[WotLK Short Story Entry: A day in the life of Coldsore]

[coldsore]

This is the story of my first actions during my first day in the campaign against our most hated foe, Arthas the Lich King. But before I begin, there is something I want you to fully understand about me.

I live only to annihilate the enemy.

Who they are or where they lurk matters not. I find them and then I destroy them with disease, demons, bolts of shadow energy and hellfire. I have waged war in this way from the molten pits of Ragefire Chasm to the crumbling halls of Karazhan, and I shall continue to do so until my bones turn to dust, for I am Warlock, the malefic means to my enemy's end.

As you know, a powerful adversary has reemerged on the continent of Northrend: Arthas, the Lich King, sworn enemy of all the free peoples of Azeroth. When news spread of his growing threat, I was one of the first to answer the call to arms against him. I immediately boarded a zeppelin from Undercity and made for Vengeance Landing, an outpost in the southeastern region of Northrend known as Howling Fjord. As my airship pulled up to the docking tower, I couldn't help but laugh at the sounds of battle that rang out and across the surrounding terrain, even in the thick of night. The party was starting and I was right on time.

The journey from Undercity was long and I wanted to be fresh when I opened my campaign. Thus I decided to wait until first light to begin my Northrend offensive. In the eerie, comfortable torchlight of the outpost streets, I found my way to the inn and prepared for the dawn.

At first light, I arose, shook off the cobwebs and walked amidst my comrades, some Forsaken, some Orc or Troll, as they prepared for sleep after a night of battle or donned their armor for a new day of warfare. It was good to see that I had company. The Horde suffers no shortage of elite combatants. Some might call us heroes but I eschew the term. I'm too down and dirty. Most of us are, save, perhaps, for the Blood Elves, but they're just jerks. Give the heroes to the Alliance, I say. We Horde content ourselves with getting dirty doing the work and maybe refusing to clean up afterwards, stewing in our victory-grime.

But I lose the thread of the story. To continue:

I passed through the doorway of the inn and a chill gripped my boney appendages as the frozen world of Northrend opened before me. I looked around, taking stock of Vengeance Landing in the daylight for the first time. I walked through town, strolling amidst meat-wagons and the sagging wooden architecture we Undead are infamous for. Plaguehounds stood begging in the streets for meat. Cute little savages. I gazed out at the lands surrounding the outpost. The most striking feature was a massive cliff face that brought an abrupt halt to the flatlands that stretched from the shores of the vast Frozen Sea.

I looked at my map. The woman who gave it to me back in Undercity said that it was mostly blank, and she was telling the truth. Only the outlines of Northrend's regions showed on the parchment. But I was fine with that. I have always been both conquerer and cartographer, from the Shimmering Flats to the floating, broken regions of Netherstorm. Like those places before, I thought, Northrend shall be known and dominated.

The sounds of warfare I had heard the previous night continued unabated, heating somehow the frigid wind and putting me in the mood for slaughter. It was time to find work. Other adventurers wandered to and fro on sundry errands as I explored the outpost, searching for those who must be in charge. I looked for a guy on horseback. They tend to have some authority and a need for my skills. Just South of the inn I found my man.

He was a well-appointed Forsaken seated upon an impressively horrifying example of an undead skeletal horse. I hailed him and we introduced ourselves. His name was High Executor Anselm. Although we met then for the first time, my name and reputation was known to him. This pleased me of course, and I decided to avoid speaking down to him as I usually do to the common soldiery. He said that he was a veteran of many wars, and for the first time in his career he, and indeed all Forsaken, were at last fighting for our own cause: To destroy the Lich King. I naturally offered myself to that cause and sure enough, he knew of a task that needed doing. His type always does.

It seems Forsaken apothecaries had been working on a new form of plague and they wanted to test it out on some enemy Humans. Anselm directed me to a member of the Royal Apothecary Society to find out more and wished me luck.

