Day One of the Second Year In The Warchief’s Charge
It has been a long, cold journey to Northrend…
Many of the soldiers on the journey with me have been severely frostbitten. A troll named Tar’jit fell asleep in the bottom of the zeppelin, never to awake. He had died of hypothermia.
I spoke with some of the other warriors in the Second Legion while we made the trip from Orgrimmar to Warsong Hold. One of them had been stationed in Dragonblight for a month before he’d been sent back to Kalimdor to be treated for wounds sustained while fighting at the Wrathgate. He spoke of the legendary empire of the undead Scourge, tales of behemoth spiders withering away from thousands of years of decay, and of the hated Lich King, Arthas.
He told many stories to those of us new to Northrend. Most were frightening tales, worse than any I had heard before. Nothing I had experienced during my tour of duty at Hellfire Peninsula one year previous would even come close to the horrors I was likely to encounter in Northrend.
Yet, there was one story of his that enchanted me… one that grabbed me…