Athese could recall any specific memories; more like knowledge just came to him by instinct. When Yjarim had made the command to move out to Ymirheim he had known the way that him and his brothers would have to take, how he knew he could not say, but he supposed he had been that way before. Something told him that this march had been unlike any other he had been in before. Marching with the undead had been a solemn thing; the dead were not much for talking especially the mindless servants of the King. It was different now; his comrades had shared much conversation as they made their way to the valley floor of Icecrown. Some had even voiced their concern on making the march to Ymirheim.
"The living has no help to give the dead." The large skeleton from the battle on the glacier had said. He had taken a number of their party with him while they worked their way down the glacier, off to find one of Arthas' legendary Death Knights, for their council. Others had headed off to find solace from the pang in what was left in their stomachs. Hunger. Something had told him, he knew they were off to find what flesh they could to appease their awakened appetites. Yjarim had said that this was a product of whatever change was occurring, and that they might all soon need to find something to fill their bellies, or what was left of them.
Athese had spent much time talking to the lichling, he was more knowledgeable then the others, it made Athese feel more comfortable with the recent strangeness and change speaking to him.
Yjarim had voiced no objections to those not willing to stay on their quest to find the Vrykul. He was unconcerned with the strength of their party, he feared no opposition, not this deep in Icecrown, the only large attacks they had faced were from those damnable flying ships the living had brought in, but there had been no sign of them for some time. In a way Athese appreciated the smaller numbers, it was easier and faster now for their group of fifteen or so to march than it had been when they travelled with near fifty.
"As long as they are not seeking those wretched traitors, their will is their own." Yjarim had said of the deserters. The traitors he had referred to were of course the Knights of the Ebon Blade, the Death Knights that had defied the will of their rightful king. Athese and his companions spent much of the time they could remember fighting those Death Knights and their minions. It was bad enough that they had befouled their Unholy Order with treason, but on top of that they had the nerve to stand alongside the living, the Horde and the Alliance.
It had taken some of Yjarim's stories to help Athese recollect those two enemies, but as they had made their way to the valley floor Athese' own memory was helped by the arms and armor that littered the ground. The path that had taken them down had been covered by broken skeletons, long decayed corpses and fresh ones alike. Athese could pick out the ancient armor of his fallen comrades, but the fresh ones had belong to his enemies. He could pick out golden lions painted upon silver shields, stars, birds, faces, symbols he could not recognizes on fields of red, all marking the allegiance of the fallen who tried to oppose death's onslaught. It was in that pass that Athese found himself a new ax, its fine steel and jagged edge had caught his sight, and it felt right and balanced clutched in his boney fingers. With the one handed ax he also took a wooden shield whose own device he clawed off.
With the company freshly armored they had continued down the pass, and reached the floor of Icecrown. It was covered with the bones of the long dead, but not even carrion crows flew over the field, here, death ruled and all living feared to tread. Yjarim had told him that not even those that had invaded Northrend would walk these paths, bringing in their flying ships instead. That memory had escaped Athese, but he was thankful for the lichlings knowledge. They had made their way south by southwest until they found Aldur'Thar then continued along the Desolation Gate. The name fit well now, the once proud gate was torn down to ruins, its saronite steel ramparts littering the ground. Its tall spiked towers were dulled and crumbling, the watch fires that had once burned where extinguished and the Scourge banners that had once flown were torn and tattered. Athese could not recall when that had happened but his memory was still something he couldn't trust, it wouldn't have surprised him if he had even been at the battle ending in the Gate's destruction.
It had been a day's march across the valley floor when they reached the base of the mountains surrounding Ymirheim. At the beginning of the second day they were heading southeast, by the base of the mountain range. The mountains themselves were dark and jagged, much steeper than any of them cared to walk, and the ice and snow covering them made them treacherous on the feet, even an undead could lose its footing and be shattered to pieces on the rocks. Thus, the range had protected Ymirheim for centuries; funneling all would be intruders or visitors toward the village entrance, north of Mord'Rethar. The company turned round one of the bends of hills and Athese could see what looked like smoke, billowing up from behind a small ridge. Yjarim was unconcerned.
"A camp this close to Ymirheim is not like to be sheltering any living, sides Vrykul, and what use does the dead have for fires?"
As they made their approach towards the camp they could see no sigils, but small shelters had been erected using what looked like the tatter rages of banners taken from Aldur'Thar stretched across bones erected as posts. The fire was built in a kettle, no doubt from the Gate as well, and was being used to cook some sort of flesh upon a spit. Athese was surprised to see the camp was manned by a handful of undead, wearing the same unrecognizable and beaten armor as Athese' own brothers. Then he caught a scent of what was cooking.
Somewhere deep down inside Athese he felt a sort of painful sensation, combined with a feeling of emptiness right down below his rib cage. He turned to the lichling he walked beside.
"Do you smell what they are cooking Yjarim?" He asked.
Yjarim nodded.
"I take it that the Hunger has set upon you, now doubt I will feel it soon, as well as the rest of us, if it hasn't taken some already."
"Aye your Unholiness, mayhaps they have food to share." Athese noted a skeleton baring a full helm with dented plate and cloak as black as night say.
They were all in agreement, and made their way towards the fire and Yjarim called out to the undead resting at the camp.
"Brothers, we march to Ymirheim, might he share the fire for a moment?"
The undead turned to look upon their visitors. Their hands slowly fell to the hilts of their weapons but they didn't draw. The largest skeleton there was bulky, and rotting green flesh still hung from his bones. A large steel plate guarded his one shoulder, and below his eye sockets that glowed a fiery orange, his jaw line jutted out reveling huge tusks reaching half way up his skull.
"You use your voice, and have undoubtedly felt the change, tell me, who is it you serve?" The large skeleton asked.
Yjarim paused for a moment.
"Why, the Lich King."
The response was a gruntish laugh, and they were beckoned over.
"Come share Regax's fire with my friends then."
The closer they got to the fire the more Athese' could smell what was cooking, had he had saliva glands he was sure his mouth would be watering, though the meat looked less than appetizing. It was clearly pulled from something long dead, rotting and covered with holes eaten away by time or insects. It was when they reached the camp that Athese noted the fresh broken bodies that lay around the camp. Their spines were snapped and bones not held together by flesh scattered. The corpses had long claws at the end of their hands, and teeth like razors lining their jaw lines, wisps of hair dotted the tops of their skulls, all clothing had long decayed away. Ghouls no doubt. Athese' thought to himself.
Yjarim ignored the corpses.
"Might I ask who you travel with Regax?" the lichling asked of the one who had called them over. Regax gestured towards the three that stood around the fire.
The first was tall and slender, like any undead, he wore a half helm with mail on his head and various mismatched plate upon his body, Regax told them that Samm was what they called that one. The other two were short stout things, with much of their flesh still upon their bodies. Long white beards reached all the way down their torsos and they were covered with mail and plate each barring two axes. Thorhad and Hadthor were their names.
"Theres not enough food right now cooking if the Hungers set upon you all, but feel free to dig in on what we have not touched yet." Regax pointed to the broken bodies of the ghouls on the ground.
"What happened to them?" Athese asked the big skeleton, it was clear now that the beast was at least a head or two taller than Athese himself, Regax had to look down upon Athese to respond.
"We were travelling to Ymirheim when the Voice started to fade, and it seemed the less we heard of the voice the more ornery these little buggers got. Finally one day they went completely mad, killed half the undead we were travelling with."
"Aye." Added the one named Samm.
"Seemed to me once the Voice stopped asking of us the ghouls lost their minds, few stayed sane for a while but it was only a matter of time. We marched our way here with the ones who were still in control but we weren't going to bring them to the Vrykul."
"So we butchered them, and that was when the Hunger came on us." Finished Regax.
"And the fires?" Yjarim asked of them. They were silent for a moment, simply looking into the flames.
"Can't say why, just wanted it." Hodthar finally said.
"And there's no harm in putting some warm meat in our bellies."
"For those who still have bellies." Regax growled. He bit off a piece of flesh from the meat he held, he chewed it and it fell upon his rib caged then on to the ground, though it looked as though the journey had seared it more than the fire. Athese moved over to one of the corpses on the ground and tore off some flesh with his comrades. The meat travelled in a similar way to Regax's when he bit into it. Travelling through Athese jaw onto his rib cage, his breastplate held it in for a time, but it simply slid through his hip bone and on to the ground. Surprisingly, it seemed to have an effect on Athese' hunger.
They stayed for a while eating until they could not anymore, even Yjarim had a few bites. But after a while the lichling suggested they moved on to Ymirhiem, their new found companions journeyed with them. It took them until Moon's rising to reach the slope that lead up to Ymirhiem's gates, or what was left of them. The wooden dragons that had once been carved into the posts were cut down and burned, the short wall had tumbled down and the gate itself had been broken down. As they made their way up the hill Athese could see that there were undead out and about making repairs on the gate, he even spied a few Vrykul.
It was half way up the slope when they heard the war horn.
AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOO.
Those working on the gate threw down their tools and pulled out various weapons. More poured out from behind the gates forming a wall of flesh and bone in front. A few bowmen poked their skulls over the hills that formed up on the sides of the pathway. Athese turned to see if there was any way to head back down the hill, his clawed hand clutching the hilt of his ax. He could hear the sound of clattering bone and steel he heard from behind him.
"It appears we have been spotted." Yjarim said as they watched more skeletons form up a similar wall behind them. Regax grunted. No one raised any weapons.
"Good brothers" Yjarim started.
"We come in peace."
"Do you now?" Athese heard a chilling voice say. He turned back toward the gate and saw a being making its way through the skeletal wall in front of them. It rode upon a massive horse of bone. Eyes glowing red as fire, covered with beaten plate and mail with torn flesh and cloth concealing most of its bones. Its mane was a sad excuse for hair. The rider was even more gruesome. Unlike its horse the riders plate was fresh, no dents and a dark bluish purple. Across the plate were skulls and engraved runes they had a glow of all sorts of eerie colors and rippled with bone spikes upon his shoulders and up to a crest on his helm. The helm itself covered its owner's entire head, save for the slits left for eyes, nose and mouth, through which Athese could see, what looked like, living flesh but it was pale as the moon that hung over them. His eyes had the same red glow as the other undead, and a large two handed greatsword of ebony steel rested across his back. Recognizing a Death Knight was easy for Athese.
"Be that as it may, you are being taken into the custody of Breese Soulstride, Lord of Ymirheim." The Death Knight smiled as his skeletal warriors closed in around Athese and his troop.