The cold cut to the bone. A deep throbbing ache that no amount of fur he placed between his skin and mail could warm. Even the wolf was blowing great jets of frosty breath with effort. He’d named him Brufk, after a grumpy child he knew back in the days of the orphanage.
”How long do you think we’ll be here?” Spoke up Morsk, shuddering in his mail. His own mount jittering along with him. They were part of a large column of riders, one hundred warriors strong, riding through the giant bone and husk strewn desolation that was the Dragonblight.
”As long as it takes. We came here to do a job, and we don’t leave until it’s done. You should know that by now, brother.” Norsk muttered in reply between chattering teeth, chiding his younger sibling. The brothers were both Warsong by birth, and had the resulting aversion to the cold that came with that. Okiba however was holding up surprisingly well compared to some others though.
At least we’re on Azeroth. Even if it is in a decaying wasteland.
He mused, though the thought wasn’t too comforting. Since the end of the campaign in outland, the Lich king had launched an all-out assault on the kingdoms of Azeroth, resulting in Warchief Thrall sending a great expedition to the frozen continent to contend with and end the threat. The Alliance, too, had sent forces under the instruction of the newly returned ‘King’ Varian.
”How long until we get there?” Piped up Morsk again, releasing the reigns of his mount a moment in order to pat down his sides and shoulders, a fools hope of getting the blood flowing under all that misplaced fur and mail.
”We only left Agmar’s hammer an hour ago, be patient, for Groms sake.” Norsk groaned. He groaned a lot more lately, having been promoted to a Stone guard. Though the division they all belonged to still answered to the Centurion, Norsk had the pleasure and headaches that came with leading his own ten Orc pack of wolf riders. One of those headaches was his brother asking increasingly irksome questions.
He turned his gaze to his right, surveying the lands to the east, raising his brows lightly in wonder. What a strange place this was. Half glacier, half graveyard, the entire region was strewn with the monolithic remains of dead dragons, ice and frost clinging to each and all.
Why here? Why come here to die?
It baffled him, more than it should of, itching something in his mind and spirits only know why. He’d noticed this a lot lately, when he noticed something strange or unusual. It could be a mundane matter, or an eye popping view, but the result often left him with a mid-skull itch that would persist for days. He quickly named these irritating thoughts “questions nobody bothers to ask”.
The column began to turn a corner, slowly left and the road curled from heading east to its new direction of north. The lack of resistance, of any kind, was confusing. Just another reason for his brain to itch. Leaving the Borean tundra to the south-west, the Nerubians had put up a stiff fight, surprising their columns and supply chain night and day from their underground hidey holes and dens. They’d been a nightmare to subdue, if they had been at all. But just like that, the night before they were due to leave camp and strike out for their new destination, nothing. Not a foe to be spotted or seen for miles.
Either given up or sat in wait elsewhere
”Ghrm, I don’t like it. This frozen graveyard is too quiet.” Morsk spat, even his great dire wolf growled uneasily. The vast jutting hills of broken ice and spiked glaciers were silent, unnervingly so. The only sound to be heard was the rhythmic chime of plate and mail to the thump of wolf paws. The column was on edge, and who wouldn’t be?
”Me neither, brother, but stay alert. Besides, our destination is on the Horizon” Norsk muttered, tightening his grip on his reigns in a show of control. And on the Horizon it was. How could he not of seen it sooner?
You must be going blind…
The truth was, it would have been impossible to miss if not for the thick snowy clouds and haze of icy mist that clung to the peaks and rises in that direction. From the very mountain side rose great black metallic spires like blade of death. An impossibly high tower, taller than anything he’d seen in Orgrimmar, Azeroth or even at the black temple rose toward the sky in an attempt to spear the heavens. Below sat a huge, grinning maw of a gate. Barred and closed to all with its metallic fanged entrance. This was what they had been working toward since landing on this frozen continent, this is where they had wanted to go, fighting for their lives day after day.
”What is this place?” He felt himself ask, without truly willing himself to, his eyes fixed on every part of that heart stopping fortification.
Norsk answered, as was his way, without turning his head to look back. A voice solemn and filled with icy morbid dread and curiosity escaped his mouth.
”Angrathar, the Wrathgate”