Eitrigg

The reason the Undead Scourge was so terrifying was how quickly it grew. Like a wildfire racing through the mountains in summer, it left nothing alive in its wake—and the more it consumed, the larger it grew, until it seemed like a flame bent on destroying the world.

After Arthas slaughtered Lordaeron and personally killed his father, the Scourge took less than a month to spread across the Eastern Kingdoms Continent, all the way to the Dwarven Bridge. There was no city they could not conquer, no enemy they could not defeat. Led by the Death Knight Arthas, the Scourge was unstoppable. Even Archmage Antonidas could only protect Dalaran City and himself; the towns and villages that depended on Dalaran were all reduced to scorched earth.

But even as the Scourge swept across the continent in overwhelming numbers, Turalyon and Uther stood their ground in Tirisfal Glades, holding back the seemingly invincible Undead Scourge with their own flesh and blood. Perhaps it helped that Arthas wasn't there, but their resistance also gave a much-needed boost to the morale of people who had been fleeing in disarray before the Scourge.

"Fordring, we're deeply grateful that you were willing to come back and help us."

Uther looked at Fordring, whose hair had gone completely white. Remembering that he himself had once stripped his close friend of the Holy Light, he felt a pang of guilt. He bowed his head to his friend in apology.

"Turalyon, Uther, we were once brothers. Though I was exiled, I chose the place myself. Now I'd like to spend some time in Tirisfal Glades."

"Fordring, who is he?"

Turalyon felt guilty about Fordring, too, but his attention was focused more on the burly man standing behind him. Everyone knew what had happened back then, and the man