The ice stone has melted. There is no time. It is too late.
He hefted the lance firmly. The bird shied at his scent as he stalked it across the snow. He growled as he felt the eyes of the elves turn to follow him. This was no jungle. Still, he cornered the skittish fowl. He roared, to spook the beast into action. As the bird exploded into a crimson streak of feathers, he lunged.
They dig too deep. The ice stone has melted. The sleeper wakes.
His long limbs snapped outwards, grasping the writhing bird by the throat. He crouched, and kicked at the animal's knee, forcing it to the ground. He growled again. He would not be made a fool of by this elf-dinner.
The thousand mouths sing in agony. The ice stone has melted. The ice stone has melted.
He forced the bird to hold still as he climbed into the saddle. He shook his head to clear away the voices of the dead. He couched the lance at his side, and kicked the strider in the ribs. The bird rose unsteadily under the trollish weight, panicked, and tried to bolt, but he cuffed it in the head with a snarl.
The ice stone has melted. The roots dig deep. Worms in the earth.
He kicked again, and the strider lunged away across the ice. He would prove for Vol'jin that he could bend this creature to his will. Then he would slaughter it, strip the feathers from it, suck the jelly from its eyes, cook its flesh and boil its bones into soup. And feed it to a raptor. Thrall would see that he had allies of strength in the Darkspear Tribe, and needed no elves beneath his banners.
It is too late. There is no time. The ice stone has melted. The ice stone has melted. The ice stone has melted.
It comes for us
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