Lordaeron lay beneath a gloomy sky filled with murky, grayish-yellow clouds. The northeast wind howled as rotting corpses rampaged through the streets. It wailed like ghosts, rattling the branches with a dry scraping sound. An air of decay permeated all of Lordaeron City; deathly stillness was the most fitting description. The living could no longer survive in such a place.
A lone figure moved slowly through the bleak northeast wind, looking utterly solitary. He was Arthas, warlord of the undead Scourge and master of all the undead on the continent of Lordaeron.
His brilliant golden hair was gone, replaced by long white locks. His skin had turned pale, his eyes sinister, and his voice hoarse. He looked as though he had aged ten years, transformed from a handsome young prince into an evil, middle-aged death knight.
Yet one thing had not changed: the keen aura surrounding him. Its sharpness, capable of sweeping away everything and piercing the heavens, was even greater than before.
His long white hair streamed in the wind, repeatedly curling across his forehead. With the steady sound of his footsteps, Arthas disappeared at the end of Lordaeron's ruined street.
The outskirts of Lordaeron had become a wasteland. Every inch of earth was scorched, and not a blade of grass grew. Just half a month earlier, spring had filled the land with life, green shoots struggling up through the soil. Now all of it was gone. This land resembled the Blasted Lands, where the opening of the Dark Portal had corrupted the entire region and turned it into scorched earth. One could also say that the land had died.
Arthas came outside the city of Lordaeron. He was dressed casually today, without his full suit of armor. His sword, Frostmourne, hung quietly at his waist. Frostmourne had become