Post by Brox Greystone on May 12, 2006 7:04:49 GMT -5
”Wit a pretti bunch o' galls ye all are.” Brox spat between his teeth and the pipestem, disregarding the obvious disapproval on his NCO's faces. His gaze slided across them only briefly, but it was enough to stiffen their backs and make them look straight ahead again. Perhaps it was unseemly to spit on the barracks floor but he couldn't care less. Besides, he had good reason to soil the floor as he did.
He started to pace, plated boots making echoes across the room. It was a massive room, chipped and carved from the mountain into which it was built. One wall was lined with racks, filled to the brim with weapons. Pikes, halberds, axes, swords and alike in all different sides and shapes could be seen there. Sharpen and polished, ready for use. The other wall was lined with armor on stands. Heavy set mail chestpieces and coifs gleamed among plated boots and legguards, all newly made. A smell of oil, sweat, metal and the Light only knew what permeated the air. High above, near the vaulted stone ceiling, huge flying contraptions took off and landed constantly, making a buzz of engine sounds like a busy beehive. It was a busy beehive.
Brox paused in his pacing and turned, his face somewhere between mild disgust and worry. It was hard to tell for sure on his aged, dwarven visage that looked like it had been carved from stone. His narrow grey eyes were focused, which gave his face a serious expression, made all the more grave by his long divided, braided beard and imposing mantle of hair. Add to that a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times already and he made for an impressive character. Despite his obvious smaller stature, he was broad and underneath his tight shirt and mail armor, muscles honed from years of combat training rippled.
"Now how kin I be sure tha when th' Horde comes, th' lot o' ye won't turn tail an' flee? Simple; because if ye do I'll bloody well come after ye and strangle ye meself. Is tha clear?" A boom of voices all echoed that they got his message. It didn't come from his NCO's, standing off to one side though but rather from the 3 lines of soldiers in the middle of the room. Brox spat again. They were his reason for worry, among a dozen other things. He puffed on his pipe and blew a few smoke rings, giving hard stares to all who dared meet his eyes.
They were quite a pretty bunch. From young Coplin Hanled, his beard barely long enough to braid yet, to a scrawny young human. Brox scowled. He was among few of the refugees that had fled from Stormwind, now 6 years ago, when the so called Horde had rampaged through the country. A soldier in the Stormwind Militia and now one of those new so called bloody paladins, trained in Lordearon, he had voluntarily requested to come to the frontier to fight the orcs. To Iron Forge and serve in a dwarven company, as the only human in this particular company in fact.
Brox snorted loudly and made no effort to hide it. A fine bunch of soldiers indeed. His soldiers. His responsibility. Putting his pipe away, he folded his hands on his back. This lot of soldiers, some experienced, some new, would soon be pitted against this Horde. A new and deadly enemy, they had emerged out of practically nowhere, laying waste to the southern countries and ravaged Stormwind completely. The tales and rumours first really took hold once refugees started coming to Khaz Modan. Brox hadn't really believed the stories at first, about green skinned humanoids with fangs, until months ago when his patrol ran into a bunch of them in southern Dun Morough. They were a reality though and a dangerous one at that. After the encounter, and several others like it along the border, the Alliance had scrambled and started preparing. Preparing for war.
That was the reason they were now here, standing lined up and ready. Infantry grunts to the rear, NCO's to the right, and Brox in the front; the company commander of the Iron Rivets. For the past many months, ever since the orcs had started their skirmishes along the southern border, they had trained and prepared. The final product was here, after the sheep had been separated from the cattle, ready to gear up and meet the enemy head on. Brox nodded slowly, his gaze slowly sweeping over the soldiers, each by each, meeting their eyes. He wanted the best; needed the best warriors. Not because he had any delusions of grandeur. No, because only the best survived on the frontier, and by the things he had heard, any raw recruit would turn and flee at the mere sight of these savage orcs.
Brox allowed himself a sigh. Panicked soldiers not only got themselves killed. They got everyone killed eventually. Panic could be contagious, and spread like wildfire on a dry field in summer.
"Alrighty, no nitpicking and no half meassures now. Ye all know why we are 'ere. Supposedly greenskins be at our doorsteps, preparin' to take th' rest o' Azeroth if they are allowed. Kul Tiras reports massive fleets embarkin' an sailin' north. Banners o' them Horde ripple in the wind no far from Khaz Modan's borders. War be comin' an comin' fast. We must defend we selves or be overrun an' destroyed like Stormwind. That kin no and must no happen! Now, gear up men an get ready to move. Ready tae move south."
