11-12-2011, 10:42 PM
Quel'thalas. The recently ruined city of Silvermoon.
With a hefty strain of his arms, a rather young Sin'dorei shoves aside a pair of cracked and dirty stone blocks.
He flinched, as the stones slam against the blood-stained pavement with a loud clatter.
A small, brown journal laid under the next brick he shoved aside. The cover seemed torn, the boy had guessed from the building falling onto it.
With perhaps a greedy glean in his eyes, he snatched the journal up and bolted off with it. Headed home.
With the door slammed behind him, locked six times over, and wedged with a door, the boy sat himself at a desk and laid the journal down.
Very carefully, he opened the small brown tome, and read the title on the first page.
"Property of Falamorial Grimfield." The boy leaned himself over the journal, reading along to himself, the sun beginning to set.
'The Second great war'.
That is what they are calling this. A few of the men around the camp seem bloodthirsty. They seem too eager to go to war. To fight.
Mostly humans. Always talking about getting 'revenge' for what happened in Stormwind. Maybe they are just hateful from loss.
The days seem too long to be natural, almost magic-like. All we do is re-run the same drills. I am beginning to grow tired of forming ranks.
Over and over again. My sword is as sharp as I can get it. My armour is well fitted, and polished.
I hope it is enough.
The boy slipped a fingernail under a few pages, and turned them over.
He continued reading on, more drawn to the condition of the book, and therefore value, than the actual contents.
Dicipline be damned.
I can barely keep my eyes open enough to even write. We've been marching for days, without hardly any rest at all. Damn my legs hurt.
We've been engaging Orcs all along this riverbed. Seems like they only show up when we stop to break. A lot of the men are tired.
Alteast we're finally making a proper camp. The captain won't stop complaining about how 'few' troops he gets. Not surprising.
His idea of 'tactics' is to form ranks and let them charge into us. Leaves a lot to be desired. Sick of being a walking target, for Orcs.
Private Rogers is busy fixing my tent, after he went and fell into it.
I hope he hurries. Seems there is a storm coming in.
The pages suddenly flutter around as a gust of wind enters the room, sending the book near the rear. The boy seemed uncaring to the event, and read on regardless.
I haven't long to write, so I'll be quick.
The Scourge is marching on Quel'thalas, and the troops are mobilizing for a defense.
I can't find my brother, anywhere, and people are beginning to panic.
The captain is yelling for me, now. Says he wants me in the field. Light help us.
I'm not even sure if I should pray or not.
The closed journal lands with a slight bounce, the boy having thrown it over his shoulder."Junk..."
With a hefty strain of his arms, a rather young Sin'dorei shoves aside a pair of cracked and dirty stone blocks.
He flinched, as the stones slam against the blood-stained pavement with a loud clatter.
A small, brown journal laid under the next brick he shoved aside. The cover seemed torn, the boy had guessed from the building falling onto it.
With perhaps a greedy glean in his eyes, he snatched the journal up and bolted off with it. Headed home.
With the door slammed behind him, locked six times over, and wedged with a door, the boy sat himself at a desk and laid the journal down.
Very carefully, he opened the small brown tome, and read the title on the first page.
"Property of Falamorial Grimfield." The boy leaned himself over the journal, reading along to himself, the sun beginning to set.
'The Second great war'.
That is what they are calling this. A few of the men around the camp seem bloodthirsty. They seem too eager to go to war. To fight.
Mostly humans. Always talking about getting 'revenge' for what happened in Stormwind. Maybe they are just hateful from loss.
The days seem too long to be natural, almost magic-like. All we do is re-run the same drills. I am beginning to grow tired of forming ranks.
Over and over again. My sword is as sharp as I can get it. My armour is well fitted, and polished.
I hope it is enough.
The boy slipped a fingernail under a few pages, and turned them over.
He continued reading on, more drawn to the condition of the book, and therefore value, than the actual contents.
Dicipline be damned.
I can barely keep my eyes open enough to even write. We've been marching for days, without hardly any rest at all. Damn my legs hurt.
We've been engaging Orcs all along this riverbed. Seems like they only show up when we stop to break. A lot of the men are tired.
Alteast we're finally making a proper camp. The captain won't stop complaining about how 'few' troops he gets. Not surprising.
His idea of 'tactics' is to form ranks and let them charge into us. Leaves a lot to be desired. Sick of being a walking target, for Orcs.
Private Rogers is busy fixing my tent, after he went and fell into it.
I hope he hurries. Seems there is a storm coming in.
The pages suddenly flutter around as a gust of wind enters the room, sending the book near the rear. The boy seemed uncaring to the event, and read on regardless.
I haven't long to write, so I'll be quick.
The Scourge is marching on Quel'thalas, and the troops are mobilizing for a defense.
I can't find my brother, anywhere, and people are beginning to panic.
The captain is yelling for me, now. Says he wants me in the field. Light help us.
I'm not even sure if I should pray or not.
The closed journal lands with a slight bounce, the boy having thrown it over his shoulder."Junk..."