Twin Angel Step (Now with 80% Zombiepocalypse!)

[Sunshine]

((To be ongoing.))

[Sunshine]

Before:

The substitute teacher stood at the front of the classroom, calling roll from a thin scrap of paper. Behind her, on a wide black board set in the wall, shimmering fragments of white dust had been formed to read 'Ms. Glitterbough.'

"Aninnia Goldendawn?"

"Present!"

Ms. Glitterbough swooped a slender index finger in an elongated V shape. A small check mark burned itself into the paper.

"Coria Leafstrider?"

"Present!"

Another swoop; another check mark.

"Anandor Morningray?"

"Present!"

As Ms. Glitterbough neared the end of the list, the girl with green eyes tried to evaporate into her desk at the back of the room.

"Malanior Morningray? Oh, you must be brothers..."

"Present!"

"Mariel Suntreader?"

"Present!"

Ms. Glitterbough paused at the last name. A collective snicker rose from the students; they were used to this. So was the girl with green eyes. It happened every time. She tried harder to evaporate.

"Oh dear," said Ms. Glitterbough, and adjusted her glasses. "There seems not to be a family name with this one... Umm, is there a 'Varenna' here?"

The class snickered again. The girl with green eyes raised her hand timidly, eyes fixed firmly on her desk. "Here, ma'am..."

Ms. Glitterbough looked at the hand, then the girl, and smiled kindly. "Could you tell me your last name, dear? So I can put it down on the list?"

The girl with green eyes willed desperately to stop existing. Her voice escaped her lungs as a frightened squeak.

"I don't have one, ma'am."

Another collective snicker as the girl with green eyes started blushing. Ms. Glitterbough frowned.

"Of course you do, dear. Who is your mother?"

"I- I don't have a mother, ma'am..." The girl looked on the edge of tears.

"Oh, I'm sorry... What about your father?"

"Thendrin Sungale, ma'am."

"So your last name must be Sungale."

Ms. Glitterbough smiled and pointed her finger at the paper; paused again as the girl with green eyes shook her head mutely.

"No? Well, what is it then, dear?"

"I don't have a last name, ma'am."

Ms. Glitterbough used what she thought of as her patient voice. Every substitute teacher in every classroom in every world in every universe has a similar tone of voice.

"Now, Varenna, dear. Every elf has a last name. You must have one too."

The girl with green eyes bowed her head in mortification. The other students burst into cruel laughter. Too late, Ms. Glitterbough saw the round, stubby shapes of the girl's ears as they poked through her hair.
--

"Nameless, nameless, nameless!"

Playgrounds are a form of hell. Clutching the bag that held her lunch, the girl with green eyes ran away from the other students as they chanted at her.

"Human, human!"

A thrown stick impacted with her shoulder. She sobbed.

"Nameless!"

Another stick, an apple core, and a beginner's fireball scorching through her clothing. She fell to her knees, holding her lunch to her chest and curling in around it. Tears streaked her face.

"Nameless!"

"Stupid!"

"Human!"

"Ugly!"

"Mongrel!"

"Nameless, nameless, nameless, nameless..."

[Sunshine]

Varenna started by finding the recipe. It was in her file cabinet, in the folder marked “Recipes (Food),” behind the tab marked “C.” She unclipped it carefully, put the folder back in its place, and shut the file cabinet. She then returned to the kitchen and tacked the recipe to the wall, where she could refer to it and not have it taking up counter space or suffering food stains. Next, she read the recipe from beginning to end, every word— then read it again to make sure. After that, she went around the kitchen and got out every ingredient she would need, arranging them on the counter in order of when she would need which. Then she reread the recipe again.

When she was finished and the oven had clanged shut for the last time, and the result of her labor was cooling off under a lidded glass tray on the table, she washed the flour from her face and her arms, ran an eye over the devastated kitchen, and sighed. She never managed to cook quite as tidily as she preferred. She picked up a sponge and started scrubbing.

She finished. She rinsed the sponge out and put it back in the sink, washed her hands again, then started putting away the jars and bags left over from the cooking ingredients she had used.

She finished putting the remainders away. She washed her hands again. She took the recipe down from the wall and returned it to its alphabetical place in the recipes folder, then put the folder back, straightened out the crooked lines of the other folders, and shut the file cabinet.

She washed her hands again.

She eyed the glass tray longingly, then sighed and reached for her buzzbox.

