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The scream echoed through the stark emptiness of the ruins of Silvermoon, catching the ears of Wretched and the attention of corrupted Constructs. They swarmed toward the sound, the Constructs parroting their rhetoric. The Wretched prepared what skill they had in drawing the very essence of magic from anything that walked within their clutches. And he could only watch, backing away from what he saw until his back was pressed against the column. Briarclaw, all dark stripes and bristled tail, stood at his feet, watching the oncoming crowd as if they were nothing more than a slight obstacle. She would stand beside him 'til the end, even if this, after so long, was the end.
He screamed again as he began trying to claw his way up the column in the grip of pure terror when four hands took hold of his arms and he began fighting. His eyes didn't see the red and gold of the patrolling guards or their compatriots who waded into the thick of the crowd that had already begun to disperse at their arrival. He saw only undead, skeletal hands and arms with exposed bone, the great glutted abominations, the translucent banshees, and they were coming for him again. Among them were people who used to be his friends-- and he screamed, trying to run just as he had before.
Briarclaw's teeth sunk into offending arms, bringing about screams of pain, as a hand hit hard at the back of her master's head and he lost his consciousness by force. With the ceasing of his screams, she whirled on the guards, only to be met by shields and their retreating forms as others fought the glut that had been brought on by his panic. With a growl, she followed. The fight was not important if her master wasn't beside her, and they were taking him away.
An unpleasant splash of cold water brought him back to, though the world was bleary through eyes that felt stabbed through from the light that surrounded him. The sun was bright, and it silhouetted an Arcane Guardian that stood high above him.
"Obey the laws of Silvermoon," it monotoned. "Failure to do so will result in termination."
His eyes closed once more and he laid back, only to recieve another faceful of water that sent him spluttering into sitting upright and crying out.
"Now, isn't that much better."
The world wasn't quite as blurry when he looked up this time, though his head throbbed. Above him still stood the Guardian as well as guards that he could only barely make out. It was ridiculous that their hair shone so golden in the light that it made him squint.
"Your name, vagabond?" the smooth voice requested with a tone that said plainly what words did not - either he answered or he would have a worse ache in his head than the one he had. He looked up at the guard -- A different uniform than the others. Just what title did this one have?
"Ranger," he muttered, the word making it through his mind half-stunted, in a voice that had only barely been used in the past years. "Thorn."
"Ranger Thorn, is it. Ranger-- Oh wait." As if it dawned on him, the guard laughed. "Thorn Tanglewood. You were thought to be dead, boy - thought we may have killed you down the Dead Scar a few times since!"
"Dead... Scar?" The heel of his hand butted against his forehead.
"How is it you don't know, 'Ranger'?" The laughter, now, was shared by the guards and the man interrogating him. A man he slowly recognized as--
"Aendor?"
With a laugh, Aendor laughed, and even applauded in the most sarcastic way possible. "Congratulations! You remembered something! Now." He crouched, glaring at the man who was half cowering on the ground below. "Try answering my question."
The answer was garbled, the only clear words being 'cat' and 'cave', to the great dislike of the ones near him. But it was enough.
With arms crossed, Aendor paced a few steps away. "Ahh, I believe I see. Instead of dying, like someone with a measure of honour, you deserted. Is that so. More the pity for you, then - we have little use for people of that sort here. You may rank high enough to run errands, or perhaps sweep up after Vranesh's horse."
"...You..." Thorn rubbed at his eyes and, unsteady, he still tried to stand, even holding tight to the wall as he was. "We have... undead on our blasted doorsteps," he blurted, "and Nerubians barely miles away... And you... Vranesh's damn horse! You're worried about his horse?!"
"Do not disturb the serenity of the city. Peace must be upheld," the construct murred, a foot lifting in futile pursuit of a man who did not run.
"Now now, Tanglewood," said Aendor. "We're doing what we can--"
"You're doing nothing, or I would've seen your shiny guards when I stumbled my way back here, you useless wretch!" screamed Tanglewood.
"Maintain order within these walls."
The construct listened to no protest, if any was given. Instead it simply buffetted Tanglewood to the ground once more. Briarclaw broke free of what small collaring they'd managed of her and clawed at the construct's great and impermeable feet. The strike of a shield laid the cat out alongside her master.
"...He smells like yesterday's refuse," muttered Aendor. "And he should be tossed out with it. See to it." The Gatewatcher motioned to the guards. "Take him to Undercity and see to it he's tossed on the Zeppelin. He isn't to return. Make that clear."
As the guards picked up the limp forms, he chuckled. "Maybe the desert will clear his mind."
A goblin was prodding at his ribs with the stock of a hammer when he came to, face-down on a sun-heated zeppelin platform in a desert he'd never seen before. "Hey!" a voice squawked. "This isn't a damn inn! And keep your cat from clawing the pylons! Those aren't cheap to replace!"
"Where...?" The world was blurry again, but Thorn made himself sit up.
"Durotar. How'd you even get on the zeppelin in this condition?"
"What zeppelin?" he asked as he looked around. There, as the goblin had mentioned, was Briarclaw, but at seeing him upright, she came over and began licking at his face with her raspy tongue.
The goblin shook his little head. "Your problems aren't my problems, man. You want an inn, you need to walk down to Razor Hill, or into Orgrimmar. You can't stay here."
Orgrimmar. Razor Hill. Those were names he recognized, and for all he stumbled, he and his cat slunk down the spiralling ramp to the outdoors and began to trudge away from the great city walls. He wasn't sure he wanted another city just yet. The heat beat down on him like molten iron, and he peeled off his armour to let himself sweat in peace.
So he'd been tossed out of Silvermoon. Out of the Eastern Kingdoms, even. At least he'd slept through the rough ride past the Maelstrom.
A chill overtook him even under the desert sun. All the better. There weren't any undead here. There weren't any Nerubians. None of the horrors could follow him. They'd done him a favour, even if he'd been left adrift with just a few silver to his name. "I'll manage," he muttered, even as both he and Briarclaw panted their way to Razor Hill. The trough of water outside the inn was a welcome sight, and Thorn thrust his face into it, then splashed the liquid over his shoulders and chest with a sigh. The orcs and trolls looked at him strangely as he even flecked the cat with a few handfuls.
Here, the ground was orange instead of sickened green. There were no trees - only dried up scrub. No traces of the Scourge.
He'd have to learn to call it home.