Echoes of Winter (Pt. 1)

The chill of the eerie night in Shadowmoon Valley, brought by a wind gust with the perfume of the seas mixed with the natural scent of the thick forest, barely touched and disturbed by the Orcs or the Draenei... This chill was outstandingly piercing.

Dyrik lowered his spyglass, shrugging off the feeling before he retracted it with a frown. He felt his teeth grit together and his jaw locking after he spoke under a whisper.

''They are near.''

And how disgusted he was, despite the alluring scent floating in the air. He retracted the spyglass, placing it back into a satchel behind him before his left hand reached for his sturdy shield. It reflected the pale moonlight easily, a golden sun inscribed into the reinforced, blessed steel. One that signified the Light would always be present in darkness, but it also had a significant drawback : It could draw them to him.

But it was all he yearned for.

He was positioned on a cliff, just a distance ahead of an orcish output. The incenses stick were fuming, and the bonfire burning with the intensity of a magma core, shadowflames rising high in the air. His hand clenched on the handle of his buckler before he moved swiftly back so he could head toward the encampment.

Finish this at once, and make the chill cease.

He closed his eyes slowly, hidden still by the rocky boulders besides the cliff. Just a distance ahead.

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''Private Severmentle!''

The young man brushed a strand of hair aside, his body shaking underneath the influence of the biting cold. He sighed softly, the misty breath forming a cloud that would nearly freeze away. His gaze was lost in the fire, burning dimly as two soldiers tried to keep it alive, a cauldron of the thickest black iron held over it, a faint bubbling sound hidden easily by the crackling flames. He blinked softly as he felt a nudge on his right shoulderplate, a light cover of snow falling down in the process. He looked to his right, a middle-aged man sitting beside him motionning with his head toward the East, his thick mustache slightly frozen out.

''Private, you're on it.''

Dyrik gulped softly, looking back at the fire before he begrudgingly rose to his feet and spoke. ''Yes, sir. On it.'' He would place his helmet, that just felt like iron scraps despite its large coverage, on his head, moving his long hair over his ears to slow down or prevent frostbites, grabbing his shield before he moved away from the fire. The soldier to his right nodded to him, before he spoke in a thick, country-man accent classic to the people living in the mountain range near Stormwind.

''Good luck out there, lad. Soup gotta be ready soon, so you ain't gonna be chilling for long.''

Dyrik sighed, and gave a polite nod to the man who forced also a smile, before his eyes returned to the fire, and the young private turning to duty. Stand watch in silence and peering at the horizon with nothing but the howling wind and the biting cold as companions of misfortune, and with the alternation, it was his turn to replace one of the three guards.

''I hope so.'' Finally huffed Dyrik as he rose his gaze toward the horizon, the tundra nearly endless in sight. A barren, cold wasteland with scarce trees and vegetation that struggled to survive the harsh climate, that was all that was visible beside the distant keep, home of the Alliance forces in the desolated of Northrend. He looked up at the sky, grasping at his longsword handle, searching for anything suspicious. At the far distance, there was plague spreaders, that likely was contaminating the little life that managed to spring nearby the rare thermal vents in the area. He heard from a few soldiers back at the camp about the thermal sources sometimes found in the glacial tundra. Literal oasis in a desert, but likely occupied already by the hostile inhabitants. May it be those Taunka, a subspecie of the tribal Taurens, or worse.

Dyrik froze in place, his eyes widening as he heard a piercing howl in the distance.
The outpost would be suddenly stirred up as the alarm signal would be activate, a clever mechanism constructed by the Gnomish engineers, well-placed alarm bots alerting everybody in record time.

''WARNING - PERIMETER BREACHED. INITIATE DEFENSIVE PROTOCOLS IMMEDIATELY. CODE 89-X-B10.''

Dyrik rolled his shoulders, whirling his blade in his hand to warm up in order to get ready, an habit he caught during the long and harsh boot camp in the Stormwind reserve.

''Horde wolf riders, coming in hot and fast!''

The lieutenant in charge of the outpost rallied the troops.

''Fall in, privates! If they are looking for a scrap, we'll give them just that!''

The young soldier would hold his shield up, placed in the front lines as pikemen would start forming rank behind the human rampart, compact and giving no inches of distance.

''Men, forward!'' The officer, placed in front of the regiment ordered, drawing his own sword before he charged forward, shouting with a mighty resolve.

''FOR THE ALLIANCE! CHARGE!''

Dyrik moved with the rest, the clash about imminent.
He closed his eyes slowly, and breathed slowly.

The chill.