Just prior to departing Northrend, we were called to take care of one of the many dangers the icy continent harbors: Malygos, the insane dragon, had long sought to kill the magic users of Azeroth under the pretext that they were a danger to the world.
The Kirin Tor, the mages who run Dalaran, took offense at someone trying to kill them, and when Malygos became a serious threat, they put a prize on the lizard’s head.
I joined a band of soldiers and adventurers and we assaulted the Nexus, Malygos’ lair. In a short but decisive battle, Malygos was killed, and Dalaran thus protected.
In their gratitude, the Kirin Tor granted me the title “Champion of the Frozen Wastes”. To be honest, this sounds a little too pretentious. I was never one to make a fuss over titles. Out there in the wilderness, all that counts are a sharp eye and a true arrow, not what some vellum scrolls says you are.
I write these lines in great haste. My ship for Auberdine leaves within the hour. I have to abandon the assault on Icecrown Citadel. I am no longer needed here: The Lich King is now a cornered rat, fighting a last, futile stand, and as much I wsh I could stay and see him brought to justice, there is something of far greater urgency. I have not really talked about this with the others. I am not sure they’d agree with my assessment.
For the past months, I have been plagued by recurring dreams. Dreams of Azeroth in flames. And of a dark shape raising its wings against the smoke filled skies of the burning nights.
I feel something bad is going to happen. Something big. And that dark shape? I know that shape: I am sure that it’s a dragon. A bad one.
I do not know what exactly is going to happen, nor when. Maybe it really is just that, a dream. But I can not deny a sense of urgency that I feel. I have to prepare – and find out more about this dream.