Warcraft: A Fairy Tale

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JadeKyle
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Warcraft: A Fairy Tale

Post by JadeKyle » Mon May 15, 2006 3:24 pm

The gruesomeness of war is quite apparent when stepping on a battle field. One can smell the blood that hangs in the air, the sight of thousands of dead orcs and humans, trolls and dwarves, gnomes and goblins, is gruesome and grotesque to even the strongest stomach.

The field that this scene laid on was spread for several miles without a tree in sight; it was the plains of Westfall that this battle was taking place on. It was a small war torn village that the Kings and Warchiefs and Empresses would meet.

Currently there was Thrall a descendent of the first Thrall who unified the horde and moved them to Kalimdor.

The Empress of the remaining undead she has of yet not spoken her name, she had taken with the remaining few undead after the Battle of The Undercity it has been cleaned and repaired and now Lordaron again has a capital. She has sense returned with her ranks bolstered ten fold of what they had been and with equipment the same if not better then the legions of Azeroth. She was a force to be reckoned with.

The young prince of Ironforge, son of King Ironhammer IX, he will stand in for his father, a weak and old dwarf that could not make the journey alive. He was sharp and fast and could reason almost anything out in seconds. He would be the brains of the negotiation.

The King of New Lordaron, the fourth one after it had been reinstated by the General Alliance almost eighteen years ago. He had been raised a corn farmer but had been elected King by a democratic vote two years prior.

A Tauren stood in the back towering over everyone, not much was known about him his father had died and he had taken over, he was young and mysterious.

The Gnome commander who was really the head of the Dwarves Engineering Corp. He would be standing in for his Queen, while the Goblin representative would be standing in for his crown. Currently they were being closely watched by the Tauren and Orc warchiefs knowing their tendency to out invent the other. Each was throwing odd glares over the table at one another.

The King of New Lordaron stood, "Thus begins the meetings of South Westfall." He was a fine orator and his voice was loud and clear and struck any conversation down. "I would like to finish any bickering before this happens." He said in a slightly lower volume. "I know the rivalry that we have for one another but it's now time to get over it and confront the evil that confronts us all." He made no gesture or sign but all there knew who he was talking about. The Empress of the undead let out a small smile as all but the King of Lordaron looked at her.

"We all must put down these are peace talks..." He didn't finish as he was interrupted.

"Peace talks?" The Empress said in a raspy voice. "You wish Peace talks, I thought these were talks of surrender, I will not talk peace until their races..." She pointed at the Human, Dwarf, and Gnome. "...Are extinguished." With that she stood and walked out of the inn and toward her large army.

The murmur of voices followed her as she left and she grinned and continued until the skeleton of a horse greeted her. Getting on she rode to her swelled ranks that got bigger with every grave yard they passed, it will be impossible to defeat the undead armies. Her generals came to her and gave word that the ships would be ready and the sailors trained. Soon they would invade Kalimdor and have armies from one end of the world to the other.

"We can't win." The Orcish Warchief began. "Her ranks triple ours, with much better equiptment." He let out a long sigh. "We can't win." He said again.

"We will win." Young Ironhammer began. "We must, we don't want out children to be killed and turned into that." He stuck his thumb out toward the door. "It will just take some tactics." This was the first time the Horde and the Alliance had talked peacefully since the destruction of the World Tree, almost four hundred years prior.

The meeting had lasted the rest of that day and most of the next and without word from the generals the Horde left to their armies and the Alliance to theirs. The next several days promised to full of surprises and fighting.

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WedaScami
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Post by WedaScami » Mon May 15, 2006 10:07 pm

Much had changed in the 400 years since the war against the Burning Legion. The armies of the Undead had been removed from the Tirisfall Glades, the Battle of the Undercity transplanting them from their capitol at Lordaeron. Now their ranks center upon the ruined nation of Stromgarde in the Arathi Highlands. And so it came to pass that Sylvanas and her Forsaken were utterly crushed under the rule of the new Empress; for her ruthlessness and cunning were as great as her beauty was once. She had been a general under Sylvanas during the period after Arthas’ ascent to the Frozen Throne, though she was never satisfied with the woman’s rule. Eliana was her name—it rolled off the tongue like aged wine. Few knew or even spoke this name, however, for she strove to rid herself of any and all attachment to her mortal self. Loathing and envy drove her into a deep hatred of the living races—particularly the humans, and Sylvanas’ rule did not share in that hatred.

