(When you can't be witty, funny, or otherwise cool, go for stupid. This is my first fanfiction, so please leave reviews and constructive criticism!)
"Lady Luck, Destroyer..."
As Lena sat in the collapsible chair near the fringes of the Horde camp, her feet propped up on the table she had somehow procured when other soldiers couldn't get a blanket, her acid-green eyes were half-lidded, although the light-blond Sin'dorei could easily see the two night elves picking their way from cover to cover, apparently on recon. The fair-skinned elf, her light-blond hair tied into a ponytail behind her head, smirked as she watched the brother and sister, half-pondering whether to kill them, and half-pondering the idea that they might be the signal she'd been expecting from the Alliance. She shrugged to herself idly, her arms crossed over her leather-clad chest. The dark armor she wore suited her needs well: it was workable, it was light -enough- and it provided a measure of stealth and protection. The rogue chuckled to herself, wondering why she was being paid so handsomely for the simple task of getting a chicken from the Horde, and bringing it to the Alliance. "Probably just another game..." she thought to herself, smirking once more at the foolishness of it all. The battle that had happened yesterday was by no means huge; it had only really consisted of about forty members on each side. She'd been hired by the Alliance, shortly after the blood elves joined the Horde, to be an agent of theirs; after years working closely with Silvermoon City's elite, and even some of the government officials, she had passed along a veritable goldmine of information. Feeling that this position might endanger her by both sides, she had joined the military, taken up the bow, and trained as a ranger. She had never really gotten the knack for taming pets, but she had been a deadly shot with bow and rifle alike, and a master of close stealth combat. These traits, combined with her natural charisma and influence, had worked her into a position of grace with most of her commanders. The young Sin'dorei had kept up contact with the Alliance though, the inherent trust placed in her by her superiors giving her a much longer leash for associating with the other races. "A trip to Stormwind, disguised as a high elf? It was all part of some big military plan, sure..." she thought, smiling genuinely at how easy it had been to slip that by. "Yes," she thought, reaching for her rifle that sat tilted against her table, the small muzzle and long barrel indicating it as a precision instrument. "Helping these fools along with their little battles in this Gods-forsaken place has been quite easy so far..." She reached for one of the shells on the table, the thin ordinance waiting obediently, and quietly loaded it into her rifle. Raising the instrument to her shoulder, and resting the forward part of the stock on the tip of one of her dark boots for balance, she leisurely sighted in on the first night elf, the male, who was -to her amusement- crouching by a bush that he thought was safe, his back turned as he gave orders to his teammate, of whom she could only imagine the look of surprise when her companion lie dead before her. Yes, it would be a savory -albeit easy- victory for the blood elven rogue, and she would keep her name good in the books of both sides, because nobody would assume it was her that fired the shot. Such thoughts flitted through the elf's head as she smoothly pulled the bolt back, and then wrapped her hand -almost lovingly- around the stock of the rifle, her gloved finger sliding to the trigger and gently beginning to pull...
Two guards standing near the command-tent were bored at the time, idly tossing chit-chat back and forth and leaning on their vicious spears. Both orcs had seen the chicken-Sergeant, 'Sergeant Cluck' or something. Fittingly, many jokes about the "ridiculous Alliance" and their next scheme had been tossed back and forth; by this time, the blood elf was still holding her rifle a ways away, sighting in, and the conversation between the two orcs at the tent had soured a bit.
"Who knows, they might even start shooting gnomes out of cannons next!" one guard commented, reaching up to scratch his beard.
"That's stupid. Why would they fire gnomes? The gnomes probably built the cannons anyway, so why waste them?" the other guard countered, a bit rudely, tracing out small designs on the dirt with the hilt of his spear
The other orc turned his head and sighed, looking out over the various Horde who were going about business as usual; it seemed that the conversation was over.
All of the eventualities that might've come about from this moment on were changed by a single act of brash stupidity. Lady Luck, the destroyer of best-laid (or in this case, un-laid) plans, had yet again gotten nosy and stuck her head in on what would have been a perfectly normal (Normal = Stupid. Don't look so surprised.) day in the Arathi Highlands.
Not more than a minute later, the blood elf still going on in her own head, and the orc guards still in a sour silence, a loud 'BOOM' erupted from a hill, not very far to the west. All of the Horde who were outside at the time raised their heads, expecting a cloud of smoke and preparing to cheer. What they got instead, was a sound of shrill screaming, and a whistling noise as the helmeted gnome crashed full on into the command tent, causing the whole structure to collapse. As the gnome rose up from the canvas mess, the silhouette of still apparent standing up and expelling loud curses nearby, he was met with the two orc guards. One of them looked at the other, a triumphant smirk on his face. "I guess you owe me an apology."