A massive "Aye sir!" made a reverberating sound through the military ward and soon people milled around, packing supplies and donning armor. Weapons were picked off the racks and strapped to belts or strapped to backs. Soon the company was marching out the entrance of Iron Forge, the sound of armored boots crunching on earth heralding the start of what came to be known as the Second War.
He started to pace, plated boots making echoes across the room. It was a massive room, chipped and carved from the mountain into which it was built. One wall was lined with racks, filled to the brim with weapons. Pikes, halberds, axes, swords and alike in all different sides and shapes could be seen there. Sharpen and polished, ready for use. The other wall was lined with armor on stands. Heavy set mail chestpieces and coifs gleamed among plated boots and legguards, all newly made. A smell of oil, sweat, metal and the Light only knew what permeated the air. High above, near the vaulted stone ceiling, huge flying contraptions took off and landed constantly, making a buzz of engine sounds like a busy beehive. It was a busy beehive.
Brox paused in his pacing and turned, his face somewhere between mild disgust and worry. It was hard to tell for sure on his aged, dwarven visage that looked like it had been carved from stone. His narrow grey eyes were focused, which gave his face a serious expression, made all the more grave by his long divided, braided beard and imposing mantle of hair. Add to that a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times already and he made for an impressive character. Despite his obvious smaller stature, he was broad and underneath his tight shirt and mail armor, muscles honed from years of combat training rippled.
"Now how kin I be sure tha when th' Horde comes, th' lot o' ye won't turn tail an' flee? Simple; because if ye do I'll bloody well come after ye and strangle ye meself. Is tha clear?" A boom of voices all echoed that they got his message. It didn't come from his NCO's, standing off to one side though but rather from the 3 lines of soldiers in the middle of the room. Brox spat again. They were his reason for worry, among a dozen other things. He puffed on his pipe and blew a few smoke rings, giving hard stares to all who dared meet his eyes.
They were quite a pretty bunch. From young Coplin Hanled, his beard barely long enough to braid yet, to a scrawny young human. Brox scowled. He was among few of the refugees that had fled from Stormwind, now 6 years ago, when the so called Horde had rampaged through the country. A soldier in the Stormwind Militia and now one of those new so called bloody paladins, trained in Lordearon, he had voluntarily requested to come to the frontier to fight the orcs. To Iron Forge and serve in a dwarven company, as the only human in this particular company in fact.
Brox snorted loudly and made no effort to hide it. A fine bunch of soldiers indeed. His soldiers. His responsibility. Putting his pipe away, he folded his hands on his back. This lot of soldiers, some experienced, some new, would soon be pitted against this Horde. A new and deadly enemy, they had emerged out of practically nowhere, laying waste to the southern countries and ravaged Stormwind completely. The tales and rumours first really took hold once refugees started coming to Khaz Modan. Brox hadn't really believed the stories at first, about green skinned humanoids with fangs, until months ago when his patrol ran into a bunch of them in southern Dun Morough. They were a reality though and a dangerous one at that. After the encounter, and several others like it along the border, the Alliance had scrambled and started preparing. Preparing for war.
That was the reason they were now here, standing lined up and ready. Infantry grunts to the rear, NCO's to the right, and Brox in the front; the company commander of the Iron Rivets. For the past many months, ever since the orcs had started their skirmishes along the southern border, they had trained and prepared. The final product was here, after the sheep had been separated from the cattle, ready to gear up and meet the enemy head on. Brox nodded slowly, his gaze slowly sweeping over the soldiers, each by each, meeting their eyes. He wanted the best; needed the best warriors. Not because he had any delusions of grandeur. No, because only the best survived on the frontier, and by the things he had heard, any raw recruit would turn and flee at the mere sight of these savage orcs.
Brox allowed himself a sigh. Panicked soldiers not only got themselves killed. They got everyone killed eventually. Panic could be contagious, and spread like wildfire on a dry field in summer.
"Alrighty, no nitpicking and no half meassures now. Ye all know why we are 'ere. Supposedly greenskins be at our doorsteps, preparin' to take th' rest o' Azeroth if they are allowed. Kul Tiras reports massive fleets embarkin' an sailin' north. Banners o' them Horde ripple in the wind no far from Khaz Modan's borders. War be comin' an comin' fast. We must defend we selves or be overrun an' destroyed like Stormwind. That kin no and must no happen! Now, gear up men an get ready to move. Ready tae move south."
A massive "Aye sir!" made a reverberating sound through the military ward and soon people milled around, packing supplies and donning armor. Weapons were picked off the racks and strapped to belts or strapped to backs. Soon the company was marching out the entrance of Iron Forge, the sound of armored boots crunching on earth heralding the start of what came to be known as the Second War.