The shaman looked mildly insulted. “A-act as I should?!” he exclaimed. “E-elder, I-I should b-be helping y-you. I-I have o-other t-tasks to c-complete, b-but… m-my honor… a-and my h-heart tells m-me to help y-you.”

The smells grew especially strong as he approached the first field. The fields seemed to serve as a base of operations for the distribution of the plague into the already mangled and weakened lands. Kirfkin kneeled by a fence, and stared into the field. There was a large cauldron, clearly scourge in design, chained to an evil looking base and then the ground itself. This must have been what the apothecary wanted a sample of. As the small bull rose to his hooves, he heard a scream in the distance. He heard it earlier, surrounded with the other screams and moans of the undead, but now it was far more prominent. It sounded like something that was still alive… or at least it was alive when it screamed.

The Plaguelands were not truly lifeless, for the dead walked, and the wildlife prowled. Plague and infection made even the most calm of beasts aggressive. Even the ‘lucky’ few that were mostly healthy became aggressive. Healthy sustenance was scarce, especially for predators. Everything around the animal would seem threatening.

He did not remember whom exactly it was that had told him to travel to the Bulwark at the edge of the forest leading into the place known as the ‘Plaguelands.’ It was a Tauren who had told him to travel to the Undercity, and someone there had told him to travel to the small, extremely important post. So, he had prepared for the short journey and headed off with his young Kodo beast.

“Our Forsaken allies could use one such as yourself,” they had said. Kirfkin struggled to figure out what exactly this meant -- he was weak as far as he was concerned. A small bull, who could not always communicate with the elements, the spirits, properly. And yet… some seemed to insist otherwise.