When sympathy to this loathing mounted, Eliana found herself with enough power under her to upset the carefully balanced rule of Lady Sylvanas Windrunner. The split that occurred amongst the Forsaken was known in the histories as the War of the Dead. And so the Undead again split themselves—Eliana’s empire overtaking Sylvanas’ and driving her from her seat of power. But the end of this prolonged strife did not come until the hand of the living intervened, as history would suggest they would.

Seeing that the Forsaken were entangled in bitter civil war, the humans and their counterpart nations led a massive, bloody siege of the Undercity—attempting to reclaim their beloved Lordaeron, which had been wrenched from their grasp by Arthas’ icy hand some 400 years earlier. This battle was known as the Battle of the Undercity. The humans’ wager eventually became a success, and after nearly two years of battle, they stole the shining city from the grasp of the Forsaken. Sylvanas and Eliana were cast out and limped away to lick their wounds, the former disappearing into oblivion, it seemed. Rumors shuttered through the Western Kingdoms like a shrill wind through a forest; rumors that Sylvanas and her Forsaken still plot against the Empress and her legions—but none of this has held true. As time wore on, rumor became gossip, and gossip became history, and it would seem that the world of Azeroth had forgotten about Lady Sylvanas Windrunner…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Empress of the Undead Legions galloped back to the hordes amassed there, waiting for her return. The steed she rode upon kicked up clods of soil in its broken shoes, leaving a wake of falling earth behind her. The horse was adorned thickly with rusted and nicked armor over its dull grey bones, rotting flesh hanging languidly off them at odd intervals. The ghostly remnants of paint were cracked along the steed’s armaments in places as well, and its eyes burned with a fire borne of Hell itself, reflective of its burning spirit in life.

The Empress was not in as advanced state of decay as her mount, however. The incantation used to revive her deadened flesh was carried out only about a week after her death—she remained vaguely beautiful even after her departure from the mortal realm, but still the sickly touch of death had done its work to her youthful body. Her skin was grey and ghostly—in small parts sinewy muscle or bone glistened through her tissue-like skin, and the flesh around her left eye, including the eye itself, had been scavenged by vultures shortly after her fall—a testament to war’s cruelty of leaving the dead in shallow graves or in ditches along roadways. She wore a small, feminine violet iron mask over this portion to hide the imperfection, for vanity would prevent her from giving in to her state—she was just as dead as the legions who now served her.


A skeletal figure hobbled up to her horse--a Ghoul, it was called—and took the reins of her horse as the Empress dismounted. Standing there waiting for her was one of the Empress’ most trusted Field Marshals—a reanimated Dreadlord by the name of Narsirrius. He was a leader of great ability and respect within the ranks of the undead. Among the living nations, his name was spoken only in whispers, for his reputation for barbaric slaughter and butchery of his adversaries was notorious throughout these people.

“What of this… peace accord, m’lady?” asked Narsirrius, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were offensive slander.

Eliana looked to her Field Marshal with a sly simper, “What of peace? I know not the meaning of the word… We are bred of war—you and I, it is what we live for. So we shall make war with them… and it will not be over until the very last one of them rises from the earth that cradles them into undead immortality.”

Narsirrius roared with demonic laughter, looking down at his effeminate ruler. “You are a ruthless leader, m’lady. If I had known you in life, I would’ve taken my own life to serve you. It is an honor.”

“Honor me when we sit upon the throne of Lordaeron once again. Honor me when we reach the shores of Kalimdor and bathe in the blood of the Night Elves.”

“Your fleets are nearly ready to set sail, m’lady,” reported the Dreadlord. “We only require a few more days’ time.”

“Very well,” spoke the Empress grimly. “Even a great ocean cannot stop the juggernaut of my Empire. It will spread the world over by the time this conflict comes to an end. Let the self-assumed ‘sanctuary’ of your forests protect you while it can, my friends. It shall not last.”

“Until then, we must deal with the wretched nations amassed here against us in the Western Kingdoms. They will be a thorn in our side if we do not quell them now, before we set sail to Kalimdor,” spoke Eliana again.

“Their numbers are less than ours, and our equipment is superior,” reported Narsirrius. “Their defeat is a foregone conclusion.”

