Pureauthor
13-01-05, 07:10 AM
Last Stand
*~*~*~*~*~*
Yes, this was posted before. And a grand total of one person reviewed. So… I’m reposting this for truth, justice, and all that is pre-shrunk and cottony. Whatever
(Set in the defense of the World Tree)
*~*~*~*~*~*
They stood, watching. They had been watching for the past two days. No one talked. No one joked. The air was stifling.
Was this what I wanted? Geldor thought to himself, fingering his war-axe. To die in battle? To die fighting for home and people… that was considered the highest honour in orcish culture. But what did honour do for the dead?
Striding forward, he noted the ashen faces of the humans, all silent and grim. The elves kept to themselves, concentrating on their magical prowess, and trying to strengthen it before the inevitable clash. The Night Elves of the forest fingered bows, stretched lithely, or stood staring into the darkness; at nameless horrors only they could divine.
As for his people, they merely stood, ramrod straight, ready to do battle. At their head rode the Warchief, Thrall, son of Durotan. Geldor allowed himself a small smile. He had not escaped the corruption the demons had wreaked on his race, and though the demon general, Mannoroth, had been slain, some of the old fire burned in his bones.
As it did in all the older warriors. A lust for battle. A hunger for bloodshed. A thirst for slaughter.
Thrall knew this, and though it displeased him slightly, he knew it would help in battle. The battle-scarred, tested by the long conflicts of the second war now stood arrayed at the front, ready to fight for their lives. For their people.
But… doubts nibbled away at Geldor’s mind. Was this what he wanted? A death in battle? He would not run, of course. No amount of fear could change that. But he did not wish to die, that much was clear.
No. Banishing these thoughts as best he could, he looked to the Warchief, now conferring with the Human and Night Elf leaders. He could not let them down. He would not.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he felt it. The slow rumbling in the ground. A flock of birds further down burst into flight. A stab of flame cutting them down.
He didn’t bother to look. He didn’t need to. A sudden surge of sensation, and a thin veil of red covered his vision. All the older orcs straightened, their necks whipping about to stare at the dark, energy burning in their blood that alerted them on the most primal levels to the beings they once called master.
The Legion had arrived.
Geldor allowed a grim smile as he strode forth. Night Elf sentries had already come, crying out what was old news to Geldor. Instantly, every sword was drawn, every lance primed, every axe gripped in sturdy hands, every bow notched. Geldor heard the soft mutterings of the priests, shamans, and whatever warriors that chose battle through mystical means preparing their individual spells.
And so it began…
*~*~*~*~*~*
Over the low rises, over the hills, crashing through the dense trees, they came. The orcs had failed, and so the Burning Legion had turned to new peons. Their servants, the Undead Scourge, uncaring, and incapable of caring of their fates, they came. Slavering ghouls, glowering skeletons, brutal abominations, and perhaps most terrible of all, the humans who had sold themselves over to the Lich King of their own free will, they came.
And as they neared, faces paled, brave warriors trembled, and doubts gnawed at the Last Alliance. For the Undead’s greatest weapons lay not in unholy strength, or dark necromancy, potent though they were. They depended not on numbers, or mindless servants.
It was fear. Like a dark tide that swept forth before the first of the horrific corpses had reached their foe, terror clouded the minds of all who beheld them, for who could stand against such numbers, such might?
Geldor’s eyes burned with anger. He had seen far too much of what the Legion and Scourge were capable of to underestimate them. Like specters, the faces of those who had already fallen floated before him. He smiled a grim smile as clasped his axe. He would avenge all of them, right here, right now.
With a mighty war cry, he lunged, aiming for a spider-like creature. Caught unawares, the zombie turned at the last instant to look before a slash with his axe ripped off its head.
Behind him, a ghoul turned, ready to bring it’s teeth to bear with his neck. But Geldor had already twisted to face this new threat. Using brute strength, pure muscles with which the orcs were blessed, he ripped open its jaws, forcing them wider and wider until bone snapped and rotting flesh tore.
