it behins slowly, creeping at first. so small you wonder if youre even hearing anything. you thing "calm down, its just the blood in my ears vibrating those tiny little hairs." its not the blood in your ears vibrating those tiny little hairs.
he comes for you with a flash. in an instant he is standing in the doorway to the cabin. the force of his presence has blown out the candles. he just stands. as your eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, the silhouette begins to stand apart from the room, taking form slowly but definately against the august night sky.
winter has come too soon for you.
the figure lets loose a terrifying howl that seems to rattle the very foundations of the small cabin.
its heaving breaths chill the air until, without realizing it, you are trembling uncontrollably. an ache begins in your stomach and feels as though you are being torn apart. unsure of this creature's intentions, you try and speak. failed.
all that leaves your lips is a dull whimper. eyes filled with agony at your now aching muscles, the figure speaks.
"I was called your brother. i was called Moktar. I am now called Grimhowl. I unwillingly served a dark master and have returned home, changed, to ask forgiveness and repent my sins."
the voice echoes in itself, rattling past frozen flesh.
the creature steps in with a heavy metal clanking. there is a stumbling in the darkness, followed by grunting of frustration.
"I cannot light the lamps. you will have to steel yourself to find out that i am not lying."
your head begins to return to you, though your body still aches and all but writhes to keep you still.
"My brother is dead." you finally manage to say. not as elegant as you had hoped, but the point remains the same.
"true enough, Tal'Garosh." with a sigh, the being claiming to be your brother reaches toward you, fitting a lamp in one hand and flint in the other." light this, brother. see my truth, and the truth of my condition."
unsteadily, you spark the flint and light the lamp. sure enough, the face of your brother hangs in the darkness. shocked, you slide back along the floor. not in horror at his face, but in amazement. the wizemen had warned that he was not dead in the strictest sense of the word. still, when the scourge swept across the land, taking with it the best and brightest the orcish horde had to offer, it never occurred to you that your brotehr might return one day.
"i am changed." he speaks slowly. "the ground beneath my feet freezes and rots. i exhale the air of the frozen wastes, chilling all near me to the bone. my visage terrifies even the stout of heart. I am death incarnate. a walking paradox. not living, but not undead." for a moment, your you see your brother as he was, younger, stronger, more foolish than you. he had been given a hero's funeral as the act of him falling on the field of battle allowed you and your tribe to escape. it has been seven years since then. your hair is long and graying, braided down the front and back, two massive braids, studded with your family runes, hang from your your sideburns.
From Grimhowl's neck hang the same braids. from his temples, the same runes. there is a terrible scar that runs from the his hairline to his collar bone along one side of his face, evidence of his past life.
"I have been given the chance to repair some of the damage the lichking has caused. I can strike him down with the very power he commanded. Though i cannot, without your help brother. please, i beseech you, go before the warchief, go before Thrall and ask him if i may have an audience. I believe i may yet be of service to the horde. Tell him i will gladly end myself at his feet if that is his wish. i will suffer whatever humiliation he has him mind for traitors and cowards. all of it, that i might serve him in the end."
though his breath is cold, and his eyes are dull and black, the expression on his face is earnest and desperate.
"very well." you say after much deliberation. you instruct him to wait here, in your cabin, and let none know of your existance until such time as you can get the Warchief's answer.
though it is the middle of the night, you don your clothes and pull a woolen cloak tight around your shoulders and set out. Orgrimar is a hefty journey from your home near Razor Hill, and all manor of beast stalks the road by night, your task is too grave, your news too important, to be slowed down by such trivial matters.