Post by Trehmar on Feb 6, 2011 5:34:03 GMT -5
A red, tattered flag symbolizing the Horde waved uselessly in the wind over where an old tauren bull rested in the shade of the watchtower. Sweating and nearly out of breath from his hard labor, he sat observing the desolate street through the middle of the Crossroads. His ancient, coarse fur was so stiffened with age that it did not seem to rustle in the arid Barrens wind as it once had. His dried, colorless eyes could see very little as far as detail, but he still recognized movement. Unfortunately, there was little movement to be seen in the Crossroads any longer.
He saw several other tauren and green skinned orcs shuffling what little supplies remained around the area. They carried crates of food to the den, where they would be loaded in the back and given to the residents and military at meal times. Some carried weapons to the quartermaster under his kodo-skin tent, where warriors would come to be equipped with weapons, ammunition and armor if their gear was damaged. At one time, these armaments were given out en masse to the newly arriving orcs, trolls and tauren from Durotar and Mulgore. Now what few supplies remained sat alone and unused against the stone wall of the den, the quartermaster busying himself with other concerns.
The guards stood atop the hills on the west side of the condensed town or at the openings between the wind breakers serving as the Crossroad’s walls and protection against dust clouds and razor winds. Though the harsh sun beat on their skin and fur they stood alert, axes and bows at the ready in case of a sudden quilboar attack. The guards in the watchtowers (most of them trolls) stared deep into the distance, soaking up every small detail of the dull horizon, waiting for something to change. Lately, they saw nothing but birds and quilboar raiders.
Several merchants sat under the protection of their tents, spotting the various roads as they came to meet in the middle of town. Many had left north towards Orgrimmar after the Cataclysm, some south to see their families in Camp Taurajo or Mulgore. They could not have gotten far with the upheaval taking place in the southern barrens. A few returned. Those merchants who did not leave sat about or worked on their crafts all day, hoping to see a caravan to trade their wares to; their lives depended on it.
The old bull observing the area breathed heavily still, even after sitting in the shade long enough to take in the entire town. He found that, these past few seasons, he felt more of an appeal to sit and contemplate things than to get up and do something. He had always been a bull of action, but age was slowing him down.
With effort he lifted himself to his hooves, standing at his great height over the area. After a quick rest from the stand he set hoof into the beating midday heat. At this time of day, few went out to do chores, even in the busy times past midday slowed the bustle. But the old bull was slow to work, and had to keep at it all day. He thirsted for water during his short sits, but did not want to waste the supplies on himself… there were younger bellies to fill.
Two children ran past him, stopping him in his tracks. The tauren pair giggled slightly as they ran down the road towards the shade of a great tree within the boundaries of the wall, their hooves clacking on the stone road. A smile crept to the bull’s face as he began forward again. Suddenly, something slammed into his thick leg. He glanced down, surprised.
It was a third calf, he was gangly and awkward, with limbs far too long for his little body. Two young horns crept from his skull, pointing straight outward. His tiny face drooped like a sorrowful pony, a pair of bright blue eyes sitting on either side of it. He blinked several times, looking shocked, before his mouth dropped open.
“Oh, um. I apologize, old one. I did not mean to bump you. I was going to check on my sisters,” he sputtered in Orcish. The bull couldn’t believe calves were learning Orcish these days. He barely knew how to speak it himself.
Therefore, he responded in the slow, heavy-ended words of Taur’ahe, his voice a rocky as the distant buttes and bluffs of the Barrens, “It was a mistake. I am not offended.”
The calf nodded quickly and trotted off, wobbling left and right as he ran down the road to his sisters waiting in the shade of the tree. The bull turned away, facing down the north road as he began walking again. He began to pass the inn, where many other elders and some young adventurers passing through sat in mealtime and conversations. He stopped, peering in the open doorway as the patrons within the stone building. They sat mostly on the floor, on blankets or crates. Few of them were eating, and those who were seemed to be mostly consuming rations or drinking a few sips of water. They were grouped in pairs or small parties and families. One orc woman rocked her green skinned baby as it fed on her exposed breast. A troll tossed and knife up and down in the air, catching the blade with his fingertips as he listened to an older orc tell a fantastic tale of blood and glory.