Suddenly a warning shout rang out, alerting Geldor to a new threat. A pack of the brutal abominations had broken through the line, and the archers and spellcasters were now being targeted by the hulking beasts.
Seconds later, the Archdruid of the Night Elves appeared by their side. His amber eyes taking in the view of the melee, he raised his staff and muttered several arcane words.
Roots exploded from the densely packed earth, twisting and coiling around the legs of the stunned creatures, tightening, and stumbling them. Instantly, waves of arrows poured into the bodies of the Abominations, shredding them and granting, however temporary, the mages a reprieve.
Geldor noted all this out of the corner of his eyes. He had more pressing matters on hand. A pair of dwarves, operating a cannon of some sort, were currently the objective of a trio of slavering ghouls. Rushing over, Geldor beheaded one of them before it even realized it had a new foe.
One of the ghouls, snarling, now turned to face him, while the other kept striking at the dwarves, who were doing their best to avoid it’s wild attacks.
The ghoul leapt at him, sharp claws held in front of it to rend the green creature it saw before him.
But Geldor was prepared. Twisting, he dodged the attack with the slightest of margins, and brought his axe of, bisecting the reanimated corpse.
An explosion sounded. Whriling, Geldor saw that the dwarves, unable to get away from the rabid ghoul they faced, had settled for firing the cannon point blank into the ghoul. It’s remains were currently all over the two slightly annoyed dwarves.
Geldor would have laughed, had the situation not been so demanding. As it were, the majority of melee warriors were in the thick of it, going blade- to- claw with the Undead warriors. His old friend, Dekros, lay gasping on the ground, three long gashes showing on his chest. Beside him, a human soldier slashed with his sword again and again, crying out incoherent challenges to the zombies they faced.
It was into this melee that Geldor charged. Ducking under a wave of strange insectoids fired by one of the spiderlike creatures – Crypts fiends, was that their name? He brought his fist down onto it’s carapace, smashing it and freeing slimy ooze from body.
An elfin mage screamed in the distance. A Night elf archer put an arrow through the head of a ghoul, only to realize too late that nothing short of dismemberment would stop them. An Island troll hurled a spear with deadly accuracy, pinning a ghoul to a tree and leaving it there, snarling and grasping at the blue thing that stayed just out of reach.
All of this was so much background noise to Geldor. He had long since entered a phase known to all experienced warriors. He did not fear. He did not hate. He did not boil with anger. There was no time for these things in the heat of the battle
For him and many others, the battle had simply boiled down to evading the next attack, and striking out with one of your own. Duck, parry, slash, dodge, sidestep, stab, punch, d- ARRRGGGGHHHHH!!!
Geldor dropped to one knee, burning pain lancing up his leg. Turning, he caught sight of a ghoul, blood and flesh hanging from it’s hand. With a snarl, the ghoul leaped, ready to bring it’s jaws on the hapless or-
A blast of lightning surged through the air, burning into the skull of the ghoul with pinpoint accuracy. The head exploded, leaving the body to flop uselessly onto the ground.
Geldor raised head wearily, and saw his Warchief, atop of his wolf steed, eyes closed in concentration as lightning lanced down from the heavens, wreaking havoc on theUndead ranks.
Then, heeding an unseen signal, the undead turned as one and fled back into the dark woods.
No one cheered. They knew all too well what would follow.
But every reprieve, every second, counted. They weren’t fighting for victory here. They were fighting for time. For whatever it was the Night Elf Druid had in mind. Geldor only hoped it was worth it.
Walking over to Dekros, he stood respectfully over his comrade’s body. It no longer gasped for breath. Shaking his head, he leaned down and closed his friend’s eyes. All around him the ground was soaked in blood. The trees would feed well tonight.
