Blood and Iron
The Southern Barrens had now been split, and the Alliance made its campaign to sieze control of natural resources and land and prevent the Orcs of Orgrimmar to make contract with their bovine allies. Deathwing's rage made the land heave and groan in pain, as whole towns and settlements were swallowed up into the bowels of Azeroth, forever lost. It had been several years since Deathwing's calamity scarred the surface of Azeroth, making heroes of both the Horde and the Alliance throw away old hatreds to put an end to Deathwing's rampage once and for all, but the battle between the Horde and the Alliance did not die with Deathwing, if anything, it is lasting legacy of his terrible carnage and just how war changes and marrs not only the physical world, but the geopolitical nature of states and nation. Araethius knew this of course, war is a natural occurrence on this planet, his people had been fighting for their existence since the very dawn of time, and especially so in the last thirty odd years with the Horde renewing it's perennial conflict with the Alliance eve yso often. But he was here now, in the Southern Barrens, ready to mete out justice for all of his fallen allies who had died trying to place him where he is right now. He was ready to fight.
The rather young paladin clambered his way up the steep incline of the hill, his armor shifting and groaning as he did so. Kalimdor was a rough place, designed for a rugged and savage people, and he would allow himself to be molded by the harsh sun of Kalimdor, her biting winds and whipping sand, her venomous animals and poisonous fruits, to forge and mold him into a perfect, savage killing machine. A formidable enemy of the Horde and all of her allies, an enemy that would strike fear into the heart of the Horde's finest warriors and magi, an enemy worth fighting against. Upon clambering to the top of the hill he surveyed his surroundings. Glorious ranges, bluffs and rocky outcrops met his eyes in all of its savage beauty. Grass that was once dry was now verdant and full of life, land that was once whole is now scarred and broken. The Cataclysm changed this area, for the better? He was not certain. Araethius's primary mission was to gather intelligence on Horde movements within the area, even though there was peace with the Horde ever since the siege on Orgrimmar , one can never be too trusting of his once stalwart enemies, allowing the Alliance to weaken and lay down their arms would allow the Horde – another warchief even, to take up arms against them. Araethius gritted his teeth. He was not going to allow the Horde any breathing room, despite this 'peace'. The Horde simply couldn't be trusted, and as far he knew, he wasn't violating any of the peace treaties the two major political factions had signed. This was a covert operation, he wasn't meant to be seen. An intelligence operation, simply gather and retreat, he wasn't going to engage any Horde military units and he certainly wasn't being backed up by any support elements whatsoever. It was simply him, alone, in the middle of a dying conflict within the Southern Barrens. He slowly made his way back down the hill, careful not to draw too much attention to himself as he made his way over to the path. These paths were once used by Horde caravans to transport supplies between Thunder Bluff and Orgrimmar. These caravans now no longer operated since the splitting of the Barrens now made transport by land impossible and, as a whole, made the Horde weaker, but Araethius kept an eye out for any wanderers, be it Human or otherwise, the last thing he wanted to happen was to become embroiled in a battle between Horde scouts. His iron boots quietly thudded against the cobblestone of the Gold Road, reverberating off of the ground with each clunk, his armor shifting and groaning in protest with his movements. He seemed unsure whether he should continue walking down this road. He could easily be picked off by a well-placed arrow-head or a bullet and his presence could be easily detected, but all of this logic and reasoning seemed to vanish from his head as he made his way up towards the Great Gate to Mulgore, home of the mighty shu'halo.
As he approached the mighty wooden gate, it's scale and majesty was made known before him. Great wooden logs stretch across the wall in parallel forming a mighty, seemingly impenetrable fortification against invasion, guarded by two massive, intricately decorated totem poles, mounted with eagles that seem to be the ever watchful guardians of this gate, their eyes staring coldly out into the scarred landscape of the Southern Barrens, watching and waiting for an attack. Looking down from the eagles, Araethius noted that there were two identical watchtowers underneath them, almost identical in size and looks. There appeared to be no guards on station for either tower. He breathed a sigh of a relief, his head tipping forward in silent respect for the Great Gate before making his way forward through the ruins of Camp Taurajo. Burnt out siege equipment and the skeletons of the tauren and man alike lay strewn across the grass. A mighty battle, or a brutal massacre was fought here. He never participated in it, he had no qualms against the tauren, he knew that they were savages, but noble and honorable in their own way. They valued peace above all else, and to see this happen because of their affiliation with the Horde made him disheartened, but it appeared that he could do nothing to save not only his own comrades but that of his enemy as well. He silently visited each one of the ruined and devastated huts, making note of the tauren skeletons that laid there. He paid his respects to those that died, placing his hands on his heart and muttering a small prayer to the Light to guide them safely to wherever they return. He did this to each one's house before stumbling upon a fresh body. A human looter, impaled in the chest by a spear, blood splattered in wide arcs all around the fresh corpse and bloodied hoof prints walked away. The kill was fresh as the flies haven't even come to the corpse yet, but surely he would of heard such a grievous death? Wouldn't he?
Araethius stepped over the corpse, he ran his hands over the looter's body, looking for anything to scavenge off of him, a note or anything like that. His hands snaked into one of the looter's pockets, pulling out a blood-soaked note that was illegible. He tossed the note aside and attempted to pull the mighty spear out of the corpses torso, the spear would not budge as it was firmly stuck in the cavity that was now the man's chest. He let go of the spear, his hands curling in rage at the fact that he could not even pull out a single spear. He slowly trudged onwards, his bloodied boots following the murderer's hoof prints out into the hot, dry savannah.
Next Chapter: Iron sharpens Iron