An overburdened steed churns the soil of what has come to be called the Eastern Plaguelands, its hooves churning the long-abandoned soil as it carries its rider onward. When it stops, a steel-wrapped foot crunches to the flagstones, crushing a thing sprouting from between them too full of plague to be called vegetation. The being, for it draws breath enough to be called such, if only barely, brings forth a tremendous blade, carved with ancient sigils that throb with power. It thrusts it point downwards into the ground before it, leaning on the sword with both hands as it beholds what has become of the once-mighty city of Stratholme.