It takes a special kind of cold to chill a dwarf to the bone. The snows of Dun Morogh last year-round, with only the hottest days of summer thinning the ice that cover Iceflow and Helm’s Bed Lakes the rest of the year, save for the fishing holes the dwarves hack out with axes.
Dwarves and even gnomes scoff at outlanders who find Dun Morogh inhospitable: “It’ll put hair on yer chest,” “toughen up, Sally” or “here, have another mornbrew” are their standard replies.
But the cold of Icecrown was different somehow; it seemed almost malicious, creeping inside Ringo Flinthammer’s boots and gloves, plastering his ice-coated whiskers to his face and neck and giving him the first windburn he’d gotten in a cold climate since he was a child. And there were times where the wind sounded like something whispering terrible thoughts into his ears …
Ringo shuddered, putting such thoughts from his head, and headed back inside the tent he shared with Beli. From outside, there was a crash of thunder from the Storm Peaks that loomed above the plain where the Argent Crusade was building their jousting grounds.