Cold.
A God awful cold that comes from the blackest part of your soul and wraps its chilling fingers around your heart so it can wrench it back into the blackness. An overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that seems like all in the world that is good, and warm, and full of life will be extinguished. That is what it feels like to be in the presence of the Lich King.
But it has been many moons since the necromancer has had to endure the stare of the foul thing that sits upon the Frozen Throne. Long has it been since he held court with Ner'zuhl, gazing through the eyes of his human vessel Arthas Menethil and his dread Lich Kel'Thuzad.
But even as he trods across the scorched earth of Kalimdor, it's barren deserts baking in the Sun, he can still feel that same cold. He can still feel the frigid fingers of the Lich King upon his head. The necromancer can still see the frost hanging in the air as Arthas, the once proud Paladin breaths, his body now no more than a living casket for the Lich King.
But even as those horrible memories strike fear into his heart, what looms in the distance frightens him even more. Up the road he sees a Horde checkpoint, two massive Orc soldiers questioning travelers while a Troll stand in the watchtower overhead. For even though the mere thought of the Lich King is terrifying, the thought of drawing attention to one's self when the Lich King is desperately searching for you is even more terrifying.
The two grunts had just finished harassing a Tauren female as the necromancer reached the gate, his pack mule laden down with bags and packages. He saw Horde enemies, Centaurs, Murlocks, and enemies of the state mounted upon pikes before the watchtower.
"You there! What business do you have in Horde lands?"
"I am a mere peddler of goods my fine Orcish fellow. Might I interest you in this fashionable necklace? It's made from real Nerubian silk and can be yours for just…"
"Enough! I am not interested in your trinkets Forsaken wretch," the smaller of the two Orcs said waving his hand.
"Sniff, sniff, sniff…Sniff," the necromancer noticed the larger Orc moving around him. He circled the necromancer and his mule once more before returning to his small friend.
"Gluub, I smell…sniff, sniff…Man-flesh."
"Of course you smell Man-flesh Rawlgg, I smell it too," said the small Orc again waving his hand dismissively.
"Argh, the scent is driving me mad! Where is it coming from," the large Orc tightened his grip on his heavy axe in preparation to behead some unseen enemy.
"Look Rawlgg, this merchant is one of the Undead skeletons the Warchief have deemed worthy allies. His flesh may be rotten, but it is Man-flesh none the less."
Now it was the necromancer who tightened his grip, wrapping one hand around his staff and the other around the tether of his mule.
"May I go now most exalted friends?"
"No Gluub, smell for yourself. This Man-flesh is…sniff…fresh," the large Orc circled the mule again.
"Sniff, sniff, sniff…yes…yes now I smell it too. You, Forsaken, explain yourself," the small Orc moved towards him, hand on the dagger hanging on his waist.
"Why…uh…its nothing but a little perfume I put on every morning. I could give it to you for a few pieces of copper. It would make a marvelous gift for your woman."
"Gluub…there's something very strange about this mule. It almost smells like a…" the big Orc reached his hand out to feel the mule. But instead of the course hair he expected to find he felt the smooth hair of a horse.
The illusion was broken. It transformed before the Orcs very eyes, going from a decrepit old mule to a beautiful horse. And as the small Orc looked back to the necromancer he saw not the worm eaten flesh of a Forsaken merchant, but the pale skin and jet black hair of a man.
"Human! Human! A human is amongst us!"
The necromancer sprang into action. He hopped atop his steed, deftly swinging his staff, cracking the small Orc in the face and knocking him to the ground. Then by merely muttering a few words the lifeless bodies of the Horde's enemies sprang to life, pulling themselves off the sharp pikes and charging at the two Orcs.
"What's this? The dead return to life? Necromancer! The Scourge have sent a spy into Durotar! Sent a message to Orgim…" the large Orcs words were cut short as a Murlock dug its claws into the green skin of the Orc's back.
The necromancer waved his staff and said another incantation. The wooden gates burst into flame and were soon nothing more than smoldering cinders.
The necromancer rode. He pushed his steed hard, driving it on faster and faster. He had to get away from the guard post, he had to get away from the commotion. Surely the Lich King's spies would hear about this. He would have to figure out where he was going to hide.
But all of the necromancers thoughts were blacked out by pain. He looked down at his chest and saw the spearhead glimmering in the sunlight. He cursed himself for his stupidity. In his haste he had forgotten to take care of the Troll sitting atop the watchtower.
He whispered to his horse to keep going. It could not end like this. Not when he was so close. It couldn't end like this.
He slouched over, grabbing the horses mane to keep from falling off, and slipped into unconsciousness.