Sands of Tanaris

A lone figure knelt on the crest of a Tanaris sand dune, staring sightlessly into the sweltering maw of Un'Goro Crater. Sunlight played across his tarnished plate armor, gleaming from the few spots that hadn't been tarnished by the elements. A slight, sandy breeze sent small dust devils dancing around the silent warrior, yet he maintained his solemn vigil without so much as breathing. The world around him had long ago faded to darkness, as discordant dreams and memories fought to dominate his mind. Distant carrion birds cried out across the barren desert, and the sporadic winds that whipped at the figure howled in protest, but no earthly din could compete with the sounds that enveloped his battered heart and soul.

A troll woman's laughter briefly erupted in his mind, soft and serene, before fading into the dull roar of a gushing waterfall. Steel rang as it struck bone, the clamor reverberating through his own bones as if he had been struck. Fleeting images of Feralas, a wooded lake overshadowed with the forest's green haze. The gray smoke whisps of Blackrock Mountain, Dark Iron dwarves drinking and singing drunken songs against the hiss of steam and the ringing of hammers against anvils. Stratholme aflame! How those fiery tendrils danced out and reached for his singed face, as women screamed and children howled in pain! Suddenly he stood on the dusty road out of Rachet, he felt a warm body pressed to his, molten drops falling gently on his shoulder and running down his back. The nameless dead, a funeral procession for yet another fallen friend, the priest moaning out incoherent prayers into a bitter winter's breeze...

The release of death, that sweet respite that perpetually eluded him, called to him from deep within. Like a Siren's call, it sang to him from the damp earth so many feet below his perch. The scorching winds whispered the promise of peace and rest into his ears as it softly steered him to the very brink. The sun hugged him in a warm embrace, offered the comfort he had sought for so long. Decay, so sickly sweet from the rotting leaves and grass, enticed his nostrils and gently pulled him further toward the sudden plunge. One, two more steps, and all his senses assured him that the sufferings of the world would trouble him no more.

The Forsaken warrior came to suddenly, realizing the lies offered him by the elements. How many times had that stone floor rebuked him? Refused to take him in its bosom and grant him peace? How often had the sun's fires gone out and left him shivering in the cold, alone and abandoned? Death's perfume faded into the dank rot of oblivion, foul and unrelenting. The wind's gentle fingers turned into grating claws that ripped at his skin, that soft caress turned into an unfulfilling squeeze that came and went as it pleased. Not again, not this time. The one bony foot that hovered in the open air swiftly spun around and planted itself back into the scalding sea of sand. His way was not peace, his fate not the honored death he felt he deserved. Another miserable step back into the howling dust storm that suddenly sprang up. Death would not be his this day. His weary feet walked away from the cliffs, taking him once again into the world of the living, where he would ever be an outcast.

There was still so much left he had to do.

"Hey buddy, get up!" Small green hands grabbed at the Forsaken warrior's feet and shook them roughly, "You only paid for the night pal, and it's daytime now." The irritable goblin innkeeper kept shaking the undead man's feet until the walking cadaver flopped out of the hammock. Ammotgul stood up and stretched, then rolled his head from side to side, his weary bones cracking like goblin fireworks at the Lunar Festival. The innkeeper wandered off, leaving the warrior alone. Gathering his sparse belongings and rusted armor, Ammotgul headed out into the dawn light.

A few lowly travelers went about their business in the early morning light as goblin merchants hawked their wares on the dusty roads of Gadgetzan. Small bands of adventurers trickled into the city, buying overpriced food and drink for the trek into the unforgiving Tanaris desert. Some headed west towards Zul'Farrak, obviously hoping to make their fortunes in the ruined troll city. Others ventured east toward the coast, or further south into the inhospitable wastes, perhaps looking to unlock the secrets of Uldum. Ammotgul simply watched and waited, lurking just outside the inn's entrance. He took a few sips from the cracked mug of coffee he made, gritting his teeth as the bitter brew dribbled down his throat. Nobody paid him any heed as he went about his morning rituals of coffee and a smoke.

Ammotgul sat on a boulder overlooking Camp Mojache in Feralas, his legs stretched out in front of him as he leaned back on his bony arms. Shafts of sunlight pierced the dense jungle canopy and illuminated brief rainbows in the spray from the waterfall next to him. His best friend, Chadou, knelt next to him, admiring the light show so far below. He stared at her, mesmerized by the way the light and the rainbows were reflected in her eyes, absorbed by the slight smile that played across her face. How cruel life is, he thought, as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss her now pouting lips. She started talking, but her words were lost in the roar of water over stone. He wanted so badly to place a finger upon her lips, to silence her so he might profess his love for her. He knew she wouldn't love him back. She couldn't. She was going to marry Baradul, his old traveling companion. Two troll priests getting married, one his secret love, the other a brother in arms. Life was cruel.

