Walking through the peaks of Khaz Modan, you’ll enjoy the crispness of the air. The cozy little bunkers the dwarves have built throughout their craggy, snowy region. The roads are well maintained, even with the feet of snow piled up around them. It’s a tidy little area unlike most in the Alliance - there’s no ramshackle war camps as in human lands, and the towns do not lie within ruins, like those of the Draenei or the Kal’Dorei. Everything here is fresh - new! Alive.
Until you reach Chillbreeze Valley. Sure, the pines still grow thick and tall, and the wind carries keens over their frosted tops - but when you skirt around to the great gates of Gnomeregan…it’s like stepping into a different world.
A great arch of steel and Iron sits defunct, marking the once grand border of the gnomes. It one used to swirl in sync with the rhythm of the great machines below, a visible heartbeat for all of gnomekind - now it lies rusted and broken.
The snow here is thicker - and the roads lie unkept and snow-covered, save for a small trail running to the waypoint between the great city and the rest of the dwarven kingdom - Brewnall Village.
It sits upon Iceflow Lake, and it’s grown from a couple tents to a small farming community. You’ll find little hospitality here - many of the doors and boarded and the windows lie shuttered - the few homes with the light of life in them are grim. The dwarves here aren’t hostile - but there’s an air of despondence. Of lost hope. As you walk out of the village, the reason is apparent - nothing grows…right. The hardy grains used in the dwarven brews, strong enough to withstand the near-constant winters, lie withered upon the ground, or sit stunted in soil practically catered to its every need.
As you head further up the road, the trees grow sparse - and those that stand do so with yellowing needles and bare branches - and then you see it.
Gnomeregan.
Its great gates rust like the entrance to the valley - and great vents creak and groan in the wind, green smoke trickling down from them like a deathrattle. You can see the remains of New Tinkertown in the distance, obscured by a thick green fog. The snow here is a pale yellow - a sick colored shade that turns your stomach. It’s the color of bile and rot - and it runs through the snow in streaks like veins.
Everything within the fog seems to melt - trees blend into snow, metal sinks into stone. A sign has been erected upon the road, and in the common tongue, it reads:
This place is not a place of honor… no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here… nothing valued is here. Only blood and death await.
It is done by a gnomish hand, and numerous sets of small footprints lead into the snow.
The wind does not blow here. The sun seems to glare upon you and you squint into the distance.
Somewhere, perhaps at the gate itself, you see movement.
A raised head. Empty sockets. Stretched features. Sallow skin.
You turn and walk away.
The power the gnomes command is frightening and terrible. They have unlocked secrets even Azshara could never hope to discover - and they have paid the price for it. Be thankful that they look upon the world with compassion instead of hate.