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| - Commander, Let me start by inquiring on the health of your wife. How was she the last time you clawed her out of her oft-disturbed grave? Onto more relevant, less stomach-churning matters: I have, as ordered, left Northrend to join with this Dagger and Totem clan. First impressions are exactly as I suspected: fitting in will be a matter of bawling my crusty lungs out. What surprises me is an apparent addiction to quick wit. It seems like jokes and jibes are this lot’s currency, and cryptic card games are their idea of recreation. - Coporal Desmond Hodges, of the Dagger and Totem Clan
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| abstract
| - Commander, Let me start by inquiring on the health of your wife. How was she the last time you clawed her out of her oft-disturbed grave? Onto more relevant, less stomach-churning matters: I have, as ordered, left Northrend to join with this Dagger and Totem clan. First impressions are exactly as I suspected: fitting in will be a matter of bawling my crusty lungs out. What surprises me is an apparent addiction to quick wit. It seems like jokes and jibes are this lot’s currency, and cryptic card games are their idea of recreation. The land of Winterspring is cold and solemn, and thanks to the snow I keep expecting to turn around and be met with an abomination of the Scourge. No such luck. You have sent me, Commander, to a place without our primary foe. The reason we are who we are, cursed as we are, is because of the Scourge – not some owlbeast in the lands of Kaldorei. You will recall that I always entertained the thought of joining a clan; I have the greatest respect for our Kalimdor allies after all. But really? You place me with one fighting so far away from the Plaguelands and the Frozen North? Do you despise me, Commander? Has my rotting brain somehow forgotten an offence made in my past life that justifies punishment like this? This... campaign here isn’t even close to being my fight. I have never been too fond of snow, Commander. But I make do. I am neither too fond of you or your lackeys, but that indifference stems mainly from this little stunt. Honestly? Packing Grunts’ Waraxes into my supply bag? What am I meant to do with those, exactly? Two of them, too. You don’t seriously expect me to use them both, do you? Why wasn’t I given a sword? Anyway, while I write this I am “overhearing” a conversation of a troll and an orc, both female and both young. The troll, named Watrus, is one of my new sergeants, lucky me. She didn’t seem to know that I was coming. Has this, commander, got anything to do with being sent here six months early? No rest for the wicked, of course. That idiom must surely mean you don’t even get to sit down to read this report. Not that I have any sympathy for that, you intolerable, oafish, pseudo-intellectual, contemptible arsehole of a man. But it is the Dark Lady’s will (who, I am informed, is now in Northrend? In Icecrown itself? When did that happen, Commander? And why aren’t I there to support my Banshee Queen? Hmm?) then I am obliged, duty-bound even, to accept my lot. It is a relief, though it is neither particularly comic or light, that I am not alone when it comes to my status as a... dead one. Indeed I have already talked to an Orc Death Knight. She is called Naudiz and for some reason she is rather uplifted. She claims not to have anything to do with the Ebons. Apparently she left. That's still their armour she's wearing on her hide, though. As a soldier of many years of experience, I pledge something to you, Commander. When this clan... my new clan... deem that their work here is done, then I will return to Northrend, and I will tear any of the Lich King’s minions I come across limb from limb, to make up for lost time. And if, as I suspect, there is a kitty on to see if I will survive this detour, then put down twenty gold for me. - Coporal Desmond Hodges, of the Dagger and Totem Clan
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