The old bull glanced up the road to his destination; a lonely crate and two barrels under a tent. He had to have those moved into a half-empty wagon before it left for Hunter’s Hill in a couple of hours. His head leaned back as he looked up to the clear grey sky and burning An’she above. She stared back down at the barrens, beating on it with her harsh intensity as she always had, training it to be strong.
Too strong for this old bull. He decided to move the supplies when the Earth Mother traveled a bit farther from the Crossroads. There were a few unfamiliar faces in the den and he wanted to hear if there was any news from Desolation Hold or the warfront in Ashenvale.
As he entered the room the various voices began rushed past his flaky ears in waves. He caught samples for dozens of conversations at once.
“It turns out, the guide with the damn cultists! He had been infiltrating the camp for weeks now, stealing supplies,” an angry orc was saying to an off-duty guard with broad, orange shoulder guards. “That’s all he was doing… cutting away at us. Taking bit by bit until the camp starved to death. Why in Durotan’s name would they waste their manpower on that?”
The guard, an older (but much younger than the old bull) tauren with graying fur rumbled in thought. The sound was like two massive stones grinding together. His reply was slow and thoughtful, “That is how the Twilight’s Hammer operates. They have everything coordinated in a master plan, utilizing their impressive numbers to hit the Horde at every angle. They prey on our primary strength… unity. The Horde operates because everyone in the Horde has the same goal and works under the same presumptions. If they spread our focus, they take our hooves out from beneath us.”
The orc sneered, glancing at a group of trolls across the room, “Unity may have been a strength of the Horde at one point, my friend, but that is quickly fading.
“Perhaps,” was the tauren’s only response.
The old bull turned to the three trolls lounging on tiger furs and bales of straw. They all cackled in laughter at once, slapping their knees and throwing their heads back dramatically as they chortled.
“An den ‘e ripped ‘et heart out an’ ate ‘et in front’a da’ mon!” one shouted in broken Orcish.
“What ‘e sey ‘bout dat?” one of them asked, leaning forward, tusks jutting out, nearly touching the tusks of the storyteller.
“Da mon loved ‘et!” they all burst into laughter. “Wasn’ long an’ ‘e was seckund ‘en command on da’ boat!”
The bull had never liked the young, energetic trolls. Though he occasionally met an older, wiser survivor of the Darkspear who he could make good conversation with, if only on a few limited topics. They were a very different people. With this in mind, he walked away from the trolls, to an empty corner of the room with a crate to sit upon. As he slowly lowered himself on it he looked to the left, where a decaying human corpse sipped tea upon the floor spoke with a long-eared, short haired elf woman in leather armor, a bow and quiver beside her.
“Hellscream’s deal with these Dragonmaw orcs is the only thing giving us footing in the Highlands,” she rasped, starting ahead with white eyes.
The elf’s pupils could not be seen, obscured by the green glow emanating from them, but she seemed to look the undead woman up and down, appraisingly, before speaking, “I see it as less of a deal and more of an occupation.”
“Heh,” rasped the zombie, “These are orcs. They obey strength if it is not trying to kill them. Hellscream doesn’t have to occupy them to gain their support.”
The elf paused, nodding slightly, “Indeed.”
“Rrraugh! You cheat me, swine!” the sudden roar of a young orc with gleaming tusks and fiery eyes adverted the old bull’s attention. He was standing up muscles rippling beneath his leather tunic as he glared down at a large-nosed goblin. The goblin met his gaze evenly, one eyebrow raised.
“Lissen here, buddy,” the goblin began, voice nasally and confident. “You don’t seem to have understood the deal quite right. I said I wanted their bodies. You brought me heads.”
“You mince your words like the elven ambassadors, coward!” the orc shot back, fists balled. He was very angry at this point, likely moments away from attacking the goblin. Yet, the goblin seemed unimpressed, like a warrior before battle. It seemed conversation was his field of combat, and his eagle-like glare his bulwark.
“I don’t think you quite catch what I’m tryin’ ta say,” the goblin said, making heavy use of his hand gestures to illustrate his point. “I want them dead as much as anyone else. They’ll destroy this place at this rate. But I can’t pay you to do military work. That’s something you talk to Sergra about. I intend to pay you, but in return I need those bodies so I can make money selling their quills in Ratchet. I’ve got a family to feed and business to run, see?”
