World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Mor'Lag's Dream, Continued.

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“Don’t cower, girls! Stand upright, so that ALL can see you and how you do not fear.” These, the words of your grandmother Urahna, you remember more clearly than the cannonfire; though perhaps not as clearly as howls of the maimed and dying.

The crossing had gone badly. There could be no doubt at the strength of the Horde here - their ships were present in great numbers bearing sails daubed with the colors and symbols of the various contributing or clans. Black sails bearing savage, gap toothed smiles flew alongside white sails daubed with a bloody mountain, and still more with the storm-slashed moon and waves. Each of those ships cut low through the water, gravid with the green-skinned killers who had proven their worth in one world by shattering the ogre empire, and had done so in this one by devastating a continent. Yet they were transport ships, poorly armed if armed at all; and orcs were poor sailors. The only teeth the fleet possessed at all were the nine ogre juggernauts escorting them. Each belonged to one of the great ogre clans who were first to seize the ruined shipyards of Stormwind, and the dwarf thanedoms. Your father’s clan is Gordunni, an old and prestigious clan known for its warriors, magi, and - now - for your father’s power as a warlock-general. But your mother’s clan is Wavemaul, and your grandmother a high matriarch within it. Tuur’Nog’s Fist is her ship, named to honor her sons-in-law; and it is the best armed of all the vessels in the armada.

But Doomhammer, Gul’Dan and the other inner-circle leaders had underestimated the human’s command of their own oceans; and with land in sight, the Kul’Tiran fleet had attacked. Strange sorcerer-clerics commanded the winds from the decks of their tall ships, and had rolled a bank of cloud out before them to cover their approach. When they revealed their ambush, the toll they reapt was disastrous. The outnumbered juggernaughts made as strong a broadside line as they could to shield the transports, but Tuur’Nog’s Fist had hammered on through the blasted flinders of dozens of the littler horde vessels now, bashing their drowning orcs to the indifferent depths. Thousands of orcs drowned without ever setting foot on the northern shore; and two juggernaughts - the Highmaul Gor-Horn and the Stonemaul Hammerbeast were gutted and sinking from the sheer disparity in alliance poundage. Only then did the dragons arrive - red beasts of fire and destruction that the Dragonmaw had wrangled into service through their legendary beastcraft. They attacked the alliance ships, forcing them to split their efforts with cannons to the main armada and deck-guns chasing the deadly reptiles. Most of the allied ships dropped their sails and fought from anchor to prevent their sheets from being burned; and under that cover, the remaining orcs made landfall, and your fathers had touched their foreheads to yours for the last time before taking his honor guard in their own transports to the battle to come.

You, your mother and your grandmother stood shoulder to shoulder on the aftcastle while cannonfire raked through the air, killing ogre crew when they found their mark but never finding one of Urahna’s crewmembers ducking, or cowering. Her first mate - Brukk, you remember his name - took a sixteen pounder to the shoulder with a resonant crack of bones breaking, but he retained the limb, and kept the cannonball to fashion into a weapon later. But the battle at sea was just a sideshow now. If the Horde could take the beach, the Kul Tirans would surely break rather than risk an indefinite battle with the dragons while Boralus harbor remained undefended. With death whistling around you and the agony of injured ogres ringing in your ears, you watch the battle on land through your grandmother’s spyglass, trading it between Mor and Lag.

You watched as the first transports made landfall, and three human knights - small creatures in size - surged out to meet and kill them. You watched as the outnumbered human forces began to break when your fathers and their ogre shocktroops bludgeoned aside the failing orcs and begun taking their toll. You watched and counted.

A human spearman rushed at them, but Tuur snatched the spear, broke it in half, and impaled the man with its broken end through his neck.

One.

Two more rushed at the linebreakers, slipping past the foreguards, and tried to flank your fathers; but they could not be flanked, and the the human warriors died when their heads were clapped together between your father’s palms.

Three.

Elves now, raining arrows from well behind the human lines. From Nog’s hand, a lurching arc of green energy zipped through the melee and detonated amidst the elves, scattering the smoking bones of three.

Six.

Then lightning flashed in the blue sky, as clouds obligingly gathered overhead. A great bolt of blue-white power ripped from the sky, down into the upraised palm of a human mage, and then out like a thrown javelin, striking your fathers square in the chest.

Through all this, the battle played out in silence in your vision, drowned out by cannonfire and the voices of ogre sailors. The bolt of lightning, heard for miles, seemed to strike with so much power it overflowed the visual display and rattled your ears, filling your nostrils with the tang of ozone. That is the way your fathers died. Overpowered by an arcane better, falling with only the blood of six enemies on his fists.

“...Forger’s spit,” Urahna growled, “they’ll rout now. Doomhammer thinks his deathknights will turn it; but it’s over. RAISE ALL SAILS! WE LEAVE WHILE THE DRAGONS REMAIN, LEST THEY LEAVE US! RAISE THE SAILS, AND DROP THE OARS, YOU GRONN-TICKS!”

Your grandmother was at least admirable, during this shocking moment. Her shouted commands to wheel the Fist around and break south rings powerfully in your memory.

Your mother says nothing; she just bows her lonely head, closes her eyes, and grieves the loss of her husbands… and laments in silence the burden of their shame upon her.