Suffer well, Sister.

It was just another cold, shrouded night. The sounds of soldiers in battle rest surround me as I fletch a new batch of pointy, flying steel death, the vital instruments for my continued survival in this battlefield, day after day, battle after battle and always the same stale-mate.

We were fighting over old Horde gainings, the well-known Alterac Valley, a massive collection of lands and towers spanning kilometers, first seized by our esteemed Warchief Thrall. I was young then, very young, and my first battles against the pitiful might of the Alliance were had here. Nowadays, it just blends seamlessly with everything else, as a blur of monotony only broken by the each day more seldom rush of a true fight.

"Thankfully, my rotation is soon, and I would have another few months to rest in Silvermoon, with what little is left of my family." The thought was pleasant, and it gave a semblance of relaxation, that although it did not take the edge off, it relaxed my muscles enough to not be taut as a bowstring, ready to snap back into position at the shortest notice.

And of course, that was my last pleasant thought until it all began anew, the spatter of gunfire and the bellows of battle-rage were more effective than any alarms raised by our soldiers.

Calmly, I retrieved my weapons and walked out of a side gate, my expression the reluctant acquiesce of a veteran who's done this walk one too many times. A flash on my vision on the left side, practiced movements ingrained into muscle memory showing themselves with all the speed and certainty of a well-oiled machine, notch and pull an arrow shaft into the proper position to fire, my body turning along my eyesight to face the incoming target, and, as soon as the target is within the sights of my scope, I release the tension holding the shaft back and it flies with the grace of a bird, straight into the surprised Rogue's eye, who's last sight was that of a platinum haired elf, with green eyes glowing with the menace of a deadly warrior.

A whistle, emanating from my lips, sharp and resounding, is the call for one of my faithful companions, those as deadly as I am, and soon enough my snowy, large owl is flying circles above me in a tight controlled spiral, hovering around me as she waits for a target.

As I take to the field, she doesn't have to wait long, and upon observing the battle I ascertained that this was an ill-fated attempt of a covert take-over, with only a score or so of alliance soldiers engaged in fighting our forces, some already wounded, others performing impressive feats of martial capacity as, in one particular case, they faced off against 3 grunts in a fierce battle of both strength and wit. Of course, this could not be allowed to continue.

Resigned to this, instinct takes over again as I began the firing of arrow after arrow into the alliance line, taking great care to avoid friendly targets, but peppering their not-quite-cohesive lines with projectiles. Then I hear a gunshot and sure enough, it was aimed at me, crashing soundly against my right shoulder pad, the noisy impact unbalancing me and confusing my eardrums for a couple of precious seconds. My owl, having determined the culprit of the attack on her mistress immediately dives into combat, sharp, deadly talons with even sharper metal claws attached to them bared to face the enemy in combat.

Soon enough, I recover, and the enemy marksman is far too busy avoiding the strikes of my beast to put any sort of defense effectively against me. Soon he is put down into the snow, his squat form, a dwarf, bleeding deeply from the arrow lodged into his throat. And once more, the dance begins anew as I dive into the fray, close combat not hindering me at all as my dagger lashes out and my arrows find purchase on bodies, weaving around Alliance and Horde grunts alike in the haze of combat and warfare.


As sudden as it started, it was over, dead bodies littering the ground all around us. The red clad corpses of our grunts lay alongside the blue clad forms of the soldiers sent to strike at us, although amusing us is a more valid perceived objective as seen by the grins on the surviving orc grunts. Certainly, those took the most joy in this honorable combat.

"Just one more day in paradise… Now time to go back to brooding."

Steady feet took me back to the tower, and after a quick check up to confirm equipment and unnoticed wounds, I grab the reins of my war strider and ride for the nearby keep under Horde control. Deciding a bit of shut-eye is in order, I guide myself inside the barracks upon arriving and flop down into a bed, slipping into the not-quite-sleep that only those in a war know how to rest in.

Come morning, a messenger came in looking for me. It would seem the commander wanted to see me."Rotation time it seems." I thought. The intrusion was welcome, for the expected news, and within a minute I was up and running again, ready to face whatever came at me and mine.

