Uthas is the reason that the Wildfire Riders exist. He is also the preacher-turned-villain of old school Feathermoon. After the character was semi-retired, Uthas left us a note on the forums: “When Blizzard makes Death Knights a playable class, I might be back.” When Wrath was announced, so was Uthas’ return. This is how evil he is: He Rick-Rolled us. The Wildfire Rider Wrathgate posts was not just to integrate our characters into this event, but to give Uthas a rather grand reentrance. Here is his first post.
The morning was riding high, pushing towards midday. The sunlight streamed into the valley out of a clear blue sky, making the day crisp and sharp. It never quite seemed to touch the immense gate perched at the head of the slope. The dull smokey saronite drank deeply of the light and grew larger, roaring at the assembled armies with its mass. The breath of the armoured thousands steamed around the camps as they broke and began the form ranks.
The scouts arrived ahead of the small band of warriors, though just barely. The command tent was prepared for their arrival, but word had only just begun to spread through the men and women of the Alliance forces when the six and the one topped the last rise. They rode slowly and proudly, some on steeds bound of bone and magic, others on animals of the northern tundras. The six flanked the one on all sides, and though they cut an imposing sight, one that would chill the blood even beyond the bitter winds of this frozen Hell, all eyes were focused on the one. He should have been ridiculous to these armed and hardened veterans. A man clad in plate that he looked barely strong enough to lift, much less fight in. He was mounted on the back of a great white bear, bred for combat by the fierce Brunnhildar of the Storm Peaks. Yet, where Uthas passed, the sounds of war fell away to silence, as they always had. It had been this way at Southshore during the bloody struggles as well, in the time before. The clanks and curses of the army ceased, leaving only the cracking of the great black banner carried by the foremost rider – a white eye, open and eternally staring.
The dark warriors rode into the space cleared in front of the command tent and stopped. A slick morass of half-melted mud, dirt, and ice surrounded the pavillion – the pressure of ten thousand booted feet churning the frozen ground with the heat of an army’s impending violence. Though the wind caught and tugged at the banner of the Eye, pulling it taught, the great flag of Stormwind hung limp over the ranks of soldiers. The great bear sniffed at the air and let forth a deep, rumbling growl. Uthas set his hand on its head and rubbed it gently. The bear stretched its neck back and sighed.
The rider carrying the standard of the Unblinking Eye rode a few steps forward, and the armed ring around the tent drew steel, filling the air with the sound of readied weapons. The rider stopped, his undead steed standing lifelessly on the cold rock. The six stood motionless in the cold, statues of darkness against the bright sun shining on the snow and steel around them. They seemed to somehow BELONG to the great gate towering over them, and yet they stood defiantly apart from it. In fact, despite the threat around them, none of them broke their gaze from awesome Angrathar. Only the one looked at the warriors, men and women of the Light all, sweeping his gaze across them, seeing their hatred held in check only by their training and fear.
From within the tent came a single command, and after a pause, the guards surrounding the tent sheathed their blades and stepped back to their posts. The soldiers watching did the same. In that moment the Light won a small victory as the love a man’s followers bore him quelled the hatred in their hearts and gave them peace for a short while longer. It is on such small victories that the fate of the world turns. Bolivar Fordragon ducked out of the tent into the morning light. The commanding officer of the Allied forces stood in the cold and watched the riders impassively, no emotion playing on his weathered face. The bannerman of the Eye shifted his skeletal steed to the side and allowed the great white bear to pace up to the general. The two leaders looked one another over, steam rising from the mouth of Fordragon – none from the helm of the deathknight. The air was heavy with silence – the living frozen with the sense of the intensity that these men wore about their shoulders as a cloak, and the dead, as always, with eternal patience. At last Uthas spoke. “Welcome to the war General. The Eye shall take the van.” With that the small man in plate turned his bear and rode past the general toward the gate, his small group following behind. The soldiers surrounding the tent turned their eyes to Fordragon, waiting for the signal to fall upon the group. The general stared after the riders, his eyes on the banner twisting in the wind, then turned on his heel and stepped back into his tent.