02:07:10
It is the dead of night in Hammerfall, but the fortified base is lit up like Winter's Veil and nobody is asleep.
At the edge of the stockade, two forces stare one another down. It has been five years of hard fighting since the Horde took the base and faced off with the defenders of the nation of Stromgarde to the southwest, but the place has never been closer to potential bloodshed within its walls than it is now.
And the greatest irony is that the humans may very well need not intervene to see it done.
Hammerfall has two leaders - the Forsaken woman that commands the militaristic Defilers regiment, and the guard captain that oversees the town itself. There has never been a time when they liked one another, and now they face each other with real animosity brewing between them. Behind the woman known only as the Black Bride, the Defilers have loaded up their supplies and made ready to depart. They would have departed more than ten minutes ago if the orcs hadn't moved to block them.
"Is anything I'm saying getting through that thick skull?" the Forsaken female spits. "The Undercity has been attacked! My regiment must return to help secure the homelands!"
"Your orders have not changed," the orc snarls back. "You will remain here and support Hammerfall, as is your duty. Hammerfall's value-"
"Cram your value!" the woman replies, and several of the Defilers shout in support. "I will not have my regiment sit on their hands while whatever fate has befallen the Dark Lady's city envelops the rest of my people!" She takes a step forward. "Now get out of my way!"
"One more step!" the orc roars, brandishing his axe as his fellows close in behind him. "One more step! One more step and-"
A falling star ends the confrontation in a cloud of smoke and dust. Portions of Hammerfall's palisade fall outwards from the shock of the impact. A few moments later the magma bomb's warhead goes off, enveloping the base in its blast radius.
Hammerfall, the sacred orcish stronghold named in memory of the Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer, is erased from the face of the earth.
------------------------------------------
Conquest Hold is a curiosity of the orcish war machine: a fortress vital to the war effort to which nobody wants to be assigned.
Conquest Hold protects the orcs' logging efforts in Northrend, as well as holding much of the territory on the eastern reaches of the continent. Despite the infamy garnered by the Warsong/Silverwing conflicts in Ashenvale, the perpetual stalemate at the battlefront there has bled the orcs' slice of the territory dry of resources. As a result since the war with the Scourge, Conquest Hold produces nearly one-third of all the lumber used by Orgrimmar to supply its armies with the iconic demolisher siege engine, the wagons used to transport troops, and the gondolas for the zeppelins that bombard enemies