- Author’s Note
- Prologue Part I – Loss of Innocence
- Prologue Part II – Return of a Mage
- Prologue Part III – Questions and Answers
- Prologue Part IV – Hunting
- Prologue Part V – Celebrations
- Chapter 1 – Rolling Greens
- Chapter 2 – The Little Girl
- Chapter 3 – The Stranger
- Chapter 4 – Berenice
- Chapter 5 (part 1) – The Front Line
- Chapter 5 (part 2) – The Front Line
- Chapter 5 (part 3) – The Front Line
- Chapter 6 – Gregory Victor
- Chapter 7 – The Fall
Gregory Victor didn’t remember much of his previous life, but he remembered the days of the plague vividly. He was a doctor at the time, and had spent most of his days walking from village to village, curing the sick and needy. He remembered how he would often be called away from the sick to help the many wounded soldiers coming back from battle. He remembered how this had made him despise the Orcs, how he blamed all the wars and the dead on those savage green-skinned brutes, and how he believed – as many others had at the time – that they were the enemy and needed to be defeated.
Oh how we had been wrong, he often thought to himself. If only we’d taken the time to look at what was happening around us.
Blindly, most Humans had ignored the many warning sings around them. Instead, they had gotten into the tainted grain and were quickly infected with the plague. The unlucky few that survived, that hid from their blood-thirsty neighbours in crates and in cellars, would only live long enough to see Lordaeron fall to the hands of the Scourge. Most would die soon after, either from exhaustion, from hunger, or from getting caught trying to flee the now forsaken lands. Gregory Victor didn’t remember how he died, and didn’t quite remember how he came back to life either. All he remembered was that he had once been a doctor, and that he would continue being a doctor.
Victor was now stationed at Hammerfall and spent his days teaching first aid to recruits and soldiers. Earlier in the morning, he had had a feeling that today would be busy, and no less than five distant explosions later, he was struggling to keep his sanity as dozens of wounded Horde soldiers began flying in from Tarren Mill.
Hamerfall was chaotic as guards unloaded the dead and wounded from the arriving bats, while the doctor heard himself bark orders as he quickly reviewed each wounded soldier.
“Here, take this bandage and apply pressure to your wound! You, sit down and raise that leg into the air! Oh my, where’s her arm? Take her inside and clean the wound, I’ll come by as soon as possible to get things stitched up!”
Looking at the empty socket where the Tauren’s left shoulder had once been, he knew he had just lied. By the time he would make it to her, she would most probably be dead from loss of blood. He shook his head and walked up to the Wind Rider, asking her to send word for some more healers.
“Lets also get some triage going here and send some of the lightly wounded out to Undercity,” he added. ”From there they’ll be able to get bandages and patch themselves up, and I’ll be able to concentrate on those that really need my help.”
“Yes sir,” the Orc replied, quickly turning back and ordering her fellow comrades to begin a triage.
“If there is urgent need for me, come get me in my cabin,” the doctor shouted, turning and heading back to the grey building in the south of Hammerfall.
Maybe now I’ll be able to help that armless Tauren before she looses too much blood, he thought to himself.
A large, green, and smelly (Victor could only imagine, seeing as how he no longer had a sense of smell) orc quietly walked in the door, a solitary tear rolling down his left cheek. In his bloody arms, he held an unconscious female troll which he presented to Victor as though he were awarding him a prize. Victor quickly finished bandaging the Tauren’s open socket and bounced over to see the Troll.
He gasped, looking down at her mangled body. She was still breathing, which was surprising considering her body had obviously been pierced by a multitude of arrows and her chest punctured by a large dagger. The doctor gently wiped his bony finger along the side of the biggest of the cuts and found a light green substance that bubbled to the touch.
A poisoned rogue blade, Victor thought, measuring the size of the wound.
“Help her,” the large Orc wimped in a small voice. ”You have to help her.”
Victor did his best at bandaging the Troll’s punctured body and cleaning the wounds of poison, but by the time he was done, he noticed that she had stopped breathing. Putting his hand on her chest, he listened for a heart beat that never came.
“I’m sorry,” Victor finally heard himself say. ”The blade that stabbed her was poisonned, and her body has succumb to it, there’s nothing more I can do.”
Victor remained by the Orc as he began to sob, then cry loudly. As helpers came to pickup the body, the Orc suddenly jumped in front of them and became aggressive.
“No one touches her!” he shouted as a large golden lion bounced in from outside and roared a threatening roar. The lion remained there, blocking the way to the helpers, as the Orc bent down, picked up the troll from the bed where the doctor had put her, walked out of the cabin.
“Don’t worry Sefira,” he murmured into her ear, tears running down his face, “I’ll find you a good place to rest.”