Its warm here in Stormwind. Not the frozen tendrils of death that comforted and brought me solace in the great north. My master, the Master, had taken me from the great forest and pines of the Grizzly Hills when I was but a boy. Ner'zul was his name then. Arthas is his name now. But always he will be the Lich King.
Do I miss my previous occupation as a corrupter in the Master's services? Yes. The warmth of Stormwind's climate matches the guilded warmth of its people towards my kind. Guilded for if scratched under the surface the gold flakes and crumbles in my hand. Under the dust lies the venomous ignorance and prejudice to my kind.
My kind... I am unsure what that even means. My kind. Pah. I corrupted, with my brothers, the spider lords of the under realm. Attacked Stormwind twice with great flying behemoths that my new mortal allies fled in terror from. I am but a pariah in the eyes of the people of this city. Their warmth burns my skin. Causes boils and sores in my heart.
I see the denizens of Stormwind content with their mortal lives toiling in tribulations against the Master. I should be embedded here furthering my master's plan instead of wasting my talents. And doing what? The Dusk collapsed shortly after being formed. The regiment I was drafted in to was disbanded. I, Huitzlpochti, a lord above those who now lord over me, am wasted here in Stormwind.
Outside the trees of Elwynn Forest stand and like me they care little for the toils of the mortals below them. Why should I care? Abandoned by all but unforgiving.