The orc frowned, his heavy brow lowering over eyes matching the color of his leather clothing. “You do not care for the well-being of the Crossroads… only for your precious coin!”
Lifting his hands defensively the goblin suddenly leaned forward, “Woah, woah there pal. I’m a citizen of this town and this Horde just like you. And if the Horde has taught me one thing, it’s that the benefit of you is the benefit of me. But I can’t benefit if I can’t afford to keep my caravan running. And when my caravan runs, trade flows. Trade is good for you, me and the people of this abandoned little frontier of yours.”
As the orc calmed down and worked out some kind of deal with the goblin, the inn slowly began to clear out. After watching the majority of people leave the old bull finally decided to finish his task. It seemed no less hot outside than when he went in, but he felt more rested and was able to quickly complete the task. Once it was completed he went to a nearby awning where an orc woman reviewed a list on a piece of parchment, sitting upon a rock. Her long black nail traced the runes and tally marks as her dark eyes soaked up the information. She did not see the bull until he cleared his throat.
The orc looked up and offered a curt nod, standing to her feet and folding the parchment into her belt. “You are done, then?”
The bull offered a nod, but did not say anything to the female.
“You have my thanks for your aid, old one,” she said in her quick, sharp voice. She turned and picked up a box of apples, holding it out. “You will not go unpaid. Here, take what is left of these. They are a bit too ripe, but will fill your belly.”
The bull dared not protest an orc offering payment for a deed. He smiled and took the box in one hand, bowing to the orc, “My thanks, Grusha. I will not forget your kindness.”
“If you are in need of a little coin or water I could take you along. These supplies are to Hunter’s Hill. It is a military outpost, hard to find help unloading quickly,” she said, glancing down the western road.
The bull shook his head immediately, “The Crossroads has enough work for me. I must be here if I am needed.”
He knew his aid was menial and he was not needed, and Grusha knew it too by the sudden look of pity on her face. But this old tauren had been with the Crossroads since it was built, and would stay with it despite its sudden obsolescence.
“Very well.” Grusha replied. She paused a moment before speaking a lower voice, “With the chasm and the Overgrowth in the south, Stonetalon blocked off by the Alliance and all of the mines’ supplies going to fuel the war in Ashenvale, this place barely has a purpose anymore. Trade and military movements are directed through Warsong and the Talon Deep Pass now. The Crossroads won’t last much longer.”
The bull merely nodded, “You do not need to worry about me. Thank you for the apples.”
With that he grabbed his backpack by her pile of supplies and walked off to find a place to sit and enjoy the rest of his evening. The reality of the trader’s words sunk into his heart as he looked around at his town, mostly filled with young trainees testing themselves in the harshness of the wild barrens. The Crossroads would serve as a center of training for many seasons to come, but he was not sure how many families would be able to continue living here. The supplies coming in and being gathered were minimal, especially when compared to the abundance which once flowed through this center.
The old bull sat by a windmill in the shade of a tree, eating a squishy apple in thought. He could not see the future of the Crossroads any longer, and he was powerless to do anything for it. There had been a time when he could trust the Horde to pull through and save themselves against the dangers of the world. That time was gone, for so many moved to the cities now. So many now served in the never ending onslaught against the kaldorei for their resources, the campaigns lead by Sylvanas Windrunner in Gilneas and under the guidance of Thrall and the Earthen Ring in realms untold, fighting against the twisted forces of chaos. The wise elders all disappeared to fight larger battles, leaving so many young warriors without guidance. These young adults followed what ever leadership they had, most of it coming from veterans of the war in Northrend, heroes of Warchief Garrosh Hellscream. These heroes, darkened by the horrors of the frozen north, all seemed to have left a part of their souls up in those wastes. Savage, unprecedented attacks against the Alliance and others broke out in once-peaceful areas while real wars to defend all the Kalimdor residents knew were fought elsewhere. The quilboar, driven to extinction, fought with every member of their species to eliminate the tauren and their allies. Refugees from the betrayal of the Grimtotem and arrival of the Alliance in Kalimdor flooded in to Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff, seeking safety. The trolls had become distant and begun keeping to themselves more. Countless other issues weighed down the Horde in this desperate time, as they struggled to stay unified.
