Azeroth is a world under siege. What began as small-scale invasions, precision dagger-strikes aimed at the hearts of Horde and Alliance territory, has erupted into a globe-spanning storm of demonic fury. There's nowhere safe from the demons, nowhere anyone could hope to hide and ride it out.
Lark doesn't wonder anymore at the wasteful short-sightedness of Legion tactics: they don't need to be better than they are. The demons are ultimate masters of the war of attrition, grinding down whatever stands in their way with an infinite immortal army. Whispers have it that only boredom and bloodlust are keeping the Legion from their deathstroke--that they're toying with Azeroth's defenders, like a cat with its helpless prey. The very thought of that makes Lark furious, even as the sadistic part of him has to admire its sheer cruelty.
Certainly there's every reason to give in to despair in the face of the odds against them. Even the Ebon Blade, near-immortal themselves, face a daily litany of permanent losses that the necromancers can't quite make up. (Acherus is daily growing stranger to Lark's senses, full of new voices and new scents as the battlefield dead are raised to replace the lost.)
It's rage that keeps Lark going--rage, and a leavening of irrational hope. It's rage that's kept him out here in the Barrens since sunrise on the longest day of his undeath, tireless in defense of the Crossroads and Ratchet and all the little outlying farms.
It's rage that's kept him out here trailing a wounded shivarra from the Crossroads nearly to the Wailing Caverns. The six-armed demoness had vanished from her attackers' sight when the odds against her grew overwhelming, intending to slip away and lick her wounds before rejoining the fray. The Caverns seemed like an ideal place to hole up and disappear, but her blood trail can't be so easily hidden from Lark's unnaturally keen nose. He hadn't been in the original group to attack her--she shed those quite handily--but came quite fortuitously across her fresh spoor, and yelled for anyone who'd help him take the demon bitch down.
That landed him in the van of an irregular, mixed-faction group of soldiers, all of them hungry for revenge. It's only grown in size as they traveled and the trail become fresher and easier to track.
The oasis is swarming with felstalkers and imps when the ragged troop arrives. Most of them splinter off to deal with the immediate threat, wary lest the lesser demons rally and come at them from behind in force--but Lark stays on his quarry's trail, intent as a dog with a bone. It leads straight into the upper parts of the cave system, and that should spark caution in his heart, the fear of an ambush once he's out of shouting distance of anyone who could help. But--he simply doesn't care. The shivarra's down there and she's injured, and he's going to find her and he's going to dismember her and he's going to enjoy every moment of it, because the Legion deserve no better for what they've done.