To Caile: *clack~* Caile?
Caile whispers: Mmm, helloes, Renna!
To Caile: Are you coming home tonight?
Caile whispers: I am on my vay now.
To Caile: Good. I have chocolate cake for you.
Caile whispers: Oh? Takink se initiative, I see?
To Caile: I just thought it would be nice...
Caile whispers: It is nice. I like ven you do nice sinks.

She put the buzzbox away and looked at the cake again, then sat down at the table and waited.


“I got my orders today.”

Varenna picked uneasily at her plate, using her fork to break her serving of cake into easily manageable chunks. She’d cut a thin slice for herself, almost none of which she had eaten yet– she was pacing herself– then another slice that consisted almost a third of the cake had gone to her seven foot five roommate. The draenei looked up from a mouthful.

“Mnmph?”

Caile frowned, swallowed, and tried again.

“Orders, from se church?”

Varenna nodded. She kept her eyes on her plate as she spoke, still poking nervously with her fork. “My ship sails in three weeks, with the advance fleet. I’m only supposed to be aboard a couple of days ahead of time, though. They’re giving me leeway because I’m not regular military.”

Caile rolled her eyes and swallowed down another boatload of chocolate.

“I sink it is stupid sat sey are requirink you to go. You are no military, it should be all up to you!”

“It is. I volunteered.”

Caile blinked a few times. “Vell sen, I suppose sat settles my problem!”

Varenna shrugged timidly. Her fork continued dragging pointless circles in the gooey chocolate.

“You dun vanna know vat my problem is?”

“Of course I do.” Varenna lifted up her eyes finally to search Caile’s face. She got a smile in return.

“My problem vas you! I knew you was gonna do somefink vis se church on this problem. So I had to make up my mind vat to do— and baby...?” Varenna cringed. Caile held her arms dramatically to her sides, giggled, and exclaimed “I’m goink to Norserend!”

“Oh.” Varenna sighed and lowered her eyes again. Caile tilted her head, watching.

“You sink I could ride vis you? ...Please?”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Vhy not? A chance to help is a good chance, I say!”

“It’s going to be dangerous.”

“Because my life is so safe and secure right now?” sarcasmed Caile. She rolled her eyes again.

Varenna frowned.

“There’s zombies.”

“Sere’s zombies on Azeros!”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s cold in Ironforge!”

“It’s colder on Icecrown.”

“I’ll just have to not vear my bikini sen!”

Varenna whimpered; Caile perked a brow at her.

“You sink I am too veak for Norserend?”

“I think Northrend is fatal and dangerous.”

“Sen vhy are you goink?”

“To keep other people safe from the place. I’m a paladin.” The title carried weight, emphasis, like it always did when Varenna used it.

“And I am a shaman. It is my duties to see spirits put to rest.”

“...Are you sure about this? Traveling with the Riders and the other freelance vessels will probably be safer. My ship is intended to land right in a combat zone.”

“Now I am completely sure!” Caile frowned. “I am not lettink my favoritest of friends go sere alone!”

Varenna opened her mouth, hoping she would say something clever and decisive. Nothing came to her. Instead she sighed and gave up. “I’ll talk to them about it.”

Caile beamed at her.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Tell sem I vill use magicks to shrink down and hide on se boat if sey tell me no.”

Varenna frowned and opened her mouth again, too slow. Caile’s enthusiasm wasn't the sort to stop and ask questions.

“—I knew you vould see it my vay. Sankyoo, Renna, you are so good to me!”

“I’m not sure I’m being so now. Er... I will be glad to have you with me, though.” The paladin smiled timidly, looking slightly as if there were a salamander in her throat. Caile grinned, crossed her hooves under the table, and swallowed down more of the cake.

“So vat do you plan to do until sen?”

Varenna shrugged. She finally took a real bite of her own cake, and smiled.

“I was thinking I'd spend some time in the Plaguelands.”

“Se Plaguelands...? Vhy?”

“Practice.”

[Sunshine]

...Or not.

Stormwind, morning:

“Hi, is this Southern Skies Air? Er, yes you can, please. This is Varenna Sungale, I’ve been told my flight north today was canceled, would you tell me why please? ...Sorry, repeat that please? What do you mean, because of Plague?”
--

Later:

“No, I’m sorry, sir. We’re not letting shipments of food into the city right now, especially grain. No, I don’t care how expensive it is. No, I don’t care about your schedule, either. I recommend— oh, Light, please don’t cough on me... Excuse me, can I get a medic over here?”
--

Later:

“I’m sorry, he what? Exploded?”
--

“What do you mean by ‘spewed’? Could you be more specific?”
--

“Glowing green cloud of gas. Okay, let me write that down. Would you say it was more clinging, or more billowing?”
--

“Say again, please, what? Zombies?”