If the Legion doesn’t burn them to the ground first, of course. Geldor thought with wry humor. The rustling of the trees, rumbling of the ground, and above all, the pervading haze of red that harkened back to their days of insane bloodlust, all of these served one point. The Legion was near.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Yes, this was posted before. And a grand total of one person reviewed. So… I’m reposting this for truth, justice, and all that is pre-shrunk and cottony. Whatever
(Set in the defense of the World Tree)
*~*~*~*~*~*
They stood, watching. They had been watching for the past two days. No one talked. No one joked. The air was stifling.
Was this what I wanted? Geldor thought to himself, fingering his war-axe. To die in battle? To die fighting for home and people… that was considered the highest honour in orcish culture. But what did honour do for the dead?
Striding forward, he noted the ashen faces of the humans, all silent and grim. The elves kept to themselves, concentrating on their magical prowess, and trying to strengthen it before the inevitable clash. The Night Elves of the forest fingered bows, stretched lithely, or stood staring into the darkness; at nameless horrors only they could divine.
As for his people, they merely stood, ramrod straight, ready to do battle. At their head rode the Warchief, Thrall, son of Durotan. Geldor allowed himself a small smile. He had not escaped the corruption the demons had wreaked on his race, and though the demon general, Mannoroth, had been slain, some of the old fire burned in his bones.
As it did in all the older warriors. A lust for battle. A hunger for bloodshed. A thirst for slaughter.
Thrall knew this, and though it displeased him slightly, he knew it would help in battle. The battle-scarred, tested by the long conflicts of the second war now stood arrayed at the front, ready to fight for their lives. For their people.
But… doubts nibbled away at Geldor’s mind. Was this what he wanted? A death in battle? He would not run, of course. No amount of fear could change that. But he did not wish to die, that much was clear.
No. Banishing these thoughts as best he could, he looked to the Warchief, now conferring with the Human and Night Elf leaders. He could not let them down. He would not.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he felt it. The slow rumbling in the ground. A flock of birds further down burst into flight. A stab of flame cutting them down.
He didn’t bother to look. He didn’t need to. A sudden surge of sensation, and a thin veil of red covered his vision. All the older orcs straightened, their necks whipping about to stare at the dark, energy burning in their blood that alerted them on the most primal levels to the beings they once called master.
The Legion had arrived.
Geldor allowed a grim smile as he strode forth. Night Elf sentries had already come, crying out what was old news to Geldor. Instantly, every sword was drawn, every lance primed, every axe gripped in sturdy hands, every bow notched. Geldor heard the soft mutterings of the priests, shamans, and whatever warriors that chose battle through mystical means preparing their individual spells.
And so it began…
*~*~*~*~*~*
Over the low rises, over the hills, crashing through the dense trees, they came. The orcs had failed, and so the Burning Legion had turned to new peons. Their servants, the Undead Scourge, uncaring, and incapable of caring of their fates, they came. Slavering ghouls, glowering skeletons, brutal abominations, and perhaps most terrible of all, the humans who had sold themselves over to the Lich King of their own free will, they came.
And as they neared, faces paled, brave warriors trembled, and doubts gnawed at the Last Alliance. For the Undead’s greatest weapons lay not in unholy strength, or dark necromancy, potent though they were. They depended not on numbers, or mindless servants.
It was fear. Like a dark tide that swept forth before the first of the horrific corpses had reached their foe, terror clouded the minds of all who beheld them, for who could stand against such numbers, such might?
Geldor’s eyes burned with anger. He had seen far too much of what the Legion and Scourge were capable of to underestimate them. Like specters, the faces of those who had already fallen floated before him. He smiled a grim smile as clasped his axe. He would avenge all of them, right here, right now.
With a mighty war cry, he lunged, aiming for a spider-like creature. Caught unawares, the zombie turned at the last instant to look before a slash with his axe ripped off its head.
Behind him, a ghoul turned, ready to bring it’s teeth to bear with his neck. But Geldor had already twisted to face this new threat. Using brute strength, pure muscles with which the orcs were blessed, he ripped open its jaws, forcing them wider and wider until bone snapped and rotting flesh tore.
