Hollow: The Storm
Posted: Tue Jul 14, 2015 12:37 am
The day had finally come. The Warchief had signed off a contingent of soldiers to operate under his command, with a small envoy of demolishers and aerial support as well. All for one purpose: tearing through Grim Batol and killing anyone not bearing Horde colors. A psychotic human named Morinth had been causing trouble for a lot of people, and the hammer was about to fall on her. But all Fhenrir cared about was the fact that Xaraphyne was amongst Morinth's captives.
It was true he would have joined the battle because another captive was Lilliana. But because it was Xaraphyne, there would be no hesitation, no quarter, no compromises. It took all his self-restraint just to not go charging in alone as she had against his protests. If he wanted to see her again, he had to do his part on a team. So the Lieutenant General grit his teeth, petitioned the Warchief, and agreed to the plan. Now his battalion was formed up, preparing for their end of the assault.
The plan was simple enough. Fhenrir and his grunts would march on Grim Batol through the main roads, cutting off any escape to either the Highlands or into the Wetlands below. If the reports were true, her forces were quite numerable, and she would take the fight to them directly. Fhenrir's forces were a front, however, as a secondary strike force was assembled to free the captives and cut the head off of the snake. In the end, a simple plan for a simple thug wanting to play queen.
But things are hardly ever so easy, and he knew this was no exception when he heard the report passed along on Leyu'jin's order. An enormous fel-reaver sized automaton had been sighted along the main road – one with significant armaments. Fhenrir had fought in Outland and knew better than to underestimate these colossi, especially ones reportedly outfitted with poison launchers and artillery cannons.
He looked over the map once more. The reaver would most likely be waiting on the southern road, a wide range for it stomp around with little cover for its unfortunate targets to hide behind. Then there were the mountain bunkers and towers dotting the mountainside from which Morinth's forces could mount ranged attacks. If he tried to march into that kill zone, he and his men would be steaming pulp before Ley's team could even knock on Grim Batol's doors.
The available air support was minimal – a flight or two of gyrocopters, maybe nine or so in total. Enough to pester a reaver, but nowhere near enough to take it down or cripple it thoroughly. Staring at the map, its folds decorated with small miniatures to represent the combatants of both sides, a plan began forming in the tauren's head. If the choppers could disable its cannons, it would give the demolishers and sappers time to...
"Lieutenant General!" The sudden call of a tauren soldier running up to him made his line of thinking halt. He hefted himself up, his large, dark frame turning to the newcomer entering the tent.
The scout was lanky for a tauren, albino white fur offsetting the dark red armor he bore. A young buck to be certain, one who probably hadn't seen an actual battle yet. A quick salute was returned by Fhenrir, the go to deliver his report.
"Sir," the scout began, relaxing his stance before the veteran, "Communication with Crushblow has been terminated. We can't seem to reach them."
Fhenrir frowned at that. Crushblow was to be their forward base for the operation against Morinth. It was a small outpost in ogre lands, but defensible enough with the mountain range at its back. Could Morinth's forces have gotten there first?
"When." Less of a question and more of a demand. Fhenrir didn't waste words.
"A few hours ago. We deployed scouts to survey what had happened. They have only just returned."
"Take me to them." Fhenrir rose and made for the tent's flap, shoving the poor lad with his shoulder and nearly toppling him over as he passed.
With a startled, "Yessir!" when he recovered, the scout led them through the tents and temporary barracks of their camp within the southern forests. They had marched the moment they made landfall in Dragonmaw Port, making for the southern route in the low plains rather than the obvious path through Bloodgulch. The latter it would have been easier, but it was too probable they would encounter a Wildhammer force from Thundermar along that route, and every soldier was needed for Grim Batol.
Nearby upon a fallen log sat a trio of lightly-armored soldiers, leather and hide rather than steel and plate. The tauren lad guided him to them, at which time all three stood and saluted. Strange group it seemed: a pandaren woman, scarlet fur with her face hidden behind a red face mask; an orc man, though he was skinny and small enough to possibly pass for a goblin should be he a foot shorter; then the leader of the group, a strangely muscled troll woman...or man, he couldn't tell one way or another.
"Lieutenant General." The troll spoke; definitely a woman. One mystery solved.
"Lieutenant Jo'gam." A nod from the commander signaled her to relax her stance.
"We circled 'round tha mountains, got a nice view o' da place." She became somewhat solemn. "Quiet. Too quiet....nuthin'. Bein' still as tha grave..."
"Signs of battle?" Fhenrir asked.
"Nothing, sir. No blood, looks like they up and died in their middle of their meal." The orc made himself known. "Bodies were normal, no cuts, no burns."
"We scouted Victor's Point as well." The pandaren spoke, her mask shifting as she spoke through the fabric. "No bodies, but it was empty all the same."
Fhenrir rubbed his beard for a second, absorbing this new information and pondering his next move. Coming to a decision, he nodded in dismissal and marched away, speaking to the scout. "Send word to the men to break camp and make for Crushblow."
"Sir, isn't—"
The petty officer was gifted a cold stare, one that signaled a harsh punishment for future interruptions. Fhenrir continued, brushing past soldiers as he made for his tent. "Gather up Rampage Squad and tell them we're going ahead."
The young buck didn't need to be reprimanded again. He saluted and disappeared from view as he entered the mass of soldiers.
