she heard the faint, but unholy snarl of felhounds, followed by the guttural gurgle of the Forsaken. Quickly she pushed herself on to her knees and then, gathering her strength to for feet. She stumbled up the opposite bank and shambled weakly west. Always west. It seemed to her that with every breath, every step forward the voice telling her to survive, to live, grew stronger. It seemed that with every step, she grew stronger.
Soon, she was no longer shambling but walking at a steady pace. She made her way across the rolling hills as fast as her tiered, aching body would take her. For a moment, she thought she was safe. The infernal barking and gurgling speech had gone quiet in the distance. For a moment, she dared to dream that she would make it. That she would find safety. That her live hadn’t been lost. There was no longer what was behind her, but only what lay ahead. Or so she thought. Soon the barking returned in the distance. Barking right behind her. Barking which drew closer every moment. She forced her legs to move faster. Soon the adrenaline was flowing in her veins, making her torn, sickly body move into a jog, and then a full sprint. In the distance, through the dark and the haze, the great wall grew in the horizon. The wall didn’t grow fast enough. The barking became louder and before long, the Forsaken gurgles were back, always behind her. Before long, the gurgles were loud enough for her to make out. It wasn’t gutterspeak, just common spoken through torn tongues and broken jaws. Perhaps, that’s all that gutterspeak actually was. It soon became clear that she wouldn’t outrun her pursuers. No matter how fast her body could take her, it was still broken and struggling to hold together. Dawn would be upon her soon and she would have no chance of getting away from her hunters. Nethander. The old farm. She was close. Perhaps she could hide there. Perhaps she could lose them, even if it was long enough to get another head start.
When she arrived at the farmstead the gnolls which had long made their home there were nowhere to be seen. The noise of the felhounds had probably sent them running to the nearby hills. The silo. Of all the buildings in the farm it seemed like the best bet. She climbed the weathered stairway as quickly as she could as the first rays of the sun appeared on the horizon. Peering in she saw the moldy grain. Maggots crawled over the surface and buried into the abandoned stores. She no longer cared. All she cared about was surviving. That voice in her head wouldn’t let her give up. Slowly she slid into the rotting grain and found a good footing against the walls of the silo. There she hid, hidden from the eyes of the world below, and waited. Maggots crawled into her torn clothes and up her neck and yet, she didn’t stir. She could hear the two Forsaken hunters searching for her in the farm below. Hear the growling and sniffling of the felhounds. Hear the horrid rasping voices “The runt’s gotta be here somewhere. “ grumbled one, to a reply of “Grragle harrr bragle burrg” of the other. She heard that distinctive crack of a slap “Shut it Tim, yer know yah can’t talk.”. By that time, the sniffing and voices were right under her and it only took a moment before she heard solid boots begin to climb the stairs. She knew either choice would lead to her death, but between suffocating and falling into the hands of the Forsaken, the former felt like a better way to die. She let go of the silo’s edge and was slowly swallowed by the stash of rotting grain. Before her head sank below the grain, she took one last breath. The last she would ever take.
The world closed around her and she sank slowly. Above her, she could feel the grain moving, being stirred. She felt a clawed hand pull the grain in front of her face away. Then, she was safe. She had sunken to low for them to reach her. She had sunken into her grave. Safe. A grave of her choosing, She held her breath longer than she ever had. She could no longer feel the grain move. She could no longer hear anything. Death had taken her. Or had it? No. The voice was still there. Urging her on. Not allowing her to die. She clawed at the walls of the silo using any splinter her nails sank into to pull herself up. Kicking and clawing her way back to the surface until the sun burned her eyes and fresh air filled her lungs. Exhaustion claimed her and like those fingers that had clung to her for life, her own clung to the silo and she slept.
She awoke at dusk, her hands still clutching the wooden frame. She didn’t feel rested. She didn’t feel tiered. Her body felt stronger. Her body felt closer to life than to death. She was famished. She didn’t know when she had had her last meal. She knew she wouldn’t have another until she reached Arathi. And yet, her body hungered. She wouldn’t make it that far if she didn’t eat something. Every thought that ran through her mind was about staying alive. Every thought heeding the voice that pushed her towards life. She did what she never thought she’d do. Searching through the rotting grain she plucked out the maggots, and feasted. In her present condition each one was a delicacy. Each one a small drop of life. The thanked the Light for a silo full of them. She feasted. When she had her fill, she pulled herself out of the silo and climbed down. It was dark. It was time to make another push for the wall. West. Always west.
When she finally reached the wall it only took a moment to get her bearings. The Dwarven fortress of Dun Garok loomed at the edge of her sight to her right. The passage to Arathi couldn’t be far. Keeping the wall to her right she made her way north along it’s length. It wasn’t long before she could make out the road. Her heart rose. Northfold Manor was nearby. There had been no sign of her hunters all night. She could make it. She could live. Her heart rose, only to fall. As she crept towards the wall, the pale light of the moon shattered her hopes. There, along the road the Forsaken war machines slowly rolled towards her destination. Catapults, footmen, archers. They marched slowly towards Arathi. No. She couldn’t give up. There was nowhere else to go. She ran. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. If only she could make it past the wall before the Forsaken secured it, she might find shelter. She might find life. The desire of living made her run faster than she ever had. She reached the great gate ahead of the Forsaken war machine. There were 600 feet between the dead and her. That’s when she heard it. The familiar, unearthly howl of her hunter’s felhounds. She made out a familiar “Gurglarg!”among the Forsaken voices. She made out a familiar “The runt! Get’er before it’s too late!”
Fear took her. She ran. Ran past the wall and into the hills of Arathi. There were no arrows. No shots. Just the howling and barking of the hounds which had been set on her. She ran. She ran as panic took over her mind. She moved like the wind, and yet, she could feel the hounds gaining on her. She could see the Manor in the dim light. She began to yell for help when she had breath to spare. She saw movement at the Manor. They would help. She could make it before the hounds were upon her. With each step the silhouettes of armed men at the Manor’s boundary grew clearer. She yelled louder. Why didn’t they come to her aid?
There were only five hundred feet left between her and the guards when she felt one of the hound’s paws strike her back and push her face first into the dirt. She clawed at the dirt, trying to pull herself forward. She kicked at the hounds. Why didn’t they come? Why didn’t they help her? No. It couldn’t end like this. After all she had gone through to get this far it couldn’t end like this. She should have let herself suffocate in the silo. Se should have let herself be captured. She should have given up the moment she woke in the heap of corpses. Now, she would be torn apart by unholy beasts. She cried out louder. She begged for help and still it didn’t come. She could feel the hounds biting at her torn dress and slowly start to drag her away from safety, even as she clawed at the mud in front of her. Then, she knew it was over. A leather-clad foot stepped gently on her hand. She turned her panic struck face up to her gaze into the hollow eyes of her jawless hunter. He tilted his head and let out a curious “Mlarb?. Soon, the broken head was joined by a second, dry, nearly skeletal face. She begun to weep. “The fel yeh doing girl?” the voice grumbled out, “Tryin’t get yourself killed?” She curled into a ball as best she could and wept as she thought about the horrors that awaited her. “Fel, Tim, Why’d we always get the one’s that think they’re alive?” She heard the distinct sound of a blade being drawn. She saw the flash of steel in the moonlight as the blade came down up her head. She shut her eyes. It was finally over. But death didn’t come. She opened her eyes and gazed into the polished steel of the blade stabbed into the ground in front of her. She gazed into her own yellow, lifeless eyes. She gazed at the maggots from the silo that had begun to feast on her cheeks, and she knew. She knew who’s voice was urging her body to live.