--
Hey look, music.


Afternoon, beneath storm clouds:

“Like this,” said Varenna. She took a step, spun, and her sword was in her hand. It slashed a wide arc at neck height, she resumed her light footing facing forward again, and it returned to her back. “Right off at the neck is best. If you can’t do that, aim for the forehead, or go in through the eyes, ears, or mouth if you’ve got a piercing weapon. The heart works too, but only some of the time.”

The guardsmen she’d been assigned to nodded, readied their weapons, and took up positions on either side of the door. That was how it was all over the city: half a dozen guards, and one priest or one paladin. Small patrols that could stay fast and mobile and catch the outbreaks before they turned into disasters. She nodded in return, readied her own weapon again, and broke the door down.

“Are you paying attention, Varenna?” asked her adopted father. She nodded at him solemnly.

“Yes.”

“Good. These moves may save your life someday. Now, like this, watch me: Step, turn, cut.”

Blood and bile splashed against Varenna’s faceguard. She ignored it, made another turn, cut again, and the head flew off. The corpse flailed at her as it slumped to the street. Shrieking and snarling, a second corpse replaced it.

Step, turn—

“Never let them hit you."

Step, turn—

"The best way to accomplish this is not to throw your sword and shield against your enemy’s— these are your weapons, not to be wasted in a block or a parry unless you have no other choice."

Step—

"Don't make it a contest of strength against strength. Two forces colliding will only damage both, and strong as you may become, there will always be something stronger. That is not the path to long life. Instead flow with your enemy’s movements, ever away from the blows, always avoiding their strength and keeping yours for when you need it to strike in turn."

Step—

"Never be where your enemy wants you to be."

Turn—

"Like this:”

She spun again. The ghoul’s claws whiffed the air. Light lashed out off her shield, and its head exploded.

“Call for backup!” She skewered the third ghoul through its heart as it leapt at her, then dumped it to the side, darting her shield to catch the fourth in the face. More clamored behind them, struggling to reach her. She turned, freed her sword, caught the third ghoul on the neck as it tried to get back to its feet, and hit the fourth in the face with her shield again. “There’s too many, the whole warehouse must be infected! Hurry!”

“Should you find yourself outnumbered, the same strategy continues to hold true. Avoid your enemies’ attacks; counter back after they have expended themselves. If you can, use terrain to your advantage. Position yourself so that you must only fight a minimum of your enemies at once."

Step—

"If the odds become too great against you, never hesitate to retreat to a better tactical position, and remember— only a fool fights alone when an alternative is available.”

She danced back from the doorway. The next three ghouls scrambled over the bodies of their comrades and leapt, followed by the three after that. Burning wings outlined in light behind her shoulders as she charged back in. The guardsmen closed in with her, hacking the zombies from either side.

“Never be surprised if the odds turn against you—”

The guard with the buzzbox swore. He hit one of the ghouls in the face with it, then shouted over their groaning and snarling. “Lady Sungale! They’re not coming!”

“Why?”

She drove her sword through another ghoul, then spun and cleaved a second one in half. Light flared around her feet and caught a third on fire. More poured through the broken doorway to replace them.

“They say they’re spread too thin! We’re on our own!”

“Then we’re on our own. Through the door double file, then a phalanx with me on point. Go!”

“And even if the odds do leave your favor, never allow it to keep you from your goals.”

“Light above!”

“Uther’s bones!”

Shapes shambled in the shadows. The grain boxes were stacked from high ceiling to floor, glowing green. One of the guardsmen kicked one, and the boards broke. Dead insects and the stench of rot spilled and tumbled to the floor.

Varenna shuddered under her armor. It didn’t show.

“Ghouls first, then fires on each corner. Use your torches, throw them right into the boxes— don’t touch anything. Make sure we destroy all of it, then we’ll block up the door again and move on to the next hot spot.”

“And never, ever hold back once victory is in sight. Okay?”

“Umm. Okay.”

Varenna squinted up at her dad. The high elf was big for his race, built like a battering ram. Muscles rippled beneath the loose practice robe he wore. To her seven-year-old eyes, he looked gigantic.

“Um, Father?” she asked.

