Orfus of Kamagua

Near Westguard Keep, a tuskarr flagged me down. He was a long way from Kaskala.

“Hail, traveler. I am Lunk-tusk of the Kalu’ak.” He spoke calmly, despite not being accustomed to dealing with outsiders. “We are known as tuskarr to your people.”

The Kalu’ak had their hands full in Borean Tundra when I’d left, and apparently their troubles extended to the Fjord as well. A seafaring people who’d made their home along Northrend’s coasts for generations. Fishermen and hunters, caught between the wars of younger races.

“My partner and I were recently sent up to investigate strange happenings along one of our hunting trails. It was when we approached the graveyard known as Shield Hill that we were attacked by the undead.”

His tusks shifted as he spoke.

“I was lucky to make it to this camp, but I am uncertain as to what became of Orfus. We parted ways at the Ancient Lift, southeast of here along the cliff edge. Will you go see if he is ok?”

The Ancient Lift was easy enough to find. It perched at the cliff’s edge, a large gondola system that descended toward an island village far below. The lift’s engineering matched the resourcefulness I’d seen at Kaskala. The tuskarr built things to last.

Orfus waited at the lift’s upper platform. Larger than Lunk-tusk, with the bearing of a warrior. 

“Lunk-tusk lives?” He exhaled slowly. “At least there is some good news to be had on this day.”

His eyes turned southeast, toward Shield Hill. Whatever he and Lunk-tusk had found there, it troubled him still.

The dead were rising along the hunting trails and the tuskarr needed help. And after everything the Alliance had asked of me, it seemed only fair to answer someone else’s call.

Orfus asked Vikstone to go and see it himself, because saying out loud that The Dead Rise! along the hunting trails was not the same as being believed.