I had often been asked what it was like to venture to the far north. Not many who had ventured there with me came back. To say it was cold would be an understatement. To say it was hell would be too great a kindness.
I can remember it fondly: the snow, the endless mountains, and the constant foreboding presence of the dead. I remember one day in particular when I was sent out. The trail I had to follow was not that far, but it was still very treacherous. The hard packed snow crunched under my leather boots and the jingle of metal plate kept my mind occupied for the most part. The sky was dark and filled with clouds, yet somehow enough light made it through to reveal my path. Lightning flashed now and again as if heaven itself sought to purge the land below. It was not a well-worn path I traveled between tall mountains, black and lifeless towers of stone reaching into the sky like fingers wanting to rip the very flesh of the heavens downward. My trusty steed, he stayed with me ever vigilant, ears twitching to and fro looking for the danger that was there but not visible. Here and there patches of stone had been revealed in the earth by some machine or some other great force. My armor had grown heavy and though the leather was young and prime, it did little to block out the biting cold; an unnatural cold that bit to the bone like no other cold could. It was not the cold of the north, but the cold of death. The acrid and foul stench of death permeated the air no matter where you were. Even in the great halls back at the town I had left, death persisted. Before me the road began to rise, traveling a small winding path before widening into a great Avenue. The Avenue continued straight up the slope until it reached the barren black metal steps of the citadel. The black metal was of polished obsidian great powerful and foreboding. The spires and sharp pikes attached to the ramparts made it look like someone had taken a great pitchfork and drove it into the ground. The central spire, being the thickest and tallest, marked the obvious location for the throne. The throne was where we were to assault. The Great Wall ran the length of the valley to my left and right at the top of the ramparts the sounds of fighting reached me: the clanging of metal, shouting of men, and the screeches of the dead and dying, both risen and not, reached my ears. Before me lay a small and desolate campground built into the shallow recesses of the wall. It was not but a horrible small collection of tents scattered about like ants. Bonfires blazed bold and bright with their paltry flame but it was nothing compared to the unnatural cold. The smell of sweat reached my nose, though it struck me as odd as it was so cold here why would we need to sweat? Upon approaching the camp a pageboy, little more than a young boy of 13, approached me. He said nothing but handed me a bottle of inexpensive wine. The alcohol helps prevent frostbite in the extremities, and often raised the spirits. Though this paltry wine was nothing compared to the wine we had at home, with it's rich aromas smelling of both grapes and roses, it was a bouquet like none other. It reminded me of the green fields and the great rolling pastures. It reminded me of the trees stretching beyond site above my home. Home was warm and inviting. It was a place of safety, family, and peace. But here, saying that Hell had frozen over was an understatement. Hell had been carved of the stone and the ice and the bones of the dead. Before us the great doors that marked the entrance to the inner court had been rent open, as if peeled back by a giant. The battering ram had done its job. I tethered my horse outside, his coverings slightly interwoven with properties that would keep him warm and protected. Of me, no I had no such protections, or they had worn off long ago. I cannot remember anymore. My last memories of that place were treading through the great halls; walking those foreboding corridors like a prisoner to the gallows. Only I say that the gallows would have been a kinder fate to those who died here. The rest is but a blur. Memories swirling and blurring away like a drunken night on the town. I remember I made it back home though, eyes gray and lifeless. I've seen too much, been there too long, and there was nothing to be done about it. I had seen my fair share of bloodshed and war. Immediately after making it home I asked for a discharge from the military. They wanted to hold on to me, saying that I was a fine warrior and that my service might be needed again in the future. But I told my superiors the same thing I told my family; that warrior did not come home. He died among the cold, the snow, and the undead. The dead never really died, just grew more and more restless. I cannot bear to think on the friends and comrades I lost in those mountains, but I cannot forget.
People often think of war as grandeur and glory but it is nothing but trials and pain. Don't be so quick to join a fight.