Many northern areas throughout the Eastern Kingdoms bore the scars of Arthas' rampage. None more so than the city at the centre of Lordaeron, and the home of the monarchy – Capital City.

The prince, in what some described as being 'cursed of mind', returned months later from his crusade in Northrend, only to murder his own father in cold blood. We were all shocked and devastated. As if his culling of Stratholme had not been enough. But there was no question, he'd murdered his once-doting father and our beloved king, Terenas.

Then the very creatures Arthas set out to eradicate, the Scourge, ravaged the lands on his command. Once beautiful forests, rich in a tapestry of emerald greens and gold, pitted with a plethora of multi-coloured flora, now lay decimated, dull, colourless, and broken. Nature's sentinels were nought but burnt wooden skeletons, their limbs gnarled and twisted, naked of fresh foliage forevermore. And although, back then, I never saw it first-hand, there was tell of a huge scar that ran the length of Ghostlands, formerly Eastweald, effectively slicing the 'eternal spring' lands in half: home to the High Elven nation plus several colonies of trolls. The destruction became a testament to Arthas' dark legacy as the Lich King.

The Third War spread throughout the lands. And as with all wars and conflicts, great or small, the majority of people tried to continue on with their lives as normal, albeit within certain boundaries and restrictions.

Mine and my father's lives, however, had changed so dramatically that simply functioning on a daily basis required gargantuan effort. Made all the harder by our isolation, our banishment from society and all things congenital to a community spirit.

I'd hear my father sobbing at night, his pain visceral as a grieving widower, made all the more profound by the strength and resolve it took for him to contain his sorrow during the day; an attempt to spare me more sadness than I already felt. It was a time when I was trying my best to fill the hole in our family's life by doing all the things my mother would do to maintain a clean and ordered little household. Make it a home. A place we would love to relax, happy to be within its walls, enjoy its quaintness, its freshness; - from something as simple as a little vase of flowers on the table to the smell of fresh-baked scones wafting through from the kitchen. But try as I might, I could never give of myself what came naturally to my mother. I was not a domestically gifted female. It took real effort and a ridiculous amount of planning to carry out the simplest of things. Things which I'd previously taken for granted because she was so perfect in all that she did for us. For me. I quickly learned to fully appreciate everything she'd done, more so now that she was gone.

That summer, I was supposed to start my training as a mage, a vocation fully endorsed by my late mother. But, losing her had dampened my enthusiasm, and with the insurmountable grief my father was going through, I felt unable to leave him to suffer on his own. Without a little bit of comfort. Without me.

Therefore, the subject was never broached. I knew he was opposed to my choice of profession, purely based on his view that it wasn't 'honest work'. If you didn't come home black as coal, or with callouses on your hands, bunions on your feet and joints that screamed with every movement, then it wasn't really classed as work. Said he, a former commander with the Argent Crusade. He had, certainly, seen plenty of fighting and engaged in skirmishes in his heyday, but progression in the ranks meant most of his 'work' was carried out from behind the flaps of his tent. There, he read and replied to reports about enemy positions and demonstrated plans of attack with little wooden figurines dotted on large maps sprawled over a table made from supply crates. Latterly in his army career, he seldom engaged in physical battle; that was the job of his men.

I didn't consider him any less of a soldier because the bulk of his career was spent in considerable safety compared to the infantry, but as such it didn't hold true to his argument when he voiced his opinion about the magical community. He seemed to have overlooked many a mage, and, indeed, warlocks had fought side by side with the armed forces throughout history. Granted, we humans were late in adopting magic as a credible addition to our military arsenal, but we did embrace it and it became a permanent fixture.

Still, he wasn't a fan of magic. Nor its practitioners. Particularly in light of what had been a very prominent feature of the current war. Necromancy – a dangerous, dark magic prohibited by the magical community and yet it was one of its esteemed peers who had embraced and attributed it to the culling of Stratholme. That aside, my father still viewed mages and the like as spineless individuals who just ponced about in pretty, often flamboyant garments, flicking a wrist here and there and muttering garbled gobbledegook. I found his opinion quite amusing - most of the time - and never took it as a personal slight of my chosen path. Perhaps it made me more determined to prove him wrong.