The old bull sighed. When all these wars were won… would there still be a Horde left to die for?
He saw several other tauren and green skinned orcs shuffling what little supplies remained around the area. They carried crates of food to the den, where they would be loaded in the back and given to the residents and military at meal times. Some carried weapons to the quartermaster under his kodo-skin tent, where warriors would come to be equipped with weapons, ammunition and armor if their gear was damaged. At one time, these armaments were given out en masse to the newly arriving orcs, trolls and tauren from Durotar and Mulgore. Now what few supplies remained sat alone and unused against the stone wall of the den, the quartermaster busying himself with other concerns.
The guards stood atop the hills on the west side of the condensed town or at the openings between the wind breakers serving as the Crossroad’s walls and protection against dust clouds and razor winds. Though the harsh sun beat on their skin and fur they stood alert, axes and bows at the ready in case of a sudden quilboar attack. The guards in the watchtowers (most of them trolls) stared deep into the distance, soaking up every small detail of the dull horizon, waiting for something to change. Lately, they saw nothing but birds and quilboar raiders.
Several merchants sat under the protection of their tents, spotting the various roads as they came to meet in the middle of town. Many had left north towards Orgrimmar after the Cataclysm, some south to see their families in Camp Taurajo or Mulgore. They could not have gotten far with the upheaval taking place in the southern barrens. A few returned. Those merchants who did not leave sat about or worked on their crafts all day, hoping to see a caravan to trade their wares to; their lives depended on it.
The old bull observing the area breathed heavily still, even after sitting in the shade long enough to take in the entire town. He found that, these past few seasons, he felt more of an appeal to sit and contemplate things than to get up and do something. He had always been a bull of action, but age was slowing him down.
With effort he lifted himself to his hooves, standing at his great height over the area. After a quick rest from the stand he set hoof into the beating midday heat. At this time of day, few went out to do chores, even in the busy times past midday slowed the bustle. But the old bull was slow to work, and had to keep at it all day. He thirsted for water during his short sits, but did not want to waste the supplies on himself… there were younger bellies to fill.
Two children ran past him, stopping him in his tracks. The tauren pair giggled slightly as they ran down the road towards the shade of a great tree within the boundaries of the wall, their hooves clacking on the stone road. A smile crept to the bull’s face as he began forward again. Suddenly, something slammed into his thick leg. He glanced down, surprised.
It was a third calf, he was gangly and awkward, with limbs far too long for his little body. Two young horns crept from his skull, pointing straight outward. His tiny face drooped like a sorrowful pony, a pair of bright blue eyes sitting on either side of it. He blinked several times, looking shocked, before his mouth dropped open.
“Oh, um. I apologize, old one. I did not mean to bump you. I was going to check on my sisters,” he sputtered in Orcish. The bull couldn’t believe calves were learning Orcish these days. He barely knew how to speak it himself.
Therefore, he responded in the slow, heavy-ended words of Taur’ahe, his voice a rocky as the distant buttes and bluffs of the Barrens, “It was a mistake. I am not offended.”
The calf nodded quickly and trotted off, wobbling left and right as he ran down the road to his sisters waiting in the shade of the tree. The bull turned away, facing down the north road as he began walking again. He began to pass the inn, where many other elders and some young adventurers passing through sat in mealtime and conversations. He stopped, peering in the open doorway as the patrons within the stone building. They sat mostly on the floor, on blankets or crates. Few of them were eating, and those who were seemed to be mostly consuming rations or drinking a few sips of water. They were grouped in pairs or small parties and families. One orc woman rocked her green skinned baby as it fed on her exposed breast. A troll tossed and knife up and down in the air, catching the blade with his fingertips as he listened to an older orc tell a fantastic tale of blood and glory.
The old bull glanced up the road to his destination; a lonely crate and two barrels under a tent. He had to have those moved into a half-empty wagon before it left for Hunter’s Hill in a couple of hours. His head leaned back as he looked up to the clear grey sky and burning An’she above. She stared back down at the barrens, beating on it with her harsh intensity as she always had, training it to be strong.
