The Second War

“Quit pulling at your collar. You look like you’ve got the fits.” Micah reluctantly dropped his hand from the snug collar and clasped it in his other hand in his lap, his blue eyes fixing Alwin Ryberg with a weary gaze. It was no match for the withering look Ryberg returned over his miniscule pince-nez. Really, Micah didn’t have a leg to stand on – the robes the vested Magi were made to wear to the graduation ceremonies of the Kirin Tor were by far more uncomfortably layered than the robes of the graduates. Ryberg’s collar was high and arched enough to brush his ears.

      The strong valiant hero knelt on the hollow earth.. Pressing his hand to the blood stained grass.... The moon high in the sky, a ring of forboding surounding it. The clash of steel against steel rang out towards the east. The hero ran off towards the sound of battle. His blade unsheathed leaping down a hill..

**Tuck 'n roll... Tuck 'n Roll** He could hear his drill master screaming into his head.

       Getting to his feet, Shorok looked around. Watching three Orcs battle with his brothers in arms.. A shadowed flame lept across the field like a great serpent of the stories of old. With a wave of his enchanted sword, the spell was absorbed the arcane runes glowed a distinct blue. The warrior narrowed his eyes looking at the orc warlock who grined wide at him. Preparing another spell as the shadows around him surged towards the orc...

   "Great"

Artisania Marveloso looked back and forth between the priestess and the tauren.

 Around them, the chaos of Quel'danas swirled, replete with shouts and cries and flashes of fire, dragonhawks swirling above, smoke rising, boots treading the stones surrounding the little grassy rise upon which they stood. 

"The elves will only fight harder after this, Gul'dan."  Negal could smell the smoke rising from the fires.  A wagon carrying the runestone trundled nearby as it was transported back to the main of the orcish army.

With the stink of raw rat on my breath and the slimy f’lassil salve glistening on my naked and bloody body, I began making my way toward Tranquillien in the hopes of finding a healer. 

How fresh the memories, how they burn, like hot coals strapped in barbed-wire bracers upon my arms and legs! 

Every soldier knows that the more creative a commander gets with tactics, the more desperate the situation.

Lord Valthen Rall, Commander of the Southern Forces, was being very creative at this moment.

Aeona stood before the Captain with a mix of discipline and disregard that any long-serving soldier eventually seems to master. Her stance and expression were hardly respectful, but they were just on the right side of protocol for field conditions.