After a few minutes of uneventual walking through the innards of the keep, I came upon the field commander of our force, an old, gruff warlord Orc who had seen as many battles as me and more. His tone was deep and his words to the point; "You're going back home, elf. You have made the Horde proud again with your service, you have earned your rest. Dismissed," And with that, my most recent tour in the Valley was finished, thankfully not as eventful as my last.

The portal out erupted me in the innards of the great Horde city of Orgrimmar, it's beloved stench, result of the sweat and grime of thousands of orcs living in the same place, the unwashed peons unashamed and unaffected by their own smells gathering into a very orcy musk that pervaded everything in it, glorious to the orcs perhaps but extremely distasteful for my admittedly sensitive nose, albeit with the years it is desensitized. The thought was sobering, with the long life spans of my kind the years seem to go by without a second thought, each one taking us closer to our natural grave even with all the efforts to stop, or to accelerate, the fate that every living creature must face eventually.

"Has it really been that long already?" I was in the prime of my life, yet this prime seemed eternal, I was already one hundred and ninety three years old, barely an adult by elven standards, but ancient to the orcs surrounding me, who's life expectancy even to those who did not actively fight, rounded around the hundred something, not many going past a hundred twenty. For the eyes of my kind, I was barely a youngster, yet I had the blood of thousands in my hands… War, truly is hell.

The memory of my parents shakes me out of my reveries, as it's time to begin the long trek back to my homeland and Silvermoon, I could not get to the zeppelins fast enough.


I could barely set eyes in my home without feeling the overcoming grief, it was not long ago that the first deployments to Pandaria happened, with the unfateful demise of the Hellscream's Fist on it's first trip, and the death of every crewmen and soldier still above it. Barely two moons indeed since her death. If only she had come down in the ropes with me… The familiar smells of my workshop bring me out of my misery, smells of lubricant and metal pieces rusting in the back and foreground of my mind. There was a beauty to machinery, and tinkering was one of my favourite things to do. I had even made a gyrocopter, once. A flying machine worthy of goblins, and sold it for a fair amount of gold, enough to buy this too-large-for-one place smack in the middle of Silvermoon.

"Stop it, thinking too much will only drive you mad."

I decided to shelter myself from my thoughts amongst a fair amount of alcohol and machine oil, just another day in the shop…

The next day, while under the influence of an ungodly hangover, a messenger came with a summons, as it seems my vacations would be cut short, I find myself strangely not minding this as much as I believe I should, with the stress of battle still having not left my mind but my muscles aching to stay active. It would seem I was to be attached to a new squadron for an assault deep into Kal'dorei territory… Gearing up within five minutes, I was en route to the Sunspire where we would be briefed, only twenty of us it would seem, and I would be in a position of squad leader, as noted in my orders.

Soon after I was in the war-room, and this is where things went completely different to expected.

"You all have been summoned here," Our regent lord commenced, his projected form looking at the amassed troops, all sort of specialists among us, from the peaceful and wise monks, to the pious paladins to the bloodthirsty berserking warriors, "Because something must be done, and you are the most trust worthy to assign this to.

"Our coalition, has a problem. A big complication, that is endangering all of its members, may you all keep in mind now that what you will hear must not leave this room, and that I have ensured that it will not, for if you refuse… it cannot be allowed to."

His sobering gaze swept over us, searching for something unseen amongst the gathered, I faced my lord's gaze head-on without fear, for I was a proud Blood Elf, and my lord's words did not make me fear. I would not refuse this honor, whatever it would be. After a minute or two, the Lord seemed satisfied with his observations, and continued.

"Sin'dorei," He began, the switch from orcish to Thalassian easily noticeable for all of us present, indicated that this was not for elvin ears and every precaution was taken, Magisters immediately began casting a barrier around us that, I would surmise, allowed no sound to escape, "Garrosh Hellscream is a threat to our continued existence. He is a threat to our customs, a threat to our people, and he clearly disregards our lives as worth only how many we can throw at his enemies, and does not care if they die in the process. This cannot stand. This, will not stand, sin'dorei."

