Chronicles of The Second War - Part 1
What a pretti bunch o' galls ye all are. General Grimsteel spat between his teeth and the pipestem, disregarding the obvious disapproval on his Oathkeepers faces.
His gaze slided across them only briefly, but it was enough to stiffen their backs and make them look straight ahead again. Perhaps it was unseemly to spit on the barracks floor but he couldn't care less. Besides, he had good reason to soil the floor as he did.
He started to pace, plated boots making echoes across the room. It was a massive room, chipped and carved from the mountain into which it was built. One wall was lined with racks, filled to the brim with weapons. Pikes, halberds, axes, swords and alike in all different sides and shapes could be seen there.
Sharpen and polished, ready for use. The other wall was lined with armor on stands. Heavy set mail chestpieces and coifs gleamed among plated boots and legguards, all newly made.
A smell of oil, sweat, metal and the Light only knew what permeated the air.
High above, near the vaulted stone ceiling, huge flying contraptions took off and landed constantly, making a buzz of engine sounds like a busy beehive.
IT WAS a busy beehive.
Grimsteel paused in his pacing and turned, his face somewhere between mild disgust and worry. It was hard to tell for sure on his aged, dwarven visage that looked like it had been carved from stone. His narrow grey eyes were focused, which gave his face a serious expression, made all the more grave by his long divided, braided beard and imposing mantle of hair.
Add to that a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times already and he made for an impressive character. Despite his obvious smaller stature, he was broad and underneath his tight shirt and mail armor, muscles honed from years of combat training rippled.
Now how kin I be sure tha when th' Horde comes, th' lot o' ye won't turn tail an' flee? Simple; because if ye do I'll bloody well come after ye and strangle ye meself. Is tha clear ?
A boom of voices all echoed that they got his message. It didn't come from his Oathkeepers, standing off to one side though but rather from the 3 lines of recruits in the middle of the room.
Grimsteel spat again. They were his reason for worry, among a dozen other things. He puffed on his pipe and blew a few smoke rings, giving hard stares to all who dared meet his eyes.
They were quite a pretty bunch. From young Thurian Stonearm, his beard barely long enough to braid yet, to a scrawny young recruit. Grimsteel scowled.
A fine bunch of recruits indeed. His recruits. His responsibility. Putting his pipe away, he folded his hands on his back. This lot of recruits, some experienced, some new, would soon be pitted against this Horde.
A new and deadly enemy, they had emerged out of practically nowhere, laying waste to the southern countries and ravaged Stormwind completely. The tales and rumours first really took hold once refugees started coming to Khaz Modan. Grimsteel hadn't really believed the stories at first, about green skinned humanoids with fangs, until months ago when his patrol ran into a bunch of them in southern Dun Morough.
They were a reality though and a dangerous one at that. After the encounter, and several others like it along the border, the Alliance had scrambled and started preparing. Preparing for war.
That was the reason they were now here, standing lined up and ready. Infantry grunts to the rear, Oathkeepers to the right, and General Grimsteel in the front; the High Thane of the Khaz Modan Infantry.