Yet, with all his misgivings and prejudices, surprisingly, it was he who voiced that I should commence my studies even though it meant my travelling to Dalaran, far from our little cottage in no man's land. I was stumped. He'd always been so against the idea of me becoming a mage. I wondered then, if - as my mother had lay dying - she'd made him promise. Promise to let me live my dream. I could imagine her doing that; she'd always been able to sway my father. But above all, he loved her dearly, wholeheartedly, and would do all he could to make her happy. So, the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that her happiness, her wishes and her desires were still very much alive for him, and that was responsible for his support of my internship.

And so, I began my journey. At the age of eighteen, I was considered a late starter. But many had been 'adopted' by the Magrocrasy at a very young age. Parents struggling to support their ever-growing families were known to deposit their youngest at the gates of Dalaran, with the knowledge that the children would be well cared for, and given skills to help them get through life. And not always as fully qualified magi. Some chose other professions out with the community. But at least they had been taught basic skills and given the confidence to start out on their own.

I watched some of the youngsters closely, as I made my way into the Violet Citadel and wondered how many had faced that rather sad start in life. I could tell the ones who had no interest in magic, the ones who were there as stewards, vassals, cooks, cleaners and general maintenance workers. None seem disgruntled or despondent. They all just went about their duties quite happily, some even humming or whistling a tune as they worked. But nevertheless, such tales did make me consider my own circumstances. I'd grown up in my parent's care, lived in a happy home, and was blessed with their love and guidance. I had much to be grateful for, despite the last few nightmarish months.

Dalaran, the city of the Magrocrasy and the place of my training was located in the Alterac Mountains. Nestled close to the southern shores of Lordamere Lake, the body of water serves as a divide between Capital City and the magi's metropolis.

As it turned out, many new students, myself included, were too inexperienced to be considered of any help for Dalaran fighting the Scourge, and when it was realised an attack on the city was imminent, we were advised to go home. So, I was no sooner there, and I had to leave.

The war escalated, and the city's arcane defences, along with a small but powerful resistance consisting of the magical guilds housed in the metropolis, stood defiant as Arthas and his Scourge attacked the city. And, unbelievably, Dalaran fell.

Many lives were lost, bodies crushed by the rubble - buried without ceremony. I couldn't help but wonder how many of the dead were those very youngsters whose parents had left them at the gates, hoping for a better future for them. I tried not to dwell on that.

Plus, on hearing that mutants and renegades - the Scourge - now roamed its broken streets, I considered my days of training well and truly over; that the hub of all things magical was no more.

My heart was heavy. I had lost so much already. My home in Stratholme, my temporary residence in Lakeshire, and my beloved mother. And now the very place I was to have studied the magical arts was but a ruin.

Then, amazingly, those who had survived the assault rallied, and work quickly began on resurrecting the fallen spires and city streets. Archmage Rhonin, the red-haired powerhouse of a mage, led the project, and miraculously, the city rose from the ashes and became even more spectacular in its construction and defence mechanisms, including an immense magical dome protecting it from further attacks.

However, there was no let-up in the war, and word spread that Arthas was crowned as the Lich King and the battle moved to Northrend. The Kirin Tor then made a momentous decision. In order to defend against the Lich King and his Scourge, a strategic base of operations was required. Thus, the relocation of Dalaran was necessitated.

The enormity of such a feat you would consider to be at best, time-consuming, if not impossible. As a student, barely into my internship, I could not perceive the possibility of such upheaval. Of course, I knew magic was powerful with many facets and abilities – but uprooting an entire city in a limited time? It was a daunting prospect indeed.

The city, however, was founded over a network of leylines, a convergence of deep, magical energies. The source of the city's power. This energy source combined with the expertise of eminent magi, would enable the construction of a giant portal to transport the entire city. And, in this instance, it meant it would leave the shores of Eastern Kingdoms and travel north over the Great Sea until it hovered over Crystalsong Forest in Northrend. Its location wasn't far from where Arthas had holed himself up, in the nefarious stronghold called Icecrown Citadel.

Surprisingly, word arrived that my studies would resume and with aid from portal mages still based in Eastern Kingdoms, I was to make my way to the new, relocated Dalaran. 

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A bit of a shakey start for Klara, and a sorrowful time indeed for both her and her father.

But, no sooner is she on her feet than Dalaran is served a catastrophic blow. How much more can the girl take?

Is her character shaping up though? Any thoughts?