This story starts in the time after the departure of the Death Knight Arthas from Lordaeron, but before the reopening of the Dark Portal to Outland.
Ivy sat near the bar of the Gallows End Tavern, drinking the grog that passed for refreshment among the Forsaken denizens of Brill. She had been in the sleepy (some would say creepy) little town for a few weeks, taking odd jobs and assignments that warranted her particular talents. The Forsaken were trying to increase their foothold in the Glades, pushing back both the Scourge and the Scarlet Crusaders in the area. Ivy had contributed to that effort, slaying human and mindless Undead alike.
She had not been at this long. Her recuperation from the influence of the Lich King had taken longer than most Forsaken, perhaps because she was also among the youngest of the willful Unliving. Then again, that she was Forsaken at all was probably due to her inherent willfulness. Ivy had always been an obstinate child. Her mother had been unable to control the young Ivy, especially after the death of her beloved husband in battle against the Orcs. Lily had quickly withdrawn into her grief, becoming an empty shell of a woman and virtually abandoning her daughter to fend for herself. Ivy’s years in Stratholme before the Culling and Scourge had been filled with delinquency and disrespect for authority. The turf wars with other young gangs had certainly prepared her for the current struggles of the Forsaken.
But struggling was not on the agenda tonight. Ivy watched the comings and goings of the local townsfolk. She thought it strange that, after the strife of the Undead Civil War, some could go back to a semblance of their former Lives: shopkeepers, stable hands, blacksmiths. Though just as well they did, she supposed. Every society, including the Forsaken, functioned on the drudgery of daily chores of the common folk. As for Ivy herself, much as she despised her condition, it provided a means for adventure she had never dreamed of during her youth in Stratholme.
Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of a very large figure, filling the entrance to the pub. From her vantage near the bar, Ivy estimated the hulking being to be at least nine feet tall. He was extremely broad at the shoulders and looked, for lack of better words, just like a cow walking on two legs. A bull, to be more precise.
The bull-man surveyed the room, his eyes settling on the bar. As he moved through the tables with a lumbering grace, a wave of whispers rushed in behind him. He greeted the bartender in halting Orcish, and Ivy nearly spit out her grog when he ordered an ice-cold glass of milk. Frowning, he glanced around at the sound, but Ivy was able to stifle her snicker so that he didn’t focus on her. After all, what else would a walking cow drink?