Martin and Allen, two marines, are drinking themselves stupid and sharing stories. Allen asks for a happy memory, and is surprised when Martin states "Northrend"; then he tells her this one, and she both laughs and cries, and promises to compose it into a poem.
I later found out that Martin's player based this on a real WWI story, which breaks my heart even more; I hope this poem, minuscule and silly though it may be, will serve as my tribute to those soldiers.
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The Snow Between The Trenches
In Northrend, Snowland, Winter Veil,
The night-storm calmed at last
And soldiers pray with faces pale
To ghosts of winter past.
The east – Alliance, blue and gold
Their ditch now filled with dead
At west – The horde, their voices hoarse
With battlecries unheard.
What is this one night we now share
With weapons in our clenches?
It's not mulled wine that colours red
The snow between the trenches.
An orc then stands with arms in air
His white flag tattered, stained
He walks towards Alliance's lair
Across the snowy plain.
A blue-gold envoy marches up
His weapons tight abrace
The orc kneels, smiling, stands and throws
A snowball at his face.
What is this one night we now share
With weapons in our clenches?
The red-green leaves are dead beneath
The snow between the trenches.
And so the night was bathed with joy
Of weapons laid aground
And hardy soldiers on both ends
Tossed snow balls all around.
At dawn, their faces pink with frost
Their grim-smiles speak goodbye
They trudge into their trenches lost,
To fight and then to die.
And morning's battle boils the field
With death's vile stenches
As dull-eyed heads roll, painting red
The snow between the trenches.
