Dry heat and the smell of blood, ashes and rotten meat filled Duesly, captain of the Guard’s nostrils as he crossed the bridge into Westfall. Signs were littered about, proclaiming the extreme hatred of his company, some even peppered with bloodstains and the occasional Stormwind tabard, guardsman’s helm or horrific fly-ridden bundle of flesh. He took it all in with a feeling of acceptance and sadness, nearly dragging his feet through the land.
He coughed, black, ichorous blood staining the ground beneath him as he began to notice the prying eyes of the populace. A bony, starved child with a mother, who dragged the kid back into her arms. A couple of farmers, stout men with bodies intent on defying the famine of the land, working themselves into a sweat at ripping away the charred remnants of crops long dead. A transient, who at first looked like he was about to beg, but instead gave the guard a look of disgust and terror, scuttling away on thin, emaciated feet. All of these people held no love or care for Dues, only fear and an overwhelming feeling of hatred.