Arthas is here. Well, sort of.

Many months after the first battle that brought forth the heroes of Azeroth to this frozen wasteland, the plagues unleashed on the cities of Stormwind and Orgrimmar, the destruction of their homes that turned the gaze of the victorious Sunwell champions towards the deathly chillseeping from the roof of the world.

The journey has been long and there has been no shortage of horrors and sufferings. Every friend or unknown stranger lost in the way only adding to the unending legions of undead abominations. A taste of defeat before the Wrath gate had led to a conflict longer than the leaders of the Alliance Vanguard and Horde Expeditions had prepared for. And yet the Veterans of the Wrath Gate discovered of the Scourge's hatred for another evil lurking in Northrend. The grand master smiths learned the smelting of saronite, and clad their warriors with their creations, but only too late realizing their folly. The Black Blood of Yogg-Saron does not sway the will of the undead, but we free people were forced to battle for the control of our minds. 

And so we traveled to the far north of Northrend and entered the Titan prison, vanquishing the Old God of Death, proving to our makers that our lives are worth living. With the maddening whispers gone from our thoughts we celebrated, constructing a tournament to harden the heroes that would venture into the Citadel. But the games only brought division, and once again we were deceived... We watched our heroes fall and against all odds come out victorious from the pit of the Traitor King. 

It's a heavy heart that beats in my chest as I look out the gardens of the floating citadel of Dalaran at the towering spires on the mountain. That chill breeze that no magic can blow away howls through the streets, cutting through the bones. We thread upon the domain of the Lord of the Scourge, and his wrath will be great.

It's going to be a long winter.