“Yes, little Renna?”

“...What does all that have to do with my sword?”

She raised the wooden practice sword awkwardly. It wobbled. The tiny wooden shield held her other arm down like dead weight.

“Er, nothing. Not yet, anyway. Someday. Here, lets do it again. Lift your shield, now— that’s it. Now, like me. Step, turn—”

Light flashed around her sword as it slashed at neck height. It hit a neck; the ghoul dropped to the ground, extra lifeless. Behind her the crates blazed and exploded.

“Everyone out!”

Step, turn—

[Sunshine]

Slash.

Night, Duskwood, raining:

Slash. Step, turn—

“But Father, I don’t want to learn how to use a shield. It’s heavy.”

She kicked a heel into the mud, spun, and slammed the opposite plated toe into the zombie’s left shin. The bones shattered in halves and it toppled forward into her shield. Light flashed amidst the downpour.

“Your old man uses a shield. I thought you wanted to learn to do what I do.”

Step, turn,

“But my arm hurts.”

Step,

“That happens when you grow new muscles. You’ll be grateful for them someday, little Renna.”

Turn,

“Okay... I guess...”

Step—

There were eight now. Nine others lay broken and motionless on the road. They hung back and so did she, catching her breath to the rhythm of the rain clattering down on her helmet.

“Darkshire is under Cathedral protection. Those of you who wish to surrender need only—”

“Brains.”

“Fair enough.”

Step—

“How come you use a shield, Father?”

“It’s for protection.”

Varenna frowned down at her own wooden shield, brow furrowing in thought. “But...”

“Yes?”

“But you told me not to use my shield that way.”

“Not for yourself. I didn’t say the shield was for my protection.”

“But wouldn’t you be better off with a bigger weapon you could use with both hands? Or two weapons? Instead of a shield?”

“It’s a gigantic spiked slab of solid metal. That’s not weapon enough for you?”

The ghouls lurched at her. She turned a pirouette and launched her shield like a discus. It took off one of their heads before bouncing back to her grasp. She caught it, twisted her grip, and slammed it burning into the face of yet another.

“I wish I could learn to use a bow, like the other girls.”

“Now, don’t give up hope, Varenna.”

“It’s because I’m not an elf, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s because you’re a terrible shot. The two traits are completely unrelated.”

“Oh.”

“Distance weapons are overrated anyway. Unreliable. There are plenty of ways to compensate, don’t worry.”

Step,

She spun and threw her shield again. This time it took off three heads.

The remaining three zombies turned and fled. She stopped, bemused, and watched them shambling slowly away, then raised her shield again.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good at this as you are, Father?”

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind, little Renna. You have the potential to be anything you want to be; it’s just a matter of motivation and choice.”

Her shield bounced back to her hand. She held it up at an angle and let the rain wash the blood and slime away, then mounted up and rode once more into the dark. Fifty yards down, she found the next pack.

“Darkshire is under Cathedral protection. Those of you who wish to surrender need only—“

“Brains.”

“Fair enough.”

[Sunshine]

On the second day, the clipper ship Cruel Mercy ran the blockade at Stormwind Harbor and smashed into the northern dock. As the hull shattered open it let loose a deluge of putrid crates and giant cockroaches, fouling the water for miles around. The cockroaches scattered into the streets.

Aided by paladins from the Cathedral, the Harbor Guard fought its way aboard and put down the fetid remains of the former crew. The boat and the dead were burned.

[Sunshine]

On the third day, the Plague mutated. The new strain was faster, deadlier, and harder to cure; it quickly devoured everything in its path. Argent Dawn healers, overwhelmed by the throngs of diseased, redispersed to place their focus on only the most heavily populated areas.

Notable Plague deaths included four crewmen of the Alliance battleship The Assurance, currently at port in Stormwind Harbor, and the owners of a specialty alchemy shop in Old Town. The shop, known as The Five Deadly Venoms, located opposite the well-known Pig and Whistle Tavern, also fell victim, apparently caught fire during the struggle with the ghoul that slew its inhabitants. The Royal Firefighters' Guild was fortunately notified by buzzbox early on, and was able to stop the blaze from spreading to adjoining buildings.

[Sunshine]

They were patrolling the Plagued streets of Stormwind when the voice on the box said, "We have a problem on the Assurance."

So they went. And as the crewmen gathered distantly around their infected comrades, and as the Riders and their allies stepped aboard off the long wooden ramp, Varenna had another flashback. There seemed to be a lot of them lately.

