Operation: Gnomeregan

Food for herself. Food for Sandra. Double the food, double the risk.

Can't let her die. She needs food. She can't walk now, her leg is broken. But she'll heal. Jannaell can help. Will help.

Must help.

Drop into the hiding spot. Found some mold - edible. Barely. If you're hungry.

And they were hungry.

In the flickering dimness of Gnomeregan’s gateway transit hub, Goggin Troggrinder screamed.

It echoed, not off the metal-clad walls of the cavernous chamber, but within the confines of his sealed helmet. It was a sound born of fury and fear – a battle cry, though one only he could hear.

He didn’t care. It helped.

(( While not too descriptive to me, I still put the Mature tag on here, just to be safe. ))

“Next!”

Sgt. Crys Springspanner twirled her autopen idly as the grinning recruit took his papers and bounded through the half-melted slush toward the armory. As excited as she was about the upcoming offensive, Springspanner at first had been taken aback at the sheer enthusiasm the new pilots showed.

Now, along with the cold and the omnipresent smells of and mud and burning oil, it was beginning to wear on her.

Busted gears, if we’d had this many volunteer for frontline duty in the first place …

The sergeant cut herself off as the next recruit in line sauntered up. Tapping the autopen twice against the desk to restore ink flow, Springspanner slid a new printed form in front of her and scribbled in the date without looking up. “Last name?”

“Troggrinder. With two G’s.”

The sergeant duly filled in the appropriate space, then looked up.