Too strong for this old bull. He decided to move the supplies when the Earth Mother traveled a bit farther from the Crossroads. There were a few unfamiliar faces in the den and he wanted to hear if there was any news from Desolation Hold or the warfront in Ashenvale.
As he entered the room the various voices began rushed past his flaky ears in waves. He caught samples for dozens of conversations at once.
“It turns out, the guide with the damn cultists! He had been infiltrating the camp for weeks now, stealing supplies,” an angry orc was saying to an off-duty guard with broad, orange shoulder guards. “That’s all he was doing… cutting away at us. Taking bit by bit until the camp starved to death. Why in Durotan’s name would they waste their manpower on that?”
The guard, an older (but much younger than the old bull) tauren with graying fur rumbled in thought. The sound was like two massive stones grinding together. His reply was slow and thoughtful, “That is how the Twilight’s Hammer operates. They have everything coordinated in a master plan, utilizing their impressive numbers to hit the Horde at every angle. They prey on our primary strength… unity. The Horde operates because everyone in the Horde has the same goal and works under the same presumptions. If they spread our focus, they take our hooves out from beneath us.”
The orc sneered, glancing at a group of trolls across the room, “Unity may have been a strength of the Horde at one point, my friend, but that is quickly fading.
“Perhaps,” was the tauren’s only response.
The old bull turned to the three trolls lounging on tiger furs and bales of straw. They all cackled in laughter at once, slapping their knees and throwing their heads back dramatically as they chortled.
“An den ‘e ripped ‘et heart out an’ ate ‘et in front’a da’ mon!” one shouted in broken Orcish.
“What ‘e sey ‘bout dat?” one of them asked, leaning forward, tusks jutting out, nearly touching the tusks of the storyteller.
“Da mon loved ‘et!” they all burst into laughter. “Wasn’ long an’ ‘e was seckund ‘en command on da’ boat!”
The bull had never liked the young, energetic trolls. Though he occasionally met an older, wiser survivor of the Darkspear who he could make good conversation with, if only on a few limited topics. They were a very different people. With this in mind, he walked away from the trolls, to an empty corner of the room with a crate to sit upon. As he slowly lowered himself on it he looked to the left, where a decaying human corpse sipped tea upon the floor spoke with a long-eared, short haired elf woman in leather armor, a bow and quiver beside her.
“Hellscream’s deal with these Dragonmaw orcs is the only thing giving us footing in the Highlands,” she rasped, starting ahead with white eyes.
The elf’s pupils could not be seen, obscured by the green glow emanating from them, but she seemed to look the undead woman up and down, appraisingly, before speaking, “I see it as less of a deal and more of an occupation.”
“Heh,” rasped the zombie, “These are orcs. They obey strength if it is not trying to kill them. Hellscream doesn’t have to occupy them to gain their support.”
The elf paused, nodding slightly, “Indeed.”
“Rrraugh! You cheat me, swine!” the sudden roar of a young orc with gleaming tusks and fiery eyes adverted the old bull’s attention. He was standing up muscles rippling beneath his leather tunic as he glared down at a large-nosed goblin. The goblin met his gaze evenly, one eyebrow raised.
“Lissen here, buddy,” the goblin began, voice nasally and confident. “You don’t seem to have understood the deal quite right. I said I wanted their bodies. You brought me heads.”
“You mince your words like the elven ambassadors, coward!” the orc shot back, fists balled. He was very angry at this point, likely moments away from attacking the goblin. Yet, the goblin seemed unimpressed, like a warrior before battle. It seemed conversation was his field of combat, and his eagle-like glare his bulwark.
“I don’t think you quite catch what I’m tryin’ ta say,” the goblin said, making heavy use of his hand gestures to illustrate his point. “I want them dead as much as anyone else. They’ll destroy this place at this rate. But I can’t pay you to do military work. That’s something you talk to Sergra about. I intend to pay you, but in return I need those bodies so I can make money selling their quills in Ratchet. I’ve got a family to feed and business to run, see?”
The orc frowned, his heavy brow lowering over eyes matching the color of his leather clothing. “You do not care for the well-being of the Crossroads… only for your precious coin!”
