The battle-worn Dwarf paced the encampment, shooting looks of anger towards any who dared approach. He knew he should ease up on the crew, his frustration wasn’t with them. It was with their leader. He’d snuck off again, no doubt into who knows what kind of danger. The two of them had survived decades of battles together, and now the old dwarf was growing a soft spot. For a Night Elf no less. The fact of the matter is Frost had no one else. All his kin had been wiped out years ago. Mythoren was his brother in arms, and no danger would ever befall the lad, if the blasted elf would stop slipping off into the night. Frost stopped pacing and sat down to sharpen his sword. Tomorrow would be another battle. He looked at His comrades, the vaunted Immortals who would help lead the charge. He better see to their preparations. As he sheathed his trusted sword, he saw Mythoren slip from the forest into his tent. First things first, give the Ranger-General a piece of his mind, while quietly thanking the stars he was alive, then gather the officers for a battle stratagem. For tomorrow, he would stay by their leader’s side, as he always had, and fight for Azeroth’s freedom.