I found the apothecary on the other side of the outpost. Lysander was his name, and after some introductions and discussion, he handed me a satchel full of vials. The new plague sloshed within each of the little glass containers. It was the sound of victory, we agreed, though I detected a faint whiff of uncertainty about him.

Lysander told me to speak with the outpost's bat handler. I would ride one of her bats to the Frozen Sea, where the enemy's ships sailed, preparing a sea-borne assault on Vengeance Landing. I was to throw the vials at the Human sailors on those ships, unleashing the plague amongst their ranks and hopefully crippling their offensive.

Moments later I was bat-mounted and whisking over the Bleeding Vale, a region directly south of Vengeance Landing. We then flew over the naval graveyard of Derelict Strand, where the tale of recent skirmishes was told by the wreckage of many ships. My bat was swift, undaunted by the frozen wind, and within moments the Strand was behind and the Frozen Sea yawned ahead, stretching to the horizon. In the middle-distance I spied my target: An armada of ships, human designed and operated: The great Northern Fleet. Target acquired.

I reached into the satchel and revealed a Plague Vial. My bat was well-trained and moved of its own accord, banking sharply and swooping low through a thicket of masts, almost unseating me into the frozen waters below. Fortunately I'd done this sort of thing before. I had bombed legions of Scourge from the backs of dragonhawks on the Isle of Quel'Danas. In the old Orc homeland of Nagrand, I had dropped bombs on Alliance guardians to reclaim the contested, war-torn base of Halaa. I was no stranger to riding high. I recovered well from my bat's adroit maneuvering and patted its bristly neck. Nice try, I remember thinking.

It squeaked and banked again. I held on to the saddle with one hand and raised the plague in my other. I hurled the device of human undoing; my arm was strong, my aim was true, and the plague was potent. The bat swept low, circling around the sails as I continued to disseminate death. My projectiles exploded everywhere, releasing their deadly contents. I laughed aloud as the sailors below immediately capitulated to the plague, writhing in agony, supreme torment.

Success was mine!

Having thrown all of my vials, I turned my bat for home, leaving the fleet, thick with screams and anguish, to die amidst the icy whitecaps of the Frozen Sea.

Back in Vengeance Landing, I spoke with Lysander. I gave him the good news, but he dashed it with a measure of bad: While I was away, the latest plague studies had revealed that it was not fatal, as was hoped, but only discomfort-making. My high-flying exploits were for naught. Soon the humans would recover from the imperfect plague I had spread and they would attack us with undiminished force. I knew then, having seen the size of the human fleet first-hand, that the relatively humble garrison at Vengeance Landing wouldn't stand a chance. We were doomed. Or at least the people of the outpost were.

Lysander told me there was still hope for victory, though, and naturally I figured into it. The plague could be perfected in time. It required more development but Vengeance Landing, being a military outpost, lacked the proper equipment to get the job done. Lysander handed me another vial of the stuff and asked me to ride to New Agamand, a nearby settlement properly equipped to perfect our weapon of mass destruction.

There was no time for delay, he said, and I told him I was growing bored anyway with all the talk. He muttered something under his breath about machismo, bravado. I laughed at him and tucked the Plague sample into my pack. "All in a day's work," I told him. He shook his head and offered a grin, all gums and decay. I accepted it with my own.

I summoned my Dreadsteed from the infernal underworld and mounted up. Lysander slapped it on the flank and I was off riding for New Agamand, hoping I wouldn't get lost en route.

As Vengeance Landing faded into the background, and the unfamiliar lands of the Howling Fjord loomed ahead, I felt a sense of renewed purpose. I was back in the saddle. My part in the war against Arthas the Lich King had begun.

c.2008 cmg llc

[Warpy]

Definitely a new take on Wrath of the Lich King Beta reporting!!! Makes me miss my little undead frost mage.

[Cormanthor]

That sent shivers down my spine about my own warlock. Excelent job.