Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Molten Front Diary 03

Day 2
So Hamuul Runetotem done had this plan where we was gonna sneak up on one of Staghelm's lieutenants. Note ta self: when a bugger comes from a long line of buggers what's idea of "sneak up on" was about gettin' at a clump of grass withouts its spottin' you, don't agree ta his plan. Now, Hamuul be a slab of overdone beef, and I's out farmin' fire elementals fer ta ease his pain. Bugger this.

Day 12
Seven instances of Sudden Bear on Top, two of Sudden Moonkin on Top, and one Sudden Firecat on Top. Glad thing I's a tough bugger. Startin' fer ta suspect these druid wimmenz like this position on purpose, though....

Day 19
Tell me again? Why is we tryin' fer ta fight fire by growin' a tree?

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Molten Front Diary 02

Day 1


"The hell you doin', lyin' there on the ground there?"

"I'm trying to get some sleep, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Well great googly moogly go back a sleep kid. Yer the only bugger what knows what fuhg he's doin' 'round here. An' don't 'sir' me - I ain't yer dad."

Day 7

Mylune still makes noises like a chipmunk on helium when she done gets real excited.

Day 29

Saynna Stormrunner stands in the fire Every Glubberfubbin' Time we attack the Forlorn Spire.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Dragonblight 03

One month ago:

A memory coalesced out of he nebulous cloud: a young, awkward Forsaken, struggling still to learn how to control her own animated corpse, nervously looking up at the bodies dangling from the trees, rough hempen ropes around their necks. The Scarlet Crusade had been a terrifying force, mysterious and malevolent, hunting her for the crime of not staying dead. But it was a new night, and the hunters had become the hunted.

Only one guard remained outside the cathedral. Quiet as a mouse, the dead girl slipped through the shadows until she was behind the oblivious woman. Plate armor protected her from a quick stab in the back, but the lack of a gorget left her throat vulnerable. Too late she tried to turn as the thin but strong loop of wire dropped down over her head and around her neck. It tightened before she could scream, closing her throat and allowing only a rasping gurgle to escape. Panicked, she struggled, trying to break free, completely forgetting the weapons at her belt, but the dead girl's bony hands were too strong, and a knee pressed into the small of the woman's back, keeping her off balance. Slowly the dead girl forced the larger but ever weakening woman to the ground. Just before the light left her eyes forever, another forgotten memory coalesced and the dead girl whispered, "Not so tough without your car, are you?"

What the hell did that mean, she wondered as she unlooped the wire from the corpses neck. Sometimes she remembered glimpses of her first life, when she had still been human, were strange and confusing, devoid of context. Ah well. Best to forget it, and focus on the task at hand. She stood up and motioned for her companions that the path was clear. Five forms emerged from the darkness behind the lumbermill: Bayorne the big Tauren shaman, Tyrastale the Blood Elf Paladin, Raladigia the Troll warrior, Darush the Orc hunter, and Nightfang the panther.

"Good job, Mouse," whispered Tyrastale. "We couldn't hear a thing from where we were. No indication that anyone's raised an alarm."

"Time to pay the general a visit. Everyone ready?" whispered Ral.

Four heads nodded. Weapons drawn, they walked through the open doors into the cathedral.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Dragonblight 02

Four months ago:

Morning. Consciousness returned. Consciousness meant pain. There was always pain. Pain was better than oblivion. The dead girl willed her limbs to move, her body to rise from the wool blanket she had spread on the frozen ground the night before. "Happy, happy, joy joy," she whispered to herself. "I am a cheerful affront to nature."

She rolled up the blanket, lashed it to her rucksack, and dug out a tin cup and a spoon. She looked around, searching for some breakfast. She had arrived at Agmar's Hammer late the night before, too tired to do more than drop her horse off with the stablemaster and find an open spot to drop her blanket in a field of snoring orcs and tauren. There, over on that small hill. Smoke from a cooking fire, and soldiers queueing up. She threw her rucksack over one shoulder and walked over to join the line.

Reaching the peon serving what she suspected was supposed to be oatmeal out of a black cauldron, she held out her cup. The peon reached out with a ladle then, noticing her skeletal hand, stopped. He looked up at her and took a half step back, blanching at the empty eye sockets staring at him. "No. No deaders. You... you not eat here."

"Oh, for fuck'ss sssake," she replied. "Just give me some damn breakfast."

"No deaders," the orc repeated. "Sergeant's orders. You go away."

