“You weren’t meant to kill the bird, Miss Hillsborough.”

Tamuk Ironhorn peered up at the figure in the gloom with exasperation, the parchment that the messenger bird carried held loosely in his fist. There was a low, creaking groan and an odd dripping noise; a putrid puddle of liquid was spreading slowly across the stone tiles, mixing with the blood of the dead creature. The room reeked of chemical fumes, embalming fluid and rot. “It is common courtesy to send the bird back to its owner instead of ripping its head off.”

“It’s MORE common courtesy to avoid sending a rat with wings to land on someone’s desk, Tamukie!” trilled a voice in the darkness, somewhere high above his head. There was another groan and more drips fell from above, hitting the puddle with faint plopping noises. Tamuk sighed, pressing a handkerchief to his nose and looking down at the (slightly bloodstained) letter once more.

“Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?”

“Prob’ly not. Now, when do I get back to killing demons?”

“You must finish cleaning yourself, to avoid any fire hazar-“

“PISH POSH!” cried Melody, another flush of chemicals splashing onto the floor. “You just want to rope me into helping the Wardens. It’s not going to work; Lady Windrunner demands me participation in the battle against the Legion. Why should I leave the Dark Lady’s side for a woman I have never heard of, demanding my presence without any context, and a vague reward of payment? Payment? What do I need money for?”

Tamuk rubbed his snout wearily. “Miss Hillsborough, the Wardens play a crucial role in the battle against the Legion. By helping them, you – by extent – are fighting the Legi-“

There were a series of rapid clicks, the sound of iron chains turning and a low whooshing sound. The undead swooped down, hooked onto a heavy-link chain upside-down. Her bony fingers wrapped around Tamuk’s horns, her metal talons clicking against the protrusions as her gaunt, hollowed face and dimmed yellow eyes were so close to the astonished Tauren that he could see every leathery crease of the skin on top of her sunken nose. “I’ll do it,” she breathed reverently, a wash of alcohol fumes invading his nostrils. “Take me to their island.”

The next day, Melody was staring down the receiving end of a longbow and the inscrutable, helmeted gaze of one of the Wardens patrolling the walls of the Stronghold. She grinned sheepishly, revealing row upon row of false fanged teeth. The Warden did not move. Neither did Melody. The silence stretched out for several minutes before an irritated sigh whistled through Melody’s nose and a pout graced her waxy features. “Fiiiine, I’ll take the main gate,” muttered the Forsaken as she began to climb down the castle wall again. She grumbled the whole way. Waving up to the stony guards watching her every move, Melody paced deliberately across the threshold and into the lavish courtyard. She staggered across the pavement, slugging back a hipflask of unknown origin. She was wearing the finest Chi-ji combat armour, a crop of well-washed and neat black hair adorning her greenish face. A big sappy smile was plastered onto her features and her dull yellow eyes slid from the elves, to the Human, and the Draenei. “HOW NOW!” hollered the forsaken, waving her hipflask in the air as she approached the group.

“You all look...far. Too. Grumpy,” announced Melody, pointing first to Rina, then to Alina, and finally Thalion. “And is that demon blood?” she asked, immediately approaching Eantu and swiping a finger across the armour plating. She popped the bony digit – talon and all – into her open mouth and licked her lips, beaming. “Tasty!” Her gaze swept across the group again and she took a moment to swig some more of her drink, giggling to herself. “The looks, the LOOKS on your faces are so precious. S’matter, never seen a drunk zombie monk before? And I thought you were veterans. Come now,” Melody turned around and peered up at Rina, reaching up as if she was heading to stroke her cheek only to swiftly pull her hand away and smile. “We’ll be working very, very closely together indeed. So introductions are in order! I’m Miss Hillsborough, Melody Hillsborough – but you might know me as The Drunken Forsaken.”

The title was certainly well-known in the Horde’s taverns, but it seemed more like a ridiculous myth than a legendary battlesong of a hero. Melody sounded drunk, looked drunk, and certainly smelled like a drunkard but there was no denying that the large majority of these sea shanties and pub songs highlighted the fearsome might, speed and agility of the intrepid protagonist, as if her stupor heightened her ability to lay waste to her foes. But surely it must be exaggerated; the waif of a Forsaken looked absolutely harmless, and if anything a little pathetic. She could barely stand straight, constantly shifting her weight and fidgeting. Melody sniggered to herself again and peered inquisitively at Alina, who was a little ways off from the group. “What’s up with the priest? I think she thinks you smell, deadie,” remarked Melody idly, jerking a thumb towards Rina.