Warsong Gulch

Warsong Gulch lay in ruins behind him as he hoisted himself over the ledge and reached back down to help Rashka up, her pet Ravage simply crouching and springing over the high rocks.  He could still hear the Alliance forces cheering and whooping as they set fire to the mill.  Twice they had tried to beat the Alliance back, and twice they had been utterly crushed, helpless to stop the night elves from taking what wasn't theirs to take.  He began limping back to where the mage was trying to open a portal before Silverwing outrunners found them, then stopped when he realized Rashka wasn't following.  He turned to see her still standing, looking down on the Gulch.  Backlit by the now-raging fires, he could see her hands were clenched into fists and her whole body was tense.  He limped back over to her, noticing a strange look in her eyes as she watched the Alliance begin celebrating in earnest, tossing fallen Horde bodies into the fires after stripping

"It is well that war is so terrible. We should grow too fond of it."
~Robert E. Lee

I loathe Ashenvale. More than any other place in this world, it is so painful to be here that it borders on a physical ache. To breathe deeply of the rich, earthy scent of the forest… to watch the dappled and muted light of the moon play over my black flesh as it casts silver down through the thick canopy… to feel the spongy press of moss under my feet and the smooth brush of huge leaves across my arms… it cuts me deeper than any blade.

Xelarus caught his knuckle in his teeth, his green eyes smoldering with need as he gazed across the gnarled, moist, Ashenvale forest floor. He slid a hand down his trim stomach, letting a few fingers hook under the waistband of his silken, ankle length skirt, tugging it down a touch, scandalously showing more and more taut tummy. He dropped the hand from his mouth, resting it on his chest to bestill his beating heart, “Come get it,” he invited, licked his lips. He winked, one eye adorned with faux long lashes, the other left plain.

It was one of those rare, balmy days in the Barrens. A breeze caused the dry grasses and scrubs to hiss against one another, and the calm twittering of flycatchers and swallows belied the savagery that waged over the land just to the north.

Xelarus drew in the fresh air through his nostrils, smiled, and sighed it out, beaming at the large orc that stood before him, “It’s days like this that make the soul sing.” The words, spoke wistfully, sounded terribly strange in the vocabulary of the orcish tongue. It was not a language suited to waxing poetic about the weather.

Captain Shatterskull of the Warsong Offensive attempted to bore his glare through Xelarus’ forehead and out the back of the elf’s idiot head. “If you’re here to chat about the weather, elf, I can help you experience it more closely when I fire you from a catapult.”

 It is ritual before battle.