The frigid winds of Northrend whipped against Robbie's thick cloak, and Robbie pulled his hood tighter around himself. Marching in this howling wind was anything but pleasant.
Robbie glanced at Arthas ahead. The Prince's brows were furrowed, his eyebrows were covered in Frost, and his sweat-dampened hair had formed icicles.
But he was completely oblivious, still concentrating on listening.
The Restless Souls whispered in his ear, bringing only bad news.
After the Battle of Stratholme, the Orcs, unwilling to accept defeat, vented their anger on the people of Lordaeron. Those poor and innocent Undead went into hiding, and most could not escape the Orcs' pursuit.
The Dalaran Mages and Quel'Thalas high rangers, who act as Orcs to the orcs, take pleasure in annihilating the Undead of Lordaeron. They slaughter indiscriminately, taking pride in killing the weak. They distort the truth and tell lies, and the situation becomes more and more dangerous every day.
The harsh, windswept continent could not deter the Prince's determination for revenge.
The soldiers set up a simple camp at the foot of the cliff on the leeward side of Daggercap Bay, and His Highness the Prince couldn't wait to go out and search for Frostmourne. Robbie understood the Prince's anxious mood at this moment; anyone would find it difficult to calm down in this situation.
On his first day camping here, Arthas found a few scattered zombies and sensed the presence of the Dreadlord.
Mal'Ganis also came to this land, but unfortunately it was a vast, forgotten continent, and there weren't many Restless Souls who could provide information, so he couldn't find the whereabouts of the Dreadlord for the time being.
After several days of searching, no information about Frostmourne was found.
Prince Highness remained energetic and confident. Although his face was gradually becoming thinner, he showed no signs of fatigue.
Finding such a powerful artifact is certainly not easy; it requires some clues and a considerable amount of luck.
Arthas's anxiety was palpable, but thankfully the Prince remained rational.
Robbie shook his head and sighed inwardly. Frostmourne was probably the only pillar supporting him.
Even if it's just a distant illusion.
As the dark and harsh night descended, the relentless cold wind howled outside the tent. Robbie and Arthas warmed themselves by the fireplace, enjoying a rare moment of comfort.
"The thought of the suffering of the people of Lordaeron makes me want to rush back immediately and slaughter those damned Orcs."
Arthas's eyes were bloodshot as he carefully checked the map. They had already searched a considerable area, and new maps were constantly being drawn, but unfortunately, they still found nothing.
"If you found Frostmourne and gained its power, what would you do?"
Robbie gulped down the broth and asked Arthas earnestly.
This wasn't the first time the two had discussed this issue.
"I will exact my revenge in my own way," Arthas replied. "I will not simply slaughter my enemies; that would be too easy for them. The people of Lordaeron will also taste the same bitter fruit of their suffering."
Robbie knew very well that Arthas had his own ideas, that he was a rational avenger, not a madman.
The tent flap was lifted, letting in a blast of cold air. Two scouts reported that a large group of zombies had been spotted in another direction.
Arthas closed his eyes, awaiting a reply from the Restless Souls, and then a warm smile appeared on his face:
"In this despairing, godforsaken place, finally some good news has arrived. It wasn't those ghostly zombies, but a group of old friends who have run out of supplies and desperately need our help."
At the foot of a sheltered snow slope, Robbie encountered a group of hungry and cold Dwarves, as well as many foreign mercenaries.
Muradin Bronzebeard, the great hero of the Humans and Mountain King, stood at the very front of the procession, his strong body like a thick wall. When Arthas was young, Muradin had taught Arthas combat skills.
Robbie thought to himself, "History isn't all lies. If we've seen Muradin Bronzebeard, Frostmourne can't be far behind."
Muradin glared at Arthas. Unlike the Prince's joy and beaming smile, Robbie could still tell that Muradin's expression was not happy, even somewhat gloomy, despite his thick beard obscuring the Dwarf's face.
Why did it have to be you who came to rescue me?
The Dwarf muttered under his breath, his gaze darting elsewhere, his small eyes darting around.
Arthas's joyful smile froze. Having witnessed too many glares and mockery, he knew what was going on.
"You just mentioned rescue? Muradin, I didn't know you were here, but I'm truly happy to meet you," Arthas said politely, trying to remain courteous.
Robbie sighed inwardly. Arthas's reputation was now ruined. The Guardian Medivh had smeared him with countless accusations. Although he knew the truth, the Dwarves were clearly avoiding any appearance of impropriety.
People are inherently opportunistic; they flatter the successful and look down on the unsuccessful, and even Dwarf are not immune to this.
"If you have any food and supplies, that's fine, we really need them. Just send them over, then we'll part ways and never see each other again. We don't want the great Savior Thrall to misunderstand anything."
Muradin was conflicted, and even more so, torn. His team had been without supplies for several days and had unexpectedly encountered the Undead. If they didn't get any food soon, they might become snow sculptures on the ice plains by tomorrow morning.
The Dwarves ' arrogance and rudeness gave Arthas a headache.
He didn't know how to face his former teacher and friend. He quietly took a step back, intending to return to the camp. Even Prince has dignity; he wouldn't give alms to others for no reason.
Especially when the other party doesn't appreciate it.
Robbie didn't want to give up this opportunity and lose their only clue.
"Come on, my Dwarf friends, we have a camp nearby. Looks like you and your men deserve a hot meal. We have some good beer; the Orcs were defeated in Stratholme and left behind plenty of supplies."
Muradin stared at Robbie; he disliked this unfamiliar young human.
"Sorry, I don't think we're friends yet, you stray dogs of Lordaeron," Muradin said rudely.
Muradin's biggest concern was the Orcs.
After conquering Lordaeron, these beasts will certainly not be content; no one wants to become their next target.
Muradin did not want his private contact with Arthas to become Thrall's pretext for attacking Ironforge.
Robbie smiled slightly, and said meaningfully, "It doesn't matter. In my opinion, there are three kinds of friends. A few are based on genuine friendship, the next are based on mutual cooperation and getting what they need, and the rest are cruel enslavement."
Kill them all!
Robbie raised the Axe of Tyranny and was the first to charge out.
The target is Muradin's mercenaries!
Although the mercenaries included towering Ogres and ruthless Ice Trolls, days of food shortages had already decimated their fighting strength. Robbie led the charge, and soon it became a one-sided massacre.
Standing in a pool of blood, Robbie wiped the blood off his Battle Axe, staring at the dumbfounded Dwarf.
"Muradin Bronzebeard, now it's your turn to choose: what kind of friends are we?"
Muradin's expression turned solemn as he spoke earnestly:
"By the Holy Light, my friendship with Prince Arthas is sincere."