The cold wind and heavy rain were mercilessly beating against the cloaked figure as it walked with heavy steps on the secluded, muddy road. It was now late in the night, and the slender man cursed quietly, frustrated with his predicament. He was returning from a mission of utmost importance and secrecy that required his presence at a nearby farm. The news he carried were grim indeed, for the rumors about agents of the Scourge wondering about have been confirmed as fact. The town militia now held hostage one of the vile creatures and were awaiting further orders and hopefully an escort from Stormwind.
Their waiting was all in vain, for help would never arrive in time.
At the sight of lights from the small village up ahead the man picked up his pace, eager to exchange his soaked clothes with a set of fresh, dry and clean ones, sit down at the tavern with a mug of ale and forget about the day's events. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the tavern's door. He swung it open, his hand aided by the strong wind that savagely blew in and extinguished oil lamps nearby. A chair that was behind the door was sent flying across the floor and crashed against a table. All the eyes in the tavern bore hard on him and the man, visibly embarrasseded, struggled to shut the heavy wooden door behind him. A few moments later everyone resumed their conversations. The tavern was busier than usual, the man noticed as he was taking off his wet cloak at long last.
Paul! Do come join us! came a voice from a table at the very back of the room. A strong man with a wide smile waved with enthusiasm as he set himself back down in the chair. He could hardly contain his excitement until the new guest made his way to the table. Two mysterious-looking men were also seated at the table. Mug of ale, double-time! he yelled at the maiden.
So? What have you heard? asked the strong warrior as Paul was sitting down.
It is as we suspected, I'm afraid. The Scourge sent agents forth.
All three men gasped in unison and immediately became brooding, for the implications were dire indeed. They were all slumped forward so no one around could hear. How wrong it seemed then to not share the news with the townfolk so they could prepare for battle just in case. The air of seriousness clung only to their table, for all around them the patrons were exchanging stories with laughter and occasional cheers.
Ah well, said Paul at length. We can do little until we receive word from Stormwind, yes? Let us forget about tonight's happenings and relax for a change.
Well, I suppose you're right said one of the companions. Long have we been stressing over this matter and I, for one, could use a break.
The maiden was just making her way at the table to serve some ale when cries of battle were suddenly heard from outside. The door was then blown from it's hinges, sending splinters everywhere, the sudden rush of wind snuffing out most of the candles and oil lamps. All men jumped from their chairs and drew their weapons. The flames from the few candles remaining were dancing wildly, creating lively shadows all around.
In the doorway stood a huge humanoid figure, bloody axe in each hand. A bolt of lightning ripped through the night, bathing the tavern in bright white light and to everyone's horror revealing the face of the aggressor.
Vile undead! The Scourge attacks! one of the men shouted. He barely finished his sentence when his words became a gurgle of warm blood as a blade exploded through his chest. An undead rogue used the split second when the door was shattered and no one was watching to make his way in, emerging from the shadows at the precise moment, striking the unfortunate man from behind.
The huge undead standing in the door issued a horrible, guttural laugh that sent shivers through everyone's bones. Paul realized they were doomed. As the men arround him shook of the initial shock and screamed with rage charging at the door, he leaped at the rogue that was not too far from him, thinking to make short work of it. But the undead was ready and parried the blow easily. Their swords connected many times in flashing movements, neither gaining any advantage over their opponent. The fight lingered for minutes while more undead agents made their way in and were battling the brave men that would not allow their loved ones to fall to the Plague. They were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep everyone safe.
Paul was hurt. A throwing knife struck him in the shoulder and he was bleeding profusely. As he was growing weaker, the rogue would win, that much he knew. In a desperate move, he prepared himself to leap at his aggresor to at least maim him and ease the task for one of his comrades, but he never got the chance to pull it off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the Scourge agents throw a small pouch in the middle of the room. It hardly touched the floor when it exploded in a dark and thick could of green noxious gas, spreading quickly in the tavern. All around him the men started choking and falling to the floor as some of the undead were taking advantage of the situation to kill the helpless victims.
The cloud was now upon him and was quickly stealing his life force. With a loud clang he dropped his sword and was beginning to sway. Being the last man standing, all around him he could hear the undead laughing at him, mocking him, taunting him. Paul fell to his knees clutching at his chest. His mind was almost gone now, the world around him growing darker and darker.
It would be the last time he would ever see the world through the eyes of an ordinary man ...
