The Culling of Azeroth

Booty Bay, Eastern Kingdoms, Tyrin reporting — The Plague. A distant memory to some.
For children, no worse than a bedtime story to haunt their dreams. For
the rest of us, the memories of loved ones poisoned by a Prince’s
madness and enthralled to spread death will never fade.

The Plague. We cleansed the land and our people of it through holy
fires and biting sacrifice. Sons slew their infected mothers. Mothers
threw their sick infants into the bonfires which seemed to burn for
months.

Today began with strange whisperings. Odd sightings down in
Stranglethorn Vale, at the cartel’s smuggling port of Booty Bay. Some
said people – man, orc and elf alike – were growing ill and behaving
oddly.

Having spent the morning adventuring with my old friend Grenwalis, we
planned an expedition down to investigate the source of these dark
portents. As I stopped in Shattrath to consult with A’dal, the ever
impetuous dwarf booked passage ahead of me.

Some time later, I alighted in Booty Bay on the back of a strong
griffin and turned my eyes into the setting sun to survey the docks.
Many figures had gathered around indiscernible objects. There looked
to be fights breaking out on the periphery of the crowds, but the
glare of the sun as it sailed over Kalimdor blocked my eyes.

Hoping Grenwalis could fill me in on the details, I headed toward the
inn. A likely place to find a dwarf of his disposition and,
coincidentally, a good source of information.

Halfway there, I found our famous friend hunched over and wheezing
fetid vapors. (More fetid than those typical of his breath.)

He wasn’t make any sense, a strange malady had taken hold of him.
Summoning the Light, I channeled a spell to cleanse him of this
disease. The ailment proved to be made of a darkness no amount of
Light could disperse. Grenwalis could barely speak. Instead, he
pointed down the dock.

It was then that I saw it. An open crate, dripping with the same
malignant fumes as my warrior friend.

And then I saw them. Dozens of them. Hulking, coughing, shambling.
Spitting, wheezing and stumbling.

A proud son of Uther, I strode over to alleviate their suffering.
Grenwalis’ condition was not as bad as the rest.

As if repulsed by my aura, they stepped away, and I approached the
crate. Strange runes and wards marked its surface. As I leaned in to
check its contents, a whorl of noxious fumes assaulted my senses.

Reeling back, I saw some of the Cartel’s goblin guards assaulting one
of the sick. This was not right!

My eyes began to tear. Turning around, I found Grenwalis had made his
way back toward me. A sick hunger in his eyes.

Then, my friends, the unthinkable happened.

Grenwalis, Champion of the League, he … He turned on me. Unable to
strike a tried and trusted companion, I shielded myself with Divine
energies. We locked eyes. He seemed to see something in mine, and with
a mix of anguish and relief, he turned away from me and joined the
growing melee on the docks.

By now, I could hardly stand. Fortunately, the call for help was heard
wide and far, as reinforcements of priests and paladins began
arriving, doing their best to defend the sick and cure their disease.

I had collapsed when a young priestess urged me to summon my strength
and seek help from an Argent Dawn emissary who had taken position at a
safe distance.

“Argent Dawn?” I wondered. What were they doing here? Had they not
nearly dissolved following the departure of Naxxramas from the North?

Then it hit me, like a holy hammer between the eyes. The Plague was
back. This New Plague, which now turned friend to foe in moments.

I eyed the young priestess’ throat and felt a foreign lust.

No. Not me, I wasn’t going to end this way after a life spent atoning
for the sins of my youth, seeking the solace of the Light. Summoning
the strength of Uther to shield me from this New Plague, I stumbled my
way with the priestess’ help to the Argent healer. I was redeemed.

But what of Grenwalis? There was no question. No internal debate or
deliberation. I called for my charger and rode through the growing
mass of infected to the last spot on the dock where I’d seen him.

Except what I found was not Grenwalis. Although I recognized the
emblems of his family line and insignia of the League, he had become
something else altogether.

Those of us who remember the Third War can recall this unique type of
pain. There was no question of what must be done.

Seeing my purpose, he leapt from the dock and moved through the water
with alarming speed. I leapt after.

I caught up with him as he emerged on a small island at the bay’s
mouth. Through tears of rage and anguish, We traded blows for an
interminable length of time. As my grim task grew closer to
completion, as I began to prevail over his acrid fumes and crushing
strikes, he unleashed a consuming cloud of New Plague and ran. I had
two options: Give chase or return to Booty Bay for treatment before I
too succumbed.

I don’t know what became of Grenwalis. He could still be out there.
But in truth, Grenwalis died today. Whatever is wearing his armor and
wielding his weapon is something else entirely.

Rest in Peace, Grenwalis.