Report from Whitecap Mage Greybeard:
The retired mercenary troops guarding the forest's borders came to see me. I feared they were looking for liquor, wanted weapons, or came to complain about not being allowed to fight the dark beings instead of facing the Lich King's reanimated dead. But they arrived with a strange expression—dreamy.
They spoke quickly, concisely, soberly. They said the Dead King's forces were many, even that they were about to abandon the security post—I doubted that; those men were still alive after years of battles; they would not give up like that. Then, little by little, the enemies began to slow down. At that moment, all went out to fight. I was worried and asked if any had died. But all, like children with shining eyes, shook their heads. So that you understand, Whitecap leader, these men had fewer limbs, many without teeth, eyes, ears—always in a state of apathy, except when killing. That was when you saw their savage side—that addiction to battle. But here, they were satisfied.
They said the enemies were hundreds but slow. Moreover, for the first time, they did not revive. So they gorged themselves on killing. For more than ten hours, each member of the Silver Regiment eliminated enemies, broke weapons, dulled edges, even used their hands. I was so impressed I almost forgot the reward. Something like that should amount to at least two thousand gold coins each. Even though we could pay that sum, we would be in severe financial trouble. But when I told them, none asked for gold. Most went out to sit in the clearing; only the youngest members stayed. They said that finally, before coming, they had buried all their enemies. It took them a week to do so. Then they marched to my control post. On the way, several stopped to observe the world. Their captain and spokesman insisted they finally saw things in peace. Several of his men began to die there—they had no wounds; they simply, with a flower in hand, a beer, a smile, fell.
I feared they were under a curse, but they did not seem to have that problem. My field detected nothing. I asked what they had come for, then. The youngest said he wanted to build a cabin—he came only to tell me he was retiring from the forces. Another asked permission to join the priests. The third—a beast over two meters tall, arms marked with scars—asked for three gold coins. He wanted to buy a round of drinks for the people at his favorite bar before leaving. He did not say where. So I paid. I did not even ask for a receipt. I thanked them and left. I ran to the protection post. There they were—all the graves of each who had died on the road. I followed them until I reached where a whole section of the forest housed the enemy graves. I did not travel alone—a group of Whitecaps began marking all the graves so they would never rise again. I hurried back. I had left the Silver Regiment men in the courtyard, resting in the shade of my trees. When I arrived, I saw them there—happy, rested. So I did what was left—I buried them. With their dented weapons and armor, with their alleviated misery, I placed them in pine boxes and erected a monument to those heroes, fallen after fulfilling their duty.
Songs already sounded on the roads—of those who saved Stormhammer. I knew the Overlord must have hurt the Lich to the point where he had no choice but to withdraw his magic from the armies attacking us. I asked him through this means to encourage the songs about these mercenaries. After a lifetime of suffering, they finally sated their appetites and died in peace. Fortunate them. For us, the battle had just intensified.
Sincerely,
Greybeard