Snorting a bit, Fhenrir reached his tent and threw aside the flaps to enter. There, sitting in the corner practically calling him to wield it, sat the man-sized greatsword of his. Gripping it in his massive hands, he hauled it to rest on his shoulder, inspecting the edge with a finger running down its breadth. It called for blood, and he would deliver in spades.
((Edited by the wonderful Xara))
It was true he would have joined the battle because another captive was Lilliana. But because it was Xaraphyne, there would be no hesitation, no quarter, no compromises. It took all his self-restraint just to not go charging in alone as she had against his protests. If he wanted to see her again, he had to do his part on a team. So the Lieutenant General grit his teeth, petitioned the Warchief, and agreed to the plan. Now his battalion was formed up, preparing for their end of the assault.
The plan was simple enough. Fhenrir and his grunts would march on Grim Batol through the main roads, cutting off any escape to either the Highlands or into the Wetlands below. If the reports were true, her forces were quite numerable, and she would take the fight to them directly. Fhenrir's forces were a front, however, as a secondary strike force was assembled to free the captives and cut the head off of the snake. In the end, a simple plan for a simple thug wanting to play queen.
But things are hardly ever so easy, and he knew this was no exception when he heard the report passed along on Leyu'jin's order. An enormous fel-reaver sized automaton had been sighted along the main road – one with significant armaments. Fhenrir had fought in Outland and knew better than to underestimate these colossi, especially ones reportedly outfitted with poison launchers and artillery cannons.
He looked over the map once more. The reaver would most likely be waiting on the southern road, a wide range for it stomp around with little cover for its unfortunate targets to hide behind. Then there were the mountain bunkers and towers dotting the mountainside from which Morinth's forces could mount ranged attacks. If he tried to march into that kill zone, he and his men would be steaming pulp before Ley's team could even knock on Grim Batol's doors.
The available air support was minimal – a flight or two of gyrocopters, maybe nine or so in total. Enough to pester a reaver, but nowhere near enough to take it down or cripple it thoroughly. Staring at the map, its folds decorated with small miniatures to represent the combatants of both sides, a plan began forming in the tauren's head. If the choppers could disable its cannons, it would give the demolishers and sappers time to...
"Lieutenant General!" The sudden call of a tauren soldier running up to him made his line of thinking halt. He hefted himself up, his large, dark frame turning to the newcomer entering the tent.
The scout was lanky for a tauren, albino white fur offsetting the dark red armor he bore. A young buck to be certain, one who probably hadn't seen an actual battle yet. A quick salute was returned by Fhenrir, the go to deliver his report.
"Sir," the scout began, relaxing his stance before the veteran, "Communication with Crushblow has been terminated. We can't seem to reach them."
Fhenrir frowned at that. Crushblow was to be their forward base for the operation against Morinth. It was a small outpost in ogre lands, but defensible enough with the mountain range at its back. Could Morinth's forces have gotten there first?
"When." Less of a question and more of a demand. Fhenrir didn't waste words.
"A few hours ago. We deployed scouts to survey what had happened. They have only just returned."
"Take me to them." Fhenrir rose and made for the tent's flap, shoving the poor lad with his shoulder and nearly toppling him over as he passed.
With a startled, "Yessir!" when he recovered, the scout led them through the tents and temporary barracks of their camp within the southern forests. They had marched the moment they made landfall in Dragonmaw Port, making for the southern route in the low plains rather than the obvious path through Bloodgulch. The latter it would have been easier, but it was too probable they would encounter a Wildhammer force from Thundermar along that route, and every soldier was needed for Grim Batol.
Nearby upon a fallen log sat a trio of lightly-armored soldiers, leather and hide rather than steel and plate. The tauren lad guided him to them, at which time all three stood and saluted. Strange group it seemed: a pandaren woman, scarlet fur with her face hidden behind a red face mask; an orc man, though he was skinny and small enough to possibly pass for a goblin should be he a foot shorter; then the leader of the group, a strangely muscled troll woman...or man, he couldn't tell one way or another.
"Lieutenant General." The troll spoke; definitely a woman. One mystery solved.
"Lieutenant Jo'gam." A nod from the commander signaled her to relax her stance.
"We circled 'round tha mountains, got a nice view o' da place." She became somewhat solemn. "Quiet. Too quiet....nuthin'. Bein' still as tha grave..."
"Signs of battle?" Fhenrir asked.
"Nothing, sir. No blood, looks like they up and died in their middle of their meal." The orc made himself known. "Bodies were normal, no cuts, no burns."
"We scouted Victor's Point as well." The pandaren spoke, her mask shifting as she spoke through the fabric. "No bodies, but it was empty all the same."
Fhenrir rubbed his beard for a second, absorbing this new information and pondering his next move. Coming to a decision, he nodded in dismissal and marched away, speaking to the scout. "Send word to the men to break camp and make for Crushblow."
"Sir, isn't—"
The petty officer was gifted a cold stare, one that signaled a harsh punishment for future interruptions. Fhenrir continued, brushing past soldiers as he made for his tent. "Gather up Rampage Squad and tell them we're going ahead."
The young buck didn't need to be reprimanded again. He saluted and disappeared from view as he entered the mass of soldiers.
Snorting a bit, Fhenrir reached his tent and threw aside the flaps to enter. There, sitting in the corner practically calling him to wield it, sat the man-sized greatsword of his. Gripping it in his massive hands, he hauled it to rest on his shoulder, inspecting the edge with a finger running down its breadth. It called for blood, and he would deliver in spades.
((Edited by the wonderful Xara))