"What sergeant? What the hell is thiss? Sergeant?! Sergeant!"

She could hear grumblings behind her. Hungry Warsongs and Taunka and other less stupid orcs and tauren realizing that the line had stopped moving. Tough. She was a member of the Horde, one who had seen a lot more action and spilled a lot more blood in its service than most of them. Let them wait.

An old orc with sergeant's stripes on his Warsong Offensive tabard came out from behind a pile of crates. He glared at her and demanded, "Get out. We don't serve your kind here."

The dead girl defiantly placed her fists on her hips and glared up at him. "You Warsongss need to learn some fucking mannersss. You aren't chopping wood in Ashenvale anymore." She could feel the two orcs approaching her from behind, one to either side, but she was not going to be intimidated. "I'm a Horde soldier, and I will be treated as ssuch."

The sergeant spat on the ground. "Get her out of here." The grunts grabbed her arms. She twisted, lunged - it should have been childishly easy to break free. But dammit these two were attuned to the camp's magical wards. It gave them inhuman strength within the camp walls, and their grip was like iron. She tried to kick the sergeant, but she was off-balance and he sidestepped it. His fist slammed into her solar plexus with the force of a kicking kodo. With a "woof" the air left her lungs. He spat again, this time into her face. "Get this stinking filth out of my mess," he repeated.

They dumped her at the base of the wall, and began with the kicking. She curled in a ball, trying to protect her head and chest. Even so, at least one rib cracked before they lost interest and walked away. It hurt as she lay there gasping, slowly regaining control of her breathing. But so what? It was only pain. There was always pain. Pain was better than oblivion.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Molten Front Diary 01


Two night elves, standing on a small rise, looking over a battlefield. It is littered with corpses, most of them night elves and tauren, many still smoking. A wrecked glaive thrower smolders next to the carcass of a gutted firebird. The land is eerily still and silent.

She is wearing heavy plate armor. He is wearing ... feathers.

General Moonfall: Well, Arch-Druid, it's as bad as the reports indicated. 

Malfurion: Yes, this is a disaster. I thought we would be able to open a portal into their rear and catch them by surprise. But they knew. Somehow, they knew we were coming.

General Moonfall: My sentinels are experienced at catching poachers, at hit-and-run border raids. Not protracted battles. And your druids .... well, no offense, but most of them have been asleep for thousands of years. Against Staghelm's forces, they're completely outmatched. Over one thousand dead....

Malfurion (letting out a heavy sigh): I know. But we have no choice other than to continue. We have no choice. We must push the enemy back into the Firelands, and then hold the line, if the Avengers are to have any chance against Ragnaros.

General Moonfall: What we really need is... someone tough enough to really pull this outfit together.

Malfurion: Ratshag?

General Moonfall: Possibly.

Malfurion: Elune help us!

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Dragonblight 01

Three months ago:

Dead girl, lying in the middle of a frozen wasteland.

She is lying on a wool blanket, wearing worn but still serviceable black leather armor. Empty eye sockets stare unblinking up at the gray early morning sky. Fingerless gloves reveal white bones, the flesh stripped away. Her face is extremely pale, shriveled, flesh stripped or fallen away in patches. Under the armor, her body appears gaunt and wasted away. A rucksack lies on the ground a few feet away. A thin layer of frost has coated everything, cold and silent.

But in the Blight, even such meager offerings are not turned down. As the rising sun forces the night's fog to relinquish its grip, carrion birds are beginning their morning patrol. The dead girl, black against a sea of white, is quickly spotted. Several circle her, slowly descending, warily watching for the larger scavengers that wander this dying land. One lands a few feet away from the body, and with a triumphant squawk to celebrate its courage, waddles toward her, eager to claim a mouthful of the remaining flesh.

The dead girl sits up.

The carrion bird shrieks and flaps its way back into the air, outraged at the deception. The girl was only pretending to be a meal! Its companions added their shrieks. Lie! Falsehood! Cheat! Then, slowly, they begin to drift off, their never-sated hunger driving them to search for meat that followed the rules. The girl watches them go with her eyes that are no longer there. As they disappear into the greyness, she reaches out and extends a single bony finger.

"Not yet," she rasps defiantly.

Then she stands stiffly, stretches and brushes the frost from her arms and legs. She picks up her blanket, folds it in half and rolls it into a tight bundle. She lashes it to the rucksack, slings it over her shoulder, and resumes the long cold walk to Venomspite.