09-17-2010, 10:19 PM
They've had it, those Humans over yonder. The mere thought of green-skinned brutes building just across the river was provocative, at best. At worst, and certainly in the bitter mind-numbing cold of Northrend , the thought called for preemptive action. Of course any rational train of thought would careen through a station called 'Why?', why were Orcs in such close proximity of the Humans? Well to kill off the Lich King of course! But that's not what this story is about in the slightest. This story is about the war that was waged before the Lich King, during the Lich King, and after the Lich King.
I challenge you, as a reader, to experience this conflict, only representative of a much larger one. I challenge you, as a writer, to collaborate on this episode of war to add your touch to bring events that you could only speculate on, to life. Place your characters in position of anonymous battles or play through the role of anyone you want from soldier to sergeant to savior to, well you can imagine. Feel free to join in or leave at any time, on any side you wish and any angle.
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There are sixteen and a half soldiers marching through snow up against their calves. Or the chest, in the half's case. The unfortunate Private Stacks had the macabre pleasure of watching a thick stream of reddish brown following behind him, through him. His throat struggled to feed him air, and failed altogether and producing his voice. Stacks seemed, for all intents and purposes, dead, to the devastated squad number thirty-eight. The intent was give him an honorable burial amongst the true heroes of Northrend, and the purpose was to pay respect to a boy wrenched from a generic alleyway in Old town. Stacks' armor fit loose on him, it was a hand-me-down from a much larger and greater man, but its kinks and dents pay testament to Stack's own resolve. It took bravery to put something on as fearsome as a breastplate another man died in. Bravery, unfortunately, is not courage. Courage is to recognize the risks and to pull something great from within to succeed. It's hard to imitate courage, but any boy can feign bravery.
Thirty-eight and its members trudged through the snow, too crushed to rest, but too exhausted to continue. It was apparent that the unit was much larger, could sixteen men really beat themselves over the thought of losing one man? Was one casualty sufficient for mourning? No, one was not, these were veterans of combat. But perhaps fifty casualties? Men died, and although a battle was won, it was at a price. A small one to generals locked away fortresses and bunkered down in thought, but what of those dragging along Stacks?
"Why didn't we leave him in carnage?" spoke the one at the rear, whom seemed convinced that the remainder of his unit was being tracked through the trail of blood. He made sure to kick clumps of snow over it and keeps his shattered axe in hand. "Testimony to this battle. I want him in a grave, not a pit." The one pulling Stacks spoke clearly and with his left arm in a sling and his right arm clutched to the cable around the legless private. "Him? And no other?" The rear snapped back to Stack's puller while remaining ever vigilant. The soldiers around, they listened for what may have been said, or perhaps they would speak themselves? The sun was setting and the cold had begun to creep..
I challenge you, as a reader, to experience this conflict, only representative of a much larger one. I challenge you, as a writer, to collaborate on this episode of war to add your touch to bring events that you could only speculate on, to life. Place your characters in position of anonymous battles or play through the role of anyone you want from soldier to sergeant to savior to, well you can imagine. Feel free to join in or leave at any time, on any side you wish and any angle.
~~~~~~~~
There are sixteen and a half soldiers marching through snow up against their calves. Or the chest, in the half's case. The unfortunate Private Stacks had the macabre pleasure of watching a thick stream of reddish brown following behind him, through him. His throat struggled to feed him air, and failed altogether and producing his voice. Stacks seemed, for all intents and purposes, dead, to the devastated squad number thirty-eight. The intent was give him an honorable burial amongst the true heroes of Northrend, and the purpose was to pay respect to a boy wrenched from a generic alleyway in Old town. Stacks' armor fit loose on him, it was a hand-me-down from a much larger and greater man, but its kinks and dents pay testament to Stack's own resolve. It took bravery to put something on as fearsome as a breastplate another man died in. Bravery, unfortunately, is not courage. Courage is to recognize the risks and to pull something great from within to succeed. It's hard to imitate courage, but any boy can feign bravery.
Thirty-eight and its members trudged through the snow, too crushed to rest, but too exhausted to continue. It was apparent that the unit was much larger, could sixteen men really beat themselves over the thought of losing one man? Was one casualty sufficient for mourning? No, one was not, these were veterans of combat. But perhaps fifty casualties? Men died, and although a battle was won, it was at a price. A small one to generals locked away fortresses and bunkered down in thought, but what of those dragging along Stacks?
"Why didn't we leave him in carnage?" spoke the one at the rear, whom seemed convinced that the remainder of his unit was being tracked through the trail of blood. He made sure to kick clumps of snow over it and keeps his shattered axe in hand. "Testimony to this battle. I want him in a grave, not a pit." The one pulling Stacks spoke clearly and with his left arm in a sling and his right arm clutched to the cable around the legless private. "Him? And no other?" The rear snapped back to Stack's puller while remaining ever vigilant. The soldiers around, they listened for what may have been said, or perhaps they would speak themselves? The sun was setting and the cold had begun to creep..
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