“Do not be so quick to overlook these mortals,” counseled Eliana. “They have survived against threats similar to ours before—for even in their darkest hours, their ingenuity and resourcefulness saved them from certain defeat. We must focus completely on their total destruction—nothing else will matter until that end is achieved.”

“Yes, m’lady. Their lands are a canvas on which I will use their blood to paint our new world. The world of the undead…”
"Greatness is not measured by how well you speak of yourself, but how well others speak of you."

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Post by JadeKyle » Wed May 17, 2006 5:07 pm

"A dead man shouldn't be able to walk me lord." A peasant wrung his hands in front of the Edrieal, King of Lordaeron.

"But this man that looked like a walking corpse came and went to me brot'er's grave, he begun to chant and look now me brot'er walks after this corpse as if he were t' boss." The peasant looked with anguish in his eyes. "Me brot'er was a good man as were every body in that grave yard, but now they risen and..." He held his hands up in disbelief, and began to man handle the hat that was on his head.

"It's good you've told us this." Edrieal looked to his field commander. "Send out raiding parties, I want every grave dug up and the corpses burned." The man nodded and did not waste time. He walked out of the impromptu meeting hall.

Three hours later the thunder of hoofs came and went as all around raiding parties started out.


"My bands of Rangers can inflict heavy casualties while these undead are on the move." The Elven Queen, who had arrived just recently to assist the Allies said and pointed to the number of Rangers that she had.

"So be it, but have them report every fourth hour." The Dwarven prince told her. "We may need you in a hurry and that's the only way I can think of getting any information.

So the plan was set, with raiding parties out five miles from the undead lines destroying whatever grave sites they could find and Elven Rangers on hit and run missions against the same lines the Undead should suffer casualties without gaining any new rank.

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WedaScami
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Post by WedaScami » Wed May 17, 2006 10:44 pm

The bulk of the undead armies were amassed just to the south of the Arathi Highlands, spreading into Dun Modr, and as far south as Grim Batol. They were not so brash as to think the wandering eyes of the living would miss them if they ventured any further south than this. The Wetlands would prove to be a more than perfect locale to conceal the dead as any in the Eastern Kingdoms, with perhaps a few notable exceptions. Husks of long-wrecked pirate ships and the ghosts of murdered mercantile crewman were said to wander through the deadened marshes on especially foggy nights, seeking the ruin of living flesh to quell their lust for blood after being taken from the world of the living. Their tortured, unearthly screams carried in the wind even in the daylight, and travelers that braved these wetlands often spoke of seeing glowing eyes following them in the twilight hours when traversing the broken trails that snaked through the territory. It seemed to warrant the presence of the ungodly, living dead.

It would be from here that they would mount their first strike: at the dwarves. The main force would move in from the north, poised to strike at that despicable pit of a city called Ironforge. Too long did these short-statured people lord over their mounds of riches in the dark places underneath the earth. Too long had they sat and vaunted upon their haughty thrones; growing fat off their mead and red meat. They were the oldest and most trusted allies of the humans, and it was this that would make their downfall all the more momentous—the very foundations of Stormwind would tremble as the dwarven city fell. Stormwind would be next, and then their rotten eyes would

That night was clear and crisp, and the chill of a waning autumn gave the air an extra bite as one took a breath into the lungs. Crickets and other nighttime creatures serenaded the night with a beautiful song—a natural philharmonic as beautiful as any instruments made by man. Relatively speaking, Westfall was peaceful on this night—legions of undead were beginning to withdraw from these fertile lands in which the living made their home. It was the undead Empress’ intention to feign withdraw from these lands into Duskwood, breaking it there to the northeast and eventually making her way into the Burning Steppes, where a larger force was waiting to meet her.

A six figures clad in flowing, tattered black robes as dark as the night that surrounded them burst from the ranks of the undead army marching through Duskwood on horseback. Their steeds, also raven in their color galloped across the landscape with demonic speed, their hooves as a thunderous chorus on the beaten paths. They were heading for Ravenhill Cemetary, an extensive plot of land that was the final resting place for a great number of families dating back more generations than many cared to recall. It was these figures’ job to add to the ever-swelling numbers of the Empress’ legions.