Suddenly a warning shout rang out, alerting Geldor to a new threat. A pack of the brutal abominations had broken through the line, and the archers and spellcasters were now being targeted by the hulking beasts.
Seconds later, the Archdruid of the Night Elves appeared by their side. His amber eyes taking in the view of the melee, he raised his staff and muttered several arcane words.
Roots exploded from the densely packed earth, twisting and coiling around the legs of the stunned creatures, tightening, and stumbling them. Instantly, waves of arrows poured into the bodies of the Abominations, shredding them and granting, however temporary, the mages a reprieve.
Geldor noted all this out of the corner of his eyes. He had more pressing matters on hand. A pair of dwarves, operating a cannon of some sort, were currently the objective of a trio of slavering ghouls. Rushing over, Geldor beheaded one of them before it even realized it had a new foe.
One of the ghouls, snarling, now turned to face him, while the other kept striking at the dwarves, who were doing their best to avoid it’s wild attacks.
The ghoul leapt at him, sharp claws held in front of it to rend the green creature it saw before him.
But Geldor was prepared. Twisting, he dodged the attack with the slightest of margins, and brought his axe of, bisecting the reanimated corpse.
An explosion sounded. Whriling, Geldor saw that the dwarves, unable to get away from the rabid ghoul they faced, had settled for firing the cannon point blank into the ghoul. It’s remains were currently all over the two slightly annoyed dwarves.
Geldor would have laughed, had the situation not been so demanding. As it were, the majority of melee warriors were in the thick of it, going blade- to- claw with the Undead warriors. His old friend, Dekros, lay gasping on the ground, three long gashes showing on his chest. Beside him, a human soldier slashed with his sword again and again, crying out incoherent challenges to the zombies they faced.
It was into this melee that Geldor charged. Ducking under a wave of strange insectoids fired by one of the spiderlike creatures – Crypts fiends, was that their name? He brought his fist down onto it’s carapace, smashing it and freeing slimy ooze from body.
An elfin mage screamed in the distance. A Night elf archer put an arrow through the head of a ghoul, only to realize too late that nothing short of dismemberment would stop them. An Island troll hurled a spear with deadly accuracy, pinning a ghoul to a tree and leaving it there, snarling and grasping at the blue thing that stayed just out of reach.
All of this was so much background noise to Geldor. He had long since entered a phase known to all experienced warriors. He did not fear. He did not hate. He did not boil with anger. There was no time for these things in the heat of the battle
For him and many others, the battle had simply boiled down to evading the next attack, and striking out with one of your own. Duck, parry, slash, dodge, sidestep, stab, punch, d- ARRRGGGGHHHHH!!!
Geldor dropped to one knee, burning pain lancing up his leg. Turning, he caught sight of a ghoul, blood and flesh hanging from it’s hand. With a snarl, the ghoul leaped, ready to bring it’s jaws on the hapless or-
A blast of lightning surged through the air, burning into the skull of the ghoul with pinpoint accuracy. The head exploded, leaving the body to flop uselessly onto the ground.
Geldor raised head wearily, and saw his Warchief, atop of his wolf steed, eyes closed in concentration as lightning lanced down from the heavens, wreaking havoc on theUndead ranks.
Then, heeding an unseen signal, the undead turned as one and fled back into the dark woods.
No one cheered. They knew all too well what would follow.
But every reprieve, every second, counted. They weren’t fighting for victory here. They were fighting for time. For whatever it was the Night Elf Druid had in mind. Geldor only hoped it was worth it.
Walking over to Dekros, he stood respectfully over his comrade’s body. It no longer gasped for breath. Shaking his head, he leaned down and closed his friend’s eyes. All around him the ground was soaked in blood. The trees would feed well tonight.
If the Legion doesn’t burn them to the ground first, of course. Geldor thought with wry humor. The rustling of the trees, rumbling of the ground, and above all, the pervading haze of red that harkened back to their days of insane bloodlust, all of these served one point. The Legion was near.