Independent thoughts still scud across like thin clouds, but emotions are pale echoes and free will is as foreign a concept as spring in Icecrown.
Fight, train, smith, forge, build, kill. The machine of war needs constant oiling. Errant thoughts spring away and die like sparks from the hammer on the anvil; a glowing hot sword buck quenched instantly, hissing, in the ice-rimed slack.
The haze of enslavement brings an illusion of euphoria to the mind. It is bolstered by the relief of satiation in the form of fulfilling their very purpose: ending all life. It is an elegant, remorseless design.