Lifting his hands defensively the goblin suddenly leaned forward, “Woah, woah there pal. I’m a citizen of this town and this Horde just like you. And if the Horde has taught me one thing, it’s that the benefit of you is the benefit of me. But I can’t benefit if I can’t afford to keep my caravan running. And when my caravan runs, trade flows. Trade is good for you, me and the people of this abandoned little frontier of yours.”
As the orc calmed down and worked out some kind of deal with the goblin, the inn slowly began to clear out. After watching the majority of people leave the old bull finally decided to finish his task. It seemed no less hot outside than when he went in, but he felt more rested and was able to quickly complete the task. Once it was completed he went to a nearby awning where an orc woman reviewed a list on a piece of parchment, sitting upon a rock. Her long black nail traced the runes and tally marks as her dark eyes soaked up the information. She did not see the bull until he cleared his throat.
The orc looked up and offered a curt nod, standing to her feet and folding the parchment into her belt. “You are done, then?”
The bull offered a nod, but did not say anything to the female.
“You have my thanks for your aid, old one,” she said in her quick, sharp voice. She turned and picked up a box of apples, holding it out. “You will not go unpaid. Here, take what is left of these. They are a bit too ripe, but will fill your belly.”
The bull dared not protest an orc offering payment for a deed. He smiled and took the box in one hand, bowing to the orc, “My thanks, Grusha. I will not forget your kindness.”
“If you are in need of a little coin or water I could take you along. These supplies are to Hunter’s Hill. It is a military outpost, hard to find help unloading quickly,” she said, glancing down the western road.
The bull shook his head immediately, “The Crossroads has enough work for me. I must be here if I am needed.”
He knew his aid was menial and he was not needed, and Grusha knew it too by the sudden look of pity on her face. But this old tauren had been with the Crossroads since it was built, and would stay with it despite its sudden obsolescence.
“Very well.” Grusha replied. She paused a moment before speaking a lower voice, “With the chasm and the Overgrowth in the south, Stonetalon blocked off by the Alliance and all of the mines’ supplies going to fuel the war in Ashenvale, this place barely has a purpose anymore. Trade and military movements are directed through Warsong and the Talon Deep Pass now. The Crossroads won’t last much longer.”
The bull merely nodded, “You do not need to worry about me. Thank you for the apples.”
With that he grabbed his backpack by her pile of supplies and walked off to find a place to sit and enjoy the rest of his evening. The reality of the trader’s words sunk into his heart as he looked around at his town, mostly filled with young trainees testing themselves in the harshness of the wild barrens. The Crossroads would serve as a center of training for many seasons to come, but he was not sure how many families would be able to continue living here. The supplies coming in and being gathered were minimal, especially when compared to the abundance which once flowed through this center.
The old bull sat by a windmill in the shade of a tree, eating a squishy apple in thought. He could not see the future of the Crossroads any longer, and he was powerless to do anything for it. There had been a time when he could trust the Horde to pull through and save themselves against the dangers of the world. That time was gone, for so many moved to the cities now. So many now served in the never ending onslaught against the kaldorei for their resources, the campaigns lead by Sylvanas Windrunner in Gilneas and under the guidance of Thrall and the Earthen Ring in realms untold, fighting against the twisted forces of chaos. The wise elders all disappeared to fight larger battles, leaving so many young warriors without guidance. These young adults followed what ever leadership they had, most of it coming from veterans of the war in Northrend, heroes of Warchief Garrosh Hellscream. These heroes, darkened by the horrors of the frozen north, all seemed to have left a part of their souls up in those wastes. Savage, unprecedented attacks against the Alliance and others broke out in once-peaceful areas while real wars to defend all the Kalimdor residents knew were fought elsewhere. The quilboar, driven to extinction, fought with every member of their species to eliminate the tauren and their allies. Refugees from the betrayal of the Grimtotem and arrival of the Alliance in Kalimdor flooded in to Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff, seeking safety. The trolls had become distant and begun keeping to themselves more. Countless other issues weighed down the Horde in this desperate time, as they struggled to stay unified.
The old bull sighed. When all these wars were won… would there still be a Horde left to die for?