"This'll happen sometimes," said the sergeant, and wheezed as he choked for air around the blood gathering into his sinuses. "Happened ta Alexandros Mograine, did it no'? Happened to General Tarian Perrik, did it no'? Bless the man's soul, and he still went down takin’ a full score o' them with him. Lit himself on fire, at the end, and rode himself right inta their Light-damned ranks. I remember it, I wis there; I helped pour the oil on 'im. Happens ta th’best of us." He coughed, hackingly, spraying blood, and fell to his knees as his legs gave out. "Someone get me a torch."

The newest Argent recruits gathered around him in wordless horror. It had been meant to be nothing but a regular patrol. Not even that, really— an introduction. He had taken them deep into the Plaguelands, out of the safety of the Chapel for the first time, and had been showing them how to survive and avoid the Scourge (often the same thing), what plants not to eat (all of them), and where the most reliable landmarks lay...

And then they'd walked through the abandoned graveyard, and one of the empty graves hadn't been empty. The corpse lay broken now, more lifeless than it had been when it had leapt from beneath its headstone, but the damage was done. The sergeant clutched at his stomach where the creature had sunk its teeth into him.

He raised his eyes. They traveled haltingly along the line of the half dozen young men and women who had been meant to become his students, appraising each in turn, until they reached the strange young woman with the dazzling bright green eyes. The white and black Dawn tabard looked awkward on her fragile frame.

He blinked at her until he could focus on the fresh scars still left from wherever she had been before they found her, then spit blood and croaked, "You."

She stared at him passively. She still held the curved longsword she had chosen from the armory, with the addition now of congealed zombie blood smeared along its sharp blade.

"Come here,” said the sergeant.

She shook her slowly. Her voice was soft, bland, the out-of-place accent extremely conspicuous. “I do not want the Plague.”

“...’Course. Aye, that’s th’way.” He coughed again, the kind of cough associated with coffins, dry flowers, and a looming Grim Reaper. It was moist. “What’s yir name, lass?”

“Varenna.”

He nodded. A high elven name, just like the accent, just like the way she handled her sword— not like her ears. “Hand me a torch, lass.”

She reached with her free hand, still holding the curved sword out with the other, and took a torch from one of the other recruits, then tossed it. The sergeant caught it clumsily by the handle, barely keeping it from hitting the grey and brittle Plaguelands grass that grew– sort of grew– around the open, beckoning graves.

“Good. Thank yeh, lass. Now, listen up, yeh lot.” He watched the torch as he spoke, and did his best not to notice whatever it was that was oozing out of his ears and his nose. “As yeh kin plain fair see, the glorious Argent Dawn is nigh ta be down yet another brave sergeant. 'Tis a damn shame for yir own selves, bein’ as I've been around fir years an' there's a fair deal I would o’ willingly taught yeh, but gladly time remains fir me ta impart yeh the most important lesson o’ the lot— and aren’t yeh jist lucky, but it’s a practical demonstration.” He stopped to catch his breath– it rasped– and fumbled under his collar for the Light's triune symbol on its slender golden chain. He clenched his fist around the symbol and the torch, feeling Tenacity, Respect, and Compassion pressing into his palm through what was about to be one of his funeral gloves, and nodded to himself, clearing his throat of burning bile before painfully but matter-of-factly speaking again. “The simple lesson is, when time comes fir a victim o’ the Scourge where he’s past healing and help– and that time comes fir all o' them– the best favor yir able ta do fir that man is make sure that he’ll nae be getting up agin. The Dawn burns its dead. S' what yeh’ll be doing is, yeh say a prayer. Goes like this—”

He said the prayer. They repeated it. He nodded, touched the torch to his cloak, tabard, and hair until he started to burn, and looked at Varenna.

“—An' now, lass, yeh cut my head off.”

The two sailors huddled together on the deck. Their skin was already going green.

“These people don’t have much time left,” said Varenna under her helmet.

“Aye,” said Andrick Kaleigh. The grizzled paladin sighed and pulled his mace from his back, then stepped forward, raising his voice. The crew listened.

“Men and women o' the Alliance, 'ear me. We commend these souls to the Light. May it take these two men in, in the mercy we believe to be so...

“Gotta say, I done a lotta jobs in m'life... firin' squad ain't been one till now...” muttered a dwarf near the back of the watching Riders, cradling his rifle. He wore a Wildfire tabard himself, but Varenna didn’t know him. She stayed quiet as Andrick finished.