To reanimate the dead required only a very simplistic ritual—simplistic, that is, in comparison to the feat that was being achieved. A simple incantation was all that was required to restore “life” to the lifeless. The creatures borne of this ritual were, however always hard to control—as they were driven more by instinct than cold, calculating thought. Added to this fact was that the longevity of the spell was lacking—a reanimated body would last anywhere from an hour to two weeks depending on the level of decay in the host corpse. No—to reanimate the dead and bend the risen to the Empress’ will took more than simplistic incantation. It required blood of the living, and use of more arcane, blacker magicks—only this would restore the dead to an eternal life. Eternal, at least, free from sickness and death by aging.

The six riders were skilled in these black arts—the ritual required to awaken an entire cemetery as extensive as Ravenhill’s would employ all of them to complete in a timely manner—before their enemies caught wind of their doings. Though it was not a requirement to perform these rituals at night, it aided in their concealment if it was done at this time. Similar riders spread out all over the countryside, stopping near churches and at the corners of small towns and villages in order to raise the dead from their supposedly eternal slumber.

The six rode swiftly to their destination, and dismounted. Their robes were quickly wetted at the bottom with the already-forming dew. But this was given hardly a second thought as they conversed in hoarse whispers, “Our work must be quick,” came the leader’s raspy voice from underneath his hood. His entire face—if indeed he had one—was concealed beneath the blackened gown.

“We will require the blood of an innocent,” a finger clad in black plate gauntlets rose from his robes, gesturing toward a nearby cottage. “I have smelt the stinking flesh of a young one within that dwelling. Bring me the child and our ceremony shall begin.”

The others obeyed without hesitation, without protest. They made their way to the home and forced their way in. The family within was still asleep when their blackened forms filled the doorway. A burly, bearded man sprung from his sheets upon their intrusion, quickly producing a short sword from underneath his bed. His wife huddled closely behind him, as did their two children—each of them no more than ten years of age.

Demons!” said the older man, brandishing his weapon, “Stay back! You are not welcomed here!”

The five black beings only stood in silence, blocking the only entrance or exit to the hovel. They did not speak a word as their robes shifted, until the singing of steel could be heard. Each of them carried sinister-looking broadswords, forged in unholy fire and enchanted with dark magic. These were no weapons that could be carried by man—no, the dead and only the dead could devise such cruel weapons. “Take them,” hissed one, moving forward slowly. “But the children must return unspoiled.”

The burly man surged forward, locking swords with the first figure. His family shrieked behind him as two black riders met their companion to either side, stabbing forward with their swords. The man managed to step away from their strikes, but not before his kidneys were skewered by another rider from behind. His blood spilled upon the wooden floor of the cabin, the fluid appearing black in the moonlit night. He quivered as he struggled against the pain, the weakness of his encroaching death.

The final blow was dealt to the man as his throat was cut by the same swordsman, the man coming to rest on the floorboards, gurgling as his last breath escaped his lungs, weapon clattering to the ground. The man’s wife fell just as easily, taken by a sword through her midsection. Her screams made the children wail frantically, which was all the more satisfying to the riders as they carried them and the bodies of their parents into the chilled night.

The five brought the bodies and the frantic children back to their leader, who remained as a statue there in the night, “Fear not, dear children,” the creature spoke, “Your suffering will end soon; as you join the armies of the dead…”
"Greatness is not measured by how well you speak of yourself, but how well others speak of you."

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Post by JadeKyle » Tue May 30, 2006 5:51 pm

One of the Commanders reported back.

"The scouts and raiding parties have confirmed that the undead armies are moving toward Elewyn forest." The Scout Commander handed Edrieal the parchment containing the rest of the report.

"Go and find the other Kings and War chiefs and bring them here." He turned toward his desk.

-------------


The leaders of the combined Horde and Alliance armies converged around the table set up in the command tent.

"We need to fortify Stormwind." The Dwarven Prince began. "I propose that Humans and Dwarves take up the fortification and defense of Stormwind, while the Orc and Tauren armies take a round about and try to flank the Undead Legions, also we will have the Elven rangers in the forest as scouts and disrupters, even the undead can't think too well with arrows raining on their head's." He grinned a bit.

Thrall and the Tauren War chief conversed with minimal input from the goblin at their side. They seemed to agree. When they turned back around Thrall spoke.

"I agree that the Humans would know best about the defense of one of their cities, so we agree with the proposal and will split forces early tomorrow, we may be able to crush this army on the wall of Stormwind."

------------

Early the next morning large clouds of dust began to rise as both armies set out for their respective places to prepare for the defense and offence of their next move.

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