Conquest of the Horde

              I had a dream the other night.

              There was a woman in the church at Capital City. She was.... plain-looking, with large pigtails on her hair and perpetually putting lipstick and makeup on, even in the middle of service to the Light. I see her come and go, vain as she is... and learned she was training as a priestess. So odd to see such a vain woman partake in a spiritually humble profession.

              I saw her die in my dream. She was dressed in all white, stained in blood as she was stabbed in the torso by one of Arthas' units.

              I would meet her. Her eyes were hollow, black, with no life in them at all. All the skin around her mouth was lost, rotting teeth revealed to the world around her. Her pigtails remained, dry and gray, her flowing white robes torn and tattered as they swung with the wind.

              I don't remember her name when I met her at the Church. But when I came across her in undeath, she simply went by Blanche. It was a very appropriate name for her, as I remembered her as a lady in white. She frightened me in every way... but not because she was dark or gloomy, no.

              In my dream, she was happy. Incessantly so. She wandered around, talking about rainbows and flowers, of cookies and candy and delightful sweets. She would skip, dance, and prance, indulging in a world that is beautiful... yet her dress remained stained, the flowers in her hand dead and rotting, and beasts crushed indiscriminately by the weight of wagons flailing in her hands like a child's doll. She's lost. Lost in her own little world of beauty... not unlike life. To her, everything was beautiful. Everything was lovely. Pretty. It didn't matter if it was dead or ugly or rotting with a foul stench. She was happy... but she was lost.

              I felt my heart sink like a stone dreaming this. I realized what this is.... brainrot.






              I am awake now. I have heard in passing that a woman in white was killed in the hands of her fellow undead--skull severed with a dagger to the neck bones. The worst has come to pass. The vision is over. I am unsure what I saw. Perhaps the essence of her spirit felt it had one last attempt to cry for help... to me, a passerby. Someone of no importance except an ear to lend.

              A warning too, perhaps. Now I know, for a fact, I must find my son before I too fall into the depths of death's insanity.



              Velio, my son, where are you? Please come back to my arms before it's too late...

Quote:

R.I.P., Blanche Multo.