By this time, Lena had seen something that astonished her: charging across the hills towards her, and the rest of the encampment, were a group no larger than seven. She recognized Sergeant Ashmane, running forward and firing his shotgun wildly, and Private Brady, his mace from the previous evening replaced with a short-sword and torch. The gnomes with them she did not recognize, but she could see clearly, having kicked her table over and scrambled behind it.
A ways back, Lt. Lillybloom had been extricated from the canvas mess, the gnome prisoner had been chained up, and Sergeant Cluck was nowhere to be found.
***
Brady was sure they would all die.
The Horde camp was A) Large, B) Well-protected, and C) Filled with warriors. Brady didn't believe they would last a minute.
Ashmane was a bit more optimistic -or insane- running forward towards the front of the camps, the various Horde turning dazedly from their tents and areas to look at the assaulting troops with surprise.
The gnomes...Well, the gnomes were scared out of their minds, but they ran forward with daggers and rope, their goal being to slow the enemy down.
The unit of seven neared the table that the unidentified blood elf had kicked over, and in a minute, Ashmane had rounded it and pointed his shotgun at Lena -who's mission he didn't know about-. Brady covered the front, the confused Horde milling around, as if unsure whether they should be fighting, laughing, or fleeing. The gnomes gathered around the Private, baring their teeth and letting off high-pitched growls and snarls; they'd taken the liberty of painting their own faces dark with grease, revenge being part of their motivation to overcome fear.
Lena looked up at the large shotgun pointed at her face, never having been at a disadvantage like this. Hoping she might get out easy, the elf began to speak frantically in clear common. "Please, I'm with you guys...Secret agent...I'm on your side-" She was cut off as the butt of the shotgun was slammed into the side of her head, knocking the blood elf senseless. Ashmane quickly joined Brady, looking at the numbers of assorted Horde who had begun to come out with weapons in hand, edging nervously towards the small number of Alliance. The Gunnery Sergeant looked over at the Private. "Well, it looks like we have no other choice but to engage them, in brutal hand to hand combat!"
Brady sighed and shook his head, glancing at his superior. "Why is it always hand to hand combat?"
"Because, it's the honorable way of doing battle, dirtbag." Ashmane responded, reloading his shotgun in a manner of moments and discharging it into the advancing Horde.
"That wasn't hand to hand!" Brady announced with distress, tossing his torch towards a barrel of gunpowder, that promptly exploded and sent the nearest orcs and trolls flying.
"Neither was that, dirtbag!" Ashmane responded, continuing to lay down fire into the now-retreating Horde group, that was slowly backing up towards the ruins of the command tent.
"I think we're beating them!" Brady cried joyously, grabbing Lena's discarded rifle and firing at a glaring orc randomly, hitting him square in the forehead by luck, mostly.
Suddenly, the Horde masses stopped, and then collectively turned around. Brady and Ashmane stopped shooting, Ashmane taking the time to reload and Brady moving back to look for ammunition from the unconscious blood elf. With a collective gasp, the Horde army started to stumble backwards, away from the main command tent and towards the gnomes and humans -unconscious blood elves not counted-. Standing before the fierce orcs, the mighty tauren, the vicious trolls, and the evil undead -Blood elves really have no traits that define them as scary or formidable fighters, so they are a given-, was a chicken in drab green army attire, advancing on them with loud, ringing sqwaks and shrees of anger. Behind the chicken, the two orc guards lay flat out over the ground, and lie near them with a dazed look on his face.
Needless to say, the might of the Horde army, that had fought the Alliance bitterly for centuries, fled like children towards the hills, and around to get back to their own base that was nearly twenty miles east. Remaining, in the mess of the Horde encampment, were a chicken, two humans, five gnomes, an unconscious blood elf, and three scared orcs. Victory, it seemed, had been achieved.
Lady Luck, the destroyer of best laid plans, had indeed intervened today. The small Alliance unit would have surely been slaughtered, had not half of the Horde's forces -their full number being forty in the 'army'- already headed back towards Hammerfall under Lt. Dirtwinder, the troll. If this weren't enough, Sergeant Cluck had already bested Lt. Lillybloom, the fierce orc. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get within ten inches of the chicken without being snapped at, or pecked away. After a time, the orc finally gave in, and had finally turned to discussing the weather with Cluck instead. As for the outcome of this small victory, Lady Luck played a part in that too. Upon recovering Sergeant Cluck, disposing of the remaining Horde in a terrible fashion (They were tarred and feathered.), and securing the questionable blood elf, the group sacked the Alliance camp, and had a party to best the bouts of carousing that dwarves held, much alcohol being imbibed, and many tents being burned.
"Victory..." Sergeant Ashmane thought as he threw the keg of gunpowder into a tent with the others, Brady already beginning to strike the match.
"It tastes like chicken."