These words… My lord was speaking treason against the Horde. I was torn for a moment, my loyalties weighing themselves, Would I rebuke my lord for this spoken treason, inside his keep, and inevitably die afterwards? Sure, I could take perhaps a dozen guards, but I would be bogged down and executed as a traitor to our kind soon enough, but then my mind swung back to the failure that was the first landing to Pandaria under Warchief Garrosh's orders, and it's personal cost to me. My loyalty to him nonexistent after this reminder, I tuned back to my surroundings just as the Regent began to speak again.

"We are not alone in this sentiment, the dark spears' leader, Vol'Jin, and Thrall himself, will be accompanying you, and will march with you into battle. We will siege Orgrimmar itself, my Elite, and we will bring down the one who has betrayed the very ideal of the Horde. This time next moon, we will have a new Warchief."

Since the briefing, everything was a blur, the preparations undertaken in short order while troop movements were scrambled, in the logistics everything looked perfectly legitimate, but the soldiers never knew their true destination until the very last moment, when no warning could be given, and no stops be pulled. I was made aware that the alliance would join us in this strike, a temporary truce given in order to capture Garrosh and make him pay for all the grievances caused to both sides, and while we stormed from the ground, they would strike from the sea.

The battle outside was short, the contingency of patrols and guards in the perimeter quickly taken out by our rogues and vol'jin's Headhunters, assuring that our advance was undetected while the battle at the port raged.

Soon enough, the massive gates loomed before us, defenders stacked tight on the top, along with one of the greatest Generals of the Horde, the respected Nazgrim.

"I am warning you now, to stop this madness," he bellowed from the battlements up above, as Nazgrim looked down upon the gathered leaders and soldiers. "The Horde must be united to wipe out our enemies; this in-fighting and division will do nothing but weaken us all! You will be our downfall if this continues, Vol'Jin!"

"Nah mon, our downfall be Garrosh and his madness," he riposted, and barked back, "For da good of da horde, we gonna put him down!"

"Don't be foolish Vol'Jin! You have no siege weapons left, you cannot win this battle!"

"Ain't no other way, mon. We gotta stop Garrosh here an' now, else be we runnin' the rest of our lives."

It was sobering, but true, there was no turning back anymore, we had all been seen and the battle had already begun, the alliance troops had already taken the docks and advancing on our position, ready to join the battle for the gates.

"Dey must have taken da docks! Haha!" The old troll exclaimed upon sight of the approaching men and women, "Welcome to da' fields of slaughter."

"Perhaps there is hope after all…" Said Baine Bloodhoof as he readied himself to observe the upcoming battle.

And all hell broke loose, as the expected opponent was unleashed against our hastily assembled defense line, its looming form squarely in front of us and drawing closer with each breath I take. Prepared for this my body lurches into the usual motions of drawing and firing my arrows, taking the short time between shots to charge up power on the arrow tip unleashing arcane charged shots, one after another, at the sensors in the perceived face of the mechanical scorpion facing us.

The Iron Juggernaut, as it's called, is a massive example of Goblin engineering at its finest, mechanical cogs working seamlessly to move the heavy appendages with dexterity unexpected of a machine, the buzz-saw dangerously swift, and the drill lighting fast, stab and slash onto our front line, shields beared against them while our rear strikes with all the possible might they can amass.

Then the cannons began firing, the laser flared and swept, and for the second time in less than five minutes, controlled chaos broke loose. Hasty prayers could be heard uttered like mantras, invoking the power of the light, and green beams of energy crossed our chests as the spirits aided in our fight, replenishing our strengths and keeping us prepared for whatever comes, the shaman amongst us doing his utmost to keep everyone alive.

A flash, "Scatter!" leaves my throat, bellowed with all the air I could muster from my lungs as I lunged sideways, avoiding the buzz-saw that now flew straight towards the gathered group, fast as gunshot, tearing through the air and anything that would dare stay in its path. Glancing hits and painful strikes are had amongst the attacking party, the chatter of prayers renewed once more as the priests among us attempt to aid the wounded with due haste, lest they fall to not rise again. A mechanical screech is heard, and we don't have long to regain our balance before the earth begins shaking beneath our feet, the dangerous drill attached to the behemoth's other claw smashing against the ground with the force of an earthquake, catching those still unbalanced from the hasty jump aside unawares, and dropping me unceremoniously onto my back.

Panic ensues as my every instinct screams to do anything, to just move before something happens that I cannot see and avoid, and I obey, surging to my feet and lurching back, assessing the situation as I dashed backwards through the air, and confirming that my fears were unfounded; the beast is still too occupied trying to crush the warriors in front of it, belching scorching hot flames and releasing mechanical screeches as metal grinds against metal in its movements, creating a beautiful crescendo as it blends in with the usual sounds of battle.

After this, it all seems to just blur by once again, instincts taking over and battle haze clouding my mind once more, the absolute focus overcoming me as I have only one objective, to bring down this machine once and for all.

A paladin, one Lysander or perhaps Alyxander I'd think is his name, suddenly roars as he smashes his hammer hard into the right claw, the one formerly holding the buzz-saw, and tears it apart in the shape for debris and pieces stabbing into the ground below, and a bigger chunk rising up the dirt in pieces and throwing rocks haywire with its impact. However, before he can break back and clear the danger, the drill makes it appearance spearing him from the back and tearing through his plate armor as if it were made of paper, a gruesome death if there ever was one.

This is sobering for our forces, as we contemplate the first casualty taken in this battle, a loathsome loss to be sure as even if I didn't personally know the man, he was one of the best of our kin, he had to be, having been selected to be here. A deep fury rises within me and with a roar I began firing anew, with all the vigor and reckless abandon of a dedicated soldier who wishes not to die today, and without even knowing what I have screamed until the last word left my mouth, I find myself realizing that I am being echoed.

"FOR THE HORDE!"; was the general bellow resounding through the battlefield, invigorating even more the spirits of everyone gathered, and with our hearts rekindled one by one the appendages of the mechanic beast fall, until only the legs are left in precarious conditions, and I knew, that it wouldn't take much longer to fall. I aimed, and took my time, ignoring the instinct to keep moving and after a breath I let go, aiming for the exact joint weakened enough that with a blast, would come apart and render the machine static, with only its tail still in working order to prove any danger.

Time slowed down as the arrow flew, the energy surrounding it glowing a brilliant, metallic blue, guaranteeing enough damage to fulfill its purpose, and soon that is done, the beast falling prey to gravity as it dropped onto one side, the remaining legs on it unable to sustain the weigh, and immobile as it was, it was not long after that it belched it's last flame as it powered out.


"Da beast be slain!" came the victory bellow from Vol'Jin, as he approached once more the frontline where the rest of us stood, not far from the defeated war machine that still spewed smoke from its vents.

"You may have defeated my war machine, but the gate still stands!" was the response from Nazgrim, still perched atop the battlements of the gates, standing strong against our opposition, "You will not take Orgrimmar today."

"Anu'dora!" We heard, and these words were the trigger for pandemonium itself as the Kal'dorei made their presence known. Only deeply ingrained discipline kept my hands still as the elven warmachine crested the top of the burrow, and began rapid fire against the gate itself, all the while mounted Sentinels rushed their way onto the battlements, chaos taking over the defenders as they hastened to assemble lines.

Before too many thoughts could be had, the gate broke apart and the bellows from Nazgrim to assemble there in defense of the city are heard over the noise of the battle above, a large mob of Kor'kron rushing ahead to stop our progress.

"At them, my sisters," ordered the leader of the kal'dorei, while notching an arrow unto her bow and releasing it to the mass of kor'kron grunts, "For Kalimdor!"

And once again things happened lighting fast, as more mounted Sentinels engaged the grunts and Tyrande directed her attention towards Vol'jin, who stood at the head of our formation, and spoke; "Don't think we're here to save you, Troll. We're here for Kalimdor. Get your forces inside while we distract the enemy!"

All we could do was rush ahead, following the mob mentality as the first step was taken, the flood gate opened and we all ran towards our destination, minds settled on the final objective. "At last, into the city," were my thoughts, "Soon, the rabid dog will meet his end."


AN: Plot bunny swimming on my head, would like to gauge interest before continuing, reviews appreciated.