“...May they, and those who survive them, know peace.” Andrick lowered his voice again, addressing the two Plague victims. “Any last words, lads?”

Whatever they said was lost to the waves, but the looks on their faces conveyed everything. Andrick nodded in understanding.

“Aye...”

Hands went to weapons. The tall man in the long dark coat, another Rider, moved to stand behind the Plagued sailor on the left, and stood silent, face unseen behind the threatening black mask.

“Sorry, sirs...” said Varenna.

It ended too fast. The ghoul on the right jerked and danced as half a dozen spells and weapons pierced it. The one on the left toppled more gracefully, headless in two clean blows. The man in the black coat watched body and head fall, then put his knives away.

Varenna silently began cleaning her sword, then heard the cough. Her head snapped up; she raised the sword again.

The ship's cook coughed a second time, hard. The man had gotten closer to watch— too close. Plagued blood was splattered over his face. He took his hand away from his mouth, and watched in horror as the spit and phlegm he had covered it with started to turn green. "Oh... Oh Light, no...."

"Aw, Hell," said the dwarf Varenna didn't know, lifting his rifle again. "He get bit?"

"I can't heal him," said Andrick. Light sparkled fitfully on his hands as he tried, then it went out. "There's somethin' about him. The Light won't take."

The dwarf took aim. He found his view abruptly blocked by the man in the long coat and mask.

"Fuckin' fool, what were yeh thinkin'?!" The man grabbed the cook by the back of his neck, snarling behind his mask. His rage spread and boiled in the salty, diseased air. Varenna watched, horrified.

"I- I just wanted to see what was going on! Oh, Light..."

"Oh? Gods be good." He dropped the cook in disgust and walked away, tucking his hands into his coat to find his knives again. "I'm fir the south. Yeh lot finish off here; yeh'll hear from me shortly once I get an eye o' things in the Square." He stepped off the boat, glancing back at the men dead and the man swiftly dying, and shook his head.

"Blood fir blood."

Varenna watched Tarquin's coat blending in with his surroundings until she lost sight of him, wondering whose blood he meant, then sighed, drew her sword, and set to work.

They made sure to burn the corpses.

[Sunshine]

On the fourth day, as Plagued vermin and walking corpses roamed Stormwind's streets, another, even stronger new strain of the Plague started in Goldshire, so fast-acting and difficult to cure that the Cathedral issued orders for its knights to combat turned victims only at range. In a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to cut off the newest mutation at its source, as well as a multitude of other resident diseases which had no doubt contributed to the problem, a direct assault was launched against the devastated town. As Goldshire burned for the twentieth time since its ill-fated founding, the defenders of Stormwind looked in horror into the sky; the new necropolis, glowing black with necromantic energy, cast its shadow over all of Elwynn forest.

As more necropoli began descending all over Azeroth, the Argent Dawn fully mobilized at last. New orders were sent to all wearers of the black and white, and the world's beleaguered living responded in force to the dread armies of the Lich King. In Outland, the now-infected Shattrath City was not so fortunate; though the Scryers and the Aldor held their tiers, and together defended Khadgar and A'dal in center of the Terrace of Light, would-be Scourgeslayers could only watch helplessly as the rest of the city was devoured in a sea of raving zombies.

[Sunshine]

On the morning of the fifth day, the black clouds unrolled, and stayed. The Plague mutated once again, more virulent than it had ever been even during the Third War; the dead shambled, exploded, bit and spread.

In Shattrath, Skyguard nether rays and Shattered Sun dragonhawks bombed Lower City.

In Darnassus, as druids stalked the boughs of the trees, the Sentinels and the Priestesses of the Moon called down fire from the skies. The city stayed as clean as an oven at full temperature.

In Stormwind, never restful even at the best of times, the dead of the Cathedral crypts rose up. As one of his predecessors attempted to chew his face off, Archbishop Benedictus declared the situation to have become "very grave indeed."

As evening fell and rotting rats streamed out of the Stockades, dodging zombies through the streets and the canals and scurrying into even the deepest of Stormwind's hidden shadows, corners, and holes, Charlie the Janitor was eaten whole in the Pig and Whistle tavern. Nobody knew his last name, or where he came from, or if he had any family; but after they put down his digested corpse, risen from the stomach of the zombie that had ended him, they mourned him all the same.

[Sunshine]

Through the longest night...