A sudden kick to the shins brought Ammotgul out of his daydream. He looked around angrily, and finally spotted the angry goblin innkeeper glowering at him. "Wha' do ye want, gobbo?" Ammotgul spat in disgust.
"I want YOU off my stoop! NOW!" The goblin crossed his arms belligerently.
"Bloody hell! I paid ye an arm an' a leg ta sleep in tha' miserable hammock ye call a bed, an' now ye wan' ta run me off, eh? Piss on yer head, an' piss in yer keg!" Ammotgul spat again as he kicked sand in the goblin's face. A few bored bruisers eyed the commotion and made their way jauntily to the inn.
"What's the big idea, pal? You looking for a fight?" The biggest of the goblin bruisers bristled, his chest puffed up with self-importance.
"I want ta finish me bloody coffee an' wake up proper, since yer li'l gobbo 'pal' 'ere saw fit ta toss me out o' bed fer no gnome-huggin' reason!" Ammotgul unconciously readied himself for a fight, his hand creeping to the shaft of his driftwood mace. His shield lay propped up on the wall behind him, easily within arm's reach if the goblins made a move.

The innkeeper finally spit the last of the sand out and began shrieking at the bruisers. "Arrest him! I want him jailed! Throw him in the cage!" The little goblin howled in rage and humiliation.
"Shaddup! You started this ruckus! Get back in your inn before we jail YOU!" The lead bruiser began shoving the innkeeper back into the inn. It seemed funny to the undead warrior that even the bruisers understood the golden rule of commerce. "Tha customer's always right, eh?" He smirked as he gathered up his shield and backpack, nodded gratefully to the guards, and headed over to the goblin auction house.

Ammotgul's long, bronzed feet dangled out in the open air as the glass blue sea swept by him at a steady clip. The frothy white wake of the ship reminded him of the snow capped peaks of Dun Morogh as it rolled away from the hull. He turned his head toward the bow and stared off into the distance, the wind wreaking havoc with his unruly ponytail. The sails overhead cracked like cannon fire as the wind picked up the slack and forced the canvas taut, pushing the sleek schooner ever faster towards its destination.

A sudden chill swept over him as he heard the old troll crone's voice echo in his ears.
"Ja no gwanna find peace, mon. Da bad voodoo be on yah head." The moment passed quickly and faded into obscurity. The young sailor leaned his head on the sun warmed railing and closed his eyes, savoring the salty tang of the sea air. Sometimes he imagined he was flying through the air, instead of sailing on a creaking wooden ship, and he let his mind take him where his feet and ship could not.

He was falling now, the freezing cold of Icecrown biting at him through the gaps in his armor. A bolt of frost caught him in midair and knocked the wind out of him. Two frost wyrms dove down and clawed at him as he fell, driving him toward the foreboding tundra below. His wounded wyvern roared in protest as it spiraled haphazardly towards the ground, well away from the aerial battle. As the ground came rushing up to meet him, Ammotgul saw a small army of Scourge amassing below. "If'n I din't drop me stinkin' filthy axe," he thought as he braced himself for impact. The world around him disappeared suddenly as he crushed a reanimated skeleton and struck the ground.

"Are you gonna buy the cat or what?" The goblin's grating voice shattered his daydream. The little green creature held up a wooden crate almost as big as him, and deep inside the box an angry growl rumbled steadily.
"Ye sure tha' bleedin' furbag ain't gonna bite?" Ammotgul tried to peer into one of the air holes, but an angry claw leapt out and buried its nails into the wood.
"Bite? It won't bite. It'll probably just claw you to death." The auctioneer gave a toothy smile.

He heard his bones crack and shatter as he was slammed through the snow and into the permafrost below. The pain seldom bothered him anymore, but that sound did more damage to him than anything else. Ammotgul tried to push himself up, but both forearms were broken and bent at odd angles. He spit out a few of his remaining teeth, more out of anger than any practical need. He could hear the frost wyrms circling above, their bony wings beating against the wind in a cacophony of horror. The chattering of a dozen or more reanimated skeletons grew steadily closer as the Forsaken warrior fought gravity. "If I could only get me arse off tha' stinkin' ground..."

He opened his mouth to spit and caught a blast of sand in his face. The winds had picked up again, and another sandstorm was sweeping across Gadgetzan. The crate he carried at his side vibrated with pent-up rage and malice. The cat inside howled with a ferociousness usually saved for larger creatures, like mountain lions.

Ammotgul took another swig of rum from his hip flask and spit it out, erasing the last bits of grit from his sandblasted mouth. The crate in his other hand continued to shake violently as the trapped cat raced back and forth inside, trying to escape its kitty prison. The undead warrior gently set the crate down and readied his driftwood mace, in case the contained critter decided to attack. Cautiously, he slid open the latch and slowly swung the door open.

A black ball of furious fur launched from the bowels of the crate, a trail of sand kicked up in its wake. The cat raced around the cage in the center of Gadgetzan, hissing and clawing in unbridled rage. Ammotgul watched the creature make several laps before it collapsed in an exhausted heap near the cage's entrance. Slowly, he made his way to the delirious cat, and placed a small silver saucer near its head. Procuring a waterskin from his backpack, he poured a little into the dish and waited. After a few minutes, the cat laboriously dragged itself to the dish and drank.

"Poor li'l bugger. Them blasted gobbos dinnae feed nor water ye, eh?" The Forsaken warrior lay down next to the cat and pet it gently. The furball half purred, half growled as it lapped up the remaining drops of water. He poured some more water in the dish and rinsed out the sand, before refilling it and setting it in front of the parched cat again. With its strength returning, the cat managed to stand and drank greedily again.
"An' ta think, I dinnae even like kitters."

Ammotgul marched angrily back into the goblin auction house, his black cat perched on his shoulder. The goblin auctioneer laughed as the grim warrior approached.
"Well friend, I see that beast didn't claw your face off?"
"Nay, tha poor thing dinnae do no such thing. But tha bugger brings ye a message..." Suddenly, the cat leapt from Ammotgul's shoulder and dug its claws into the goblin's face. The unexpected attack sent the auctioneer screaming and flailing as he fought to get the angry cat off his face.
"Methinks tha kitters might want ta claw yer face off instead."

The warrior sighed as he adjusted his backpack and began the trek into the Tanaris desert. A swarm of goblin bruisers stood at the southern gate of Gadgetzan, glaring coldly at the zombie and his newfound friend. Kitters purred contentedly from his seat in Ammotgul's backpack, occasionally sticking his little kitty tongue out at the angry goblins.
"Dinnae think I don' ken what yer doin' Kitters. I got eyes in tha back o' me head." The cat climbed out of the backpack and on top of the undead's head, still purring happily at the turn of events. Kitters licked the top of the warrior's head, dug his claws into the leather straps, and promptly fell asleep.
"Well now, I got me a bleedin' furry stinkin' cap," Ammotgul grumbled as he walked south into the barren wastes.

The Caverns of Time, a nigh incomprehensible mess of swirling energies and twirling events, where now intersects with then, where the future has passed and the past has yet to be seen. Detritus from collapsing and expanding timelines drifted carelessly within the grand chamber of the Bronze Dragonflight, dancing on the subtle currents of time as history was ripped apart and reassembled. Kitters peered down the tunnel that burrowed deep beneath the Tanaris desert, clinging tightly to Ammotgul's head.
"Bloody cat, leggo me damned scalp!"

Ammotgul looked around, overcome by the sense of nostalgia. A familiar-looking night elf smiled at him as a stiff wind blew in from the sea. Red Rachet dirt blew over his steel sabatons, sticking to the layer of oil that kept his metal boots from rusting. As the memory of that day overwhelmed him, he opened and closed his mouth silently. The night elf girl tilted her head slightly as she approached, perplexed by his behavior. He dug his hand in his pocket, looking for his hearth stone, and felt something different instead. His clenched hand came out of his pocket against his will, the bony fingers slowly uncurling to reveal an ornate golden ring, a polished diamond gleaming in its setting. The young girl looked at the ring for a moment before staring him in the eyes. His eyes...

This time, he collapsed to his knees as his body was wracked by sobs. Scorching hot tears ran down his cheeks, gathering on the leather straps that cut across his face before plummeting to the sandy cave floor. He trembled as he wiped the tears from his eye sockets, the cold saronite of his gauntlets a refreshing feeling against his pale skin. A word danced on the tip of his tongue, a name he knew but couldn't remember. It played on the edge of his consciousness, then ran away like...like a heartbroken girl. Ammotgul reached out a hand toward the illusion, his fingers grasping at black nothingness. She sprinted away, a frail shadow flying up the road, and disappeared over the hill's crest.

The warrior opened his mouth to call her name, but no sound came out. He struggled to his feet, his bones groaning in protest, and then ran after her. His mind reeled in terror as his legs pumped under him, carrying him up the hill after her. He knew what would happen, but he couldn't stop himself. A hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder, a little more roughly than he remembered, and jerked her around before drawing her into a hug. He could feel her slight weight shift against his chest as her legs buckled. He fought the urge to collapse himself, and remained standing for both their sakes. Soft purple hair wrapped around his bare hand...

...he pulled the night elf's head back, and with a savage roar he sank his teeth into the exposed throat. A scream died in the gushing blood, coming out as nothing more than a muted gurgle. The silver glowing eyes flashed brilliantly before winking out like two extinguished candles. An arrow glanced off his right pauldron and disappeared in a shower of splinters. Several night elves stood up on the second floor of the building, raining arrows down indiscriminately...

...as she pressed her head against his chest. Images flashed in his mind; a red face mask, an open grave with fresh dirt piled beside it. A simple wooden marker, the name burned upon it illegible through the tears. He closed his eyes and kissed her head as his tears fell on her hair, glistening like gems against a violet sea. A feeble fist pounded against his ribs...

...Ammotgul threw the broken night elf body at the nearest attacker, knocking the sentinel off balance. He rushed at her, sword drawn, and neatly hamstrung her as he spun out of an arrow's path. The broadhead buried it into the sentinel's chest, the shaft quivering from the impact with bone. With another flash of steel, the undead warrior thrust his blade into the night elf's throat and severed her head. The bloodrage took him fully as a volley of arrows rained down on him again. Oblivious of pain, he rolled toward another night elf, landing on his knees and jabbing his sword into an exposed stomach. Blood and intestines slid down the blade and stung his clawed hand. A sudden explosion kicked the warrior sideways and sent him spinning...

...the spinning darkness cleared again as he carried the slight girl back to her house. She kicked her legs frantically, a futile attempt to break free again. He whispered gently to her, his words lost against the sound of her crying. Gently, Ammotgul laid her out on the bed she used to share with...with who? He knew the answer to this question, knew the other one was responsible for...for what? She moaned as he caressed her cheek, turning away from his touch.

Kitters mewed unhappily, no more than two inches from Ammotgul's face. The little black kitten licked a paw and rubbed his face, trying to scrub the filth of the cave away. Ogre corpses lay scattered on the stone floor, limbs and heads separated from necks and trunks. Ammotgul pulled himself up from off the ground, a sudden pain ripping up his left side and paralyzing his arm. Black ichor flowed freely from a sinister wound that ran from his hip to his armpit. A couple of fingers were missing off his right hand, splintered white bone standing in sharp contrast to the purple flesh that hung ragged around the stumps. "Kitters, dinnae e'er put yer fingers near an ogre's mouth."

The fire crackled and launched embers as the fresh log caught. Ammotgul stirred the coals with the poker as the poor girl slept behind him. His body continued moving, against his will, as it hung the poker beside the fireplace. The warrior slipped silently to her bedside and pulled the covers up to her chin, before planting a kiss on her forehead. His brain screamed as alarm bells rang violently in his head. Something was amiss, but he couldn't put his finger on it...

Embers rained down on his soot stained armor, orange fireflies playing in the thermal drafts from countless fires. Kitters clung tightly to his scalp as the Forsaken warrior scooped up another squirrel and stuck it in his backpack.
"Savin' bloody squirrels from this piss-all stinkin' fire. I mus' be cracked!" The little black cat merely dug its claws further into Ammotgul's scalp. A sudden snap sent him sprawling to the side as another tree, engulfed in flames, exploded and fell in a blazing heap towards him. The inferno raged on as the warrior continued stomping his way through piles of ash and burning coals, chasing the scared critters.

A pile of snow fell silently from his shoulders, exposing the chipped blue paint of his pauldrons. The passing column of undead failed to notice him, lurking just behind a rocky outcropping. Slowly, he raised his bandaged hand and gave the signal for the attack. A flock of black feathered arrows took flight from behind him, their whistling hidden in the howl of Icecrown's frigid winds. A few sailed harmlessly past the marching ghouls, but many more struck home. Maybe a dozen of the reanimated corpses fell, their bodies trampled by those behind them. It took a moment for them to realize they were under attack, and by that time the crazed warrior had already lit several sticks of dynamite, lobbing them into the formation. Clouds of smoke and snow exploded out from the blast, bones and limbs rained down shortly thereafter. The lone warrior continued his mad charge at the heart of the group as more arrows fell silently around them all.

"Jus' once, I'd like ta 'ear her bloody voice. Jus' once." The sullen warrior stared into his half empty cup, the little black cat curled near a guttering candle on the coarse wooden table. Outside, the wind picked up as the first snow of the season danced and played across the empty dirt road. The chainmail under his black lacquered plate rattled as he raised the weathered clay cup to his desiccated lips. She haunted his every waking moment, her violet hair danced behind her as she ran. Ran away. From him. Why? He couldn't remember. Wouldn't. Her figure grew distant, the details fading until the world went black again. Her white hair caught the light, reflected it back at him as if it were finely spun silver thread. She threw her head back as she laughed, her laugh the roar of water rushing down a cliff. Tears streamed down her face, the silver orbs of her eyes seemed to grow dimmer in the fading light. He pressed her head against his armored chest. A tiger roared as it leapt from a bed of ferns, extended claws reached for her neck. His sword suddenly there, the claw falling away as blood spattered across her face. She howled, or was it the tiger? No time to think, his second sword was already in the air, a silver arc. Where was that useless mage?