The sun was setting over the western mountains, a cool breeze running through the pass along the worn path and into the thornbrush of the Southern Barrens. Silence dominated the dusk and the flickering torches of the Quillboar sentries shone out over the grasslands casting long, deformed shadows. Their bodies rigid, eyes glazed and unfocused, throats crimson.

The dead raise no alarms.

Sitting atop his dire wolf looking down into the waste that was Desolace, the orc thought about the road ahead. South through the hot sands of Desolace and into the wilds of Ferelas, all before nightfall, was no easy task.
“The road is long my love, we must not tarry,” came a hollow voice to his left.
The orc straightened and nodded his approval, then, whispering a words on encouragement to his wolf, the pair took off town the dusty path into the open desert of Desolace.

“This is taking too long,” said the priest in a hushed whisper. “He should have been here by now."

"Patience my dear, he is not that late. Come, sit with me."

The blood elf priest huffed disapprovingly and then rolled her eyes at her companion. She sauntered over to a nearby stump, scrutinized it closely and flicked a dusk-beetle off it before sitting down.