Post by HiVolt
The blood of the Night Elven forces soaked the ground. The Warsong surged forward, swinging their weapons in a controlled chaos that matched the beat to which they marched. He saw only dark red figures flowing toward him in a sea of blood. As he swung his axes, the figures vanished, contributing their own substance to the crimson oceans swirling around him. Each swing was as a breath of wind, and each foe a wave to be conquered.
The warmth of the blood drenching him was a reminder; a reminder that war was the way to power. It swelled within him, making him lust for more. He could hear the voice in his mind, surging him onward. But, he did not deny it's presence. It sounded different but familiar: a voice he had heard long ago. It was odd, but he could almost see his father alongside him, his blackened jaw opened wide, his scream piercing the forest with fury.
He could see them breaking now, running toward the only salvation they could hope for: the Northern lines. He watched them and smiled, knowing that they marched only to their doom. Those that would escape the footsoldiers would find an armada of Horde ships waiting to take them. And those that escaped the armada would soon find their haven of Teldrassil under siege. After this decade of constant struggle, the Night Elves would find themselves upon the brink of extinction.
"Warchief," a voice echoed in the distance, "the Sentinel line is broken. Do you wish that I order the regroup?" Agmar: such a loyal lapdog, always vying for his master's approval. He was sickened by the pitiful being that dared call himself an orc; but, he served his purpose. He nodded, and Agmar slipped away. He heard the horns blaring, ordering the Horde to regroup for the march Northward.
After his soldiers fell back into rank, he found himself standing alone, the Warsong echoing behind him. He smelled the blood soaking into the soil. He saw the smoke rising up from the trees and into the darkening sky. A light breeze whispered through the undergrowth, bringing a slight chill with it. The red haze faded, and he was himself once more. But, he felt different. It seemed as though the weakness he had felt so often was gone, replaced by something more, something better. He let out another great scream, ordering the March of Hellscream to begin.
Two Weeks Earlier:
Thrall found himself in the thick of the battle. His Doomhammer rained blows down on his enemies, crushing skulls and limbs as if they were made of a thin clay. The front lines of Ragnaros' force was composed mainly of tangible beings, humanoids corrupted by the Firelord. The more difficult enemies were still to come, Elementals, Core Hounds, Flamewalkers, and the towering Molten Giants. But the target, Ragnaros himself, had yet to make himself known on the battlefield.
They marched on, holding their lines against the breaking waves of foes before them. But, their vanguard force was dwindling, and soon the bulk of the army of the firelands would be upon them. The hulking behemoths of molten rock trudged forward, scorching the land below them, filling the air with the scent of burning soil.
Thrall looked back to see Malfurion, fighting alongside them. He captured the druid's attention and indicated the giant constructs coming toward them. Malfurion nodded and retreated back with a few other druids. He knew what Thrall was indicating, they would need to call upon the forests to aid them.
The final of the three catapults was making it's way up the steep slope when the horn of the charge sounded. Vol'jin looked down the cliffside to the town that he and his forces had abandoned. He felt the anger climbing within him. Garrosh had gone too far, sending them this far from home to an area that any other commander would have evacuated rather than defended, given the circumstance.
But Garrosh's motives were different. He had always looked down his nose to the Darkspears. He thought of them as weak and insignificant. Now, Vol'jin had no choice but to fuel that flame. He refused to allow Garrosh a victory over him or his people. He would not bow, he would not falter. He would show the young Hellscream and the rest of the world that the Darkspears have never been weaker.
Leaving the post had made his heart sink, and now, seeing it besieged in full by Alliance forces, and without him there to lead those that remained; it made him sick with loathing and sadness.
As the final catapult crossed the threshold to the summit of the cliffside, the final catapult on the ground fired its payload. The pass up to the Hinterlands went crumbling downward, and with it, the Alliance gained a victory.
Two Weeks Earlier:
Thrall continued onward, still swinging his hammer with fervor. Enemy after enemy fell before him, and soon, he found himself in the divide between the ranks of their forces. Now, instead of the tangible flesh that his forces had been facing, terrible beings of terrible power marched forward.
One of the Core Hounds was snarling and roiling in anticipation. With a quick shift of movement, it broke rank and sprinted forward, aiming its charge directly at Thrall. He had faced large enemies alone before, ogres and enormous beasts, but none of this magnitude. The rest of the line was still regrouping after him. Instead of waiting, instead of allowing him to be aided by the soldiers following him, he charged.
Calling upon the winds and the earth to aid him, he met the monster in the very center of the divide. It lashed out with one of it's heads, roaring viciously, ready to snap the orc into its massive jaws. But, Thrall had experience and intelligence on his side. As the beast struck forward, he leaped out of the way and grabbed hold of the horn protruding from the side of its head.
The added weight made the beast turn in a flailing circle, but Thrall kept his grip. He clamored up to the back of the beast and raised his weapon. Calling on the earth to aid in it's decent, he brought the blackened stone hammer down onto the left of the beast's two skulls. A thundering crack resounded throughout the battlefield and the Core Hound's left skull shattered. Its right side went dead as the left continued to kick and flail. It roared in pain from its still living head. With another great swing, the shaman dispatched the abominable creature.
The line regrouped and began to march forward again, overtaking the corpse of the great beast. Thrall looked back to where the druids had gone earlier and saw something that made his heart swell. The very forest surrounding the army was moving.
Saurfang stood at the bow of the flagship. They would soon reach Auberdine, and act as the anvil to the Warsong's hammer. Garrosh's strategy was remarkable in it's tactics. Never before had he shown such an aptitude for command. It worried him. It reminded him of the tactical mind that his father had. He knew that much of Grom's tactical insight was afforded by his lust for battle. It worried him that the son would become the father. It made him wish that Dranosh could still be with the young Warchief, to help temper him.
The salt air filled his nostrils. It wasn't as familiar as the smell of blood and battle. He worried that his inexperience with naval warfare would dampen the ability of the fleet. But, such a thought could only be left behind now. He had to lead his soldiers, no matter the terrain.
A faint whiff of a more familiar scent filled his nostrils: a wind rider. The scout landed on the lower deck and quickly made his way up to the bow. The High Overlord could see the look on his face, one of urgency. The younger soldier saluted and Saurfang returned the gesture, permitting the man to speak. "I have urgent news from Orgrimmar. High Overlord Nazgrel is rerouting the western fleet to blockade the Alliance posts near the Barrens," he paused for a moment, "The Alliance is leading an army into the Barrens. We believe they aim to cut the routes between Thunder Bluff and Orgrimmar. The High Overlord asks for aid in stopping the force."
Saurfang spat. Things had gone too smoothly, too easily. He should have seen this coming. He looked the messenger in the eye, "Has word been sent to the Warchief?"
"Nazgrel is leading the Scythegore, correct?"
The messenger nodded.
"I will take the Kor'Kron War Riders to aid them," he looked to his second, "Or'barokh, you will continue with the mission unless you receive contradicting orders from the Warchief, is that understood?"
Or'barokh nodded, "Yes, High Overlord."
"Good," Saurfang said, a grim scowl coming over his brow. "Messenger, return to Nazgrel, tell him that the War Riders will meet him on the field. Dismissed."
The messenger saluted and returned to his wyvern, then took flight back toward the South.
Saurfang gave the order to the flagman, who then relayed it to the other ships. Soon the War Riders were taking off from each of the various ships that they had boarded. Saurfang walked to the stern of the ship where his wyvern was tied. He loosed the ropes and climbed onto the saddle. With a swift, firm kick to it's flanks, they rose above the fleet. The rest of the War Riders flew in behind him, ready to take receive their orders.
"Kor'Kron! Take to the skies! To the Barrens!"