At the Roof of the World

This land not meant for humankind,

Not like the home we left behind.

The days are short, with little light,

Long and dark are Northrend's nights.

…

Our camp is set up near the shore,

The dead, they shamble to the fore.

Our prince is here, to lead us on,

Press ever north, where none have gone.

…

The Scourge, our foe, just like the cold,

Cuts through bone right to the soul.

I see the look in his dark eyes,

A gaze as blackened as the skies.

…

Supplies our low, war takes us all,

I hear the screams, the trumpet calls.

Arrows nocked, ring sounds of steel,

This is our world, one all too real.

…

So out across the snow I stare,

Fighting sense of cold despair.

Sense of fear and sense of dread,

That already we're the walking dead.