Scarlet Long Legs

Lordaeron, Scarlet Monastery.

This fortress, once a symbol of the last resistance of Lordaeron's humans, had now completely become a crucible of paranoia and madness. Its towering walls shut out the outside world and imprisoned the sanity of everyone within. Outside, the Alliance army led by King Varian had surrounded it layer upon layer. Patient calls for surrender, amplified by magic, occasionally reached them, announcing that the Scourge had been defeated and Lordaeron was being restored.

Yet when those voices entered the fortress, they were twisted into the most vicious whispers of the Undead.

Inside the fortress hall, the atmosphere was as oppressive as the dead silence before a storm. Dozens of terrified soldiers and civilians knelt on the bloodstained floor. They had been reported as "wavering elements" and "potential traitors" merely because, in private conversations, they had shown a trace of trust in the Alliance's news from outside—or simply revealed that they wanted to go home, wanted to know whether their families were safe.

On the platform stood Highlord Whitemane. Her once-beautiful face had been warped by prolonged paranoia and intoxication with power, while her eyes burned with a sickly, fanatical flame. She gripped the ornate staff that symbolized her authority, her shrill voice piercing the air like a serpent's hiss:

"Did you hear that?! You fools whose minds have been bewitched by the Undead! Those so-called 'Alliance armies'! Those so-called lies about the 'restoration of Lordaeron'!" She waved an arm toward the walls. "That is the Lich King's latest scheme! An illusion woven by the most cunning Undead! They may look like ordinary humans on the surface, but they have long since been infected by the Scourge Plague. Unable to destroy us with the Scourge, they want to use these vile lies to shatter our faith from within!"