I am referred to as the monarch of the dead, the embodiment of eternal life, the force that tramples all, the soul screamer, and the war whipper. They claim that I have dominion over all spirits, that I can tear apart my fate, shatter the chains, and subjugate all beings. They mock me for using blood as a lure to weave a world-ending tapestry of famine and conflict. They slander me for wielding fear as my weapon, interpreting the twilight's end through a lens of cruelty and apathy. They depict me as a bringer of ruin, hatred, and wrath, a spreader of despair, a figure of unchecked arrogance, unyielding in my clarity, and prideful. They are merely a band of cowards. When I make my entrance, they can only cower in their lairs, shaking with fear, whether they are warriors or kings, under the shadow of my dominion, or they must kneel! Or perish! Yet they are correct; this is indeed who I am... This is... the undead king of Azeroth!
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