A cool wind whipped the hide flap of the tent as its occupant emerged into the ebullient amber glow of another autumn morning on the rises of Thunder Bluff. Stamp Bloodhoof, his coarse fur now hued more snow than soil, no longer wore the gleaming armor of his younger days. Instead, he wore simple cloth robes of black and brown, trimmed in pale orange. Although he remained relatively strong even at such an advanced age, his joints and bones had betrayed him perhaps as retribution for all the abuse they'd taken over the years. He suffered a wince for every blow struck against the Scourge in Stratholme; a cringe for each slashing blow endured in battle against the immortal dragons of Azeroth; a twinge for all the leaping jumps across gaps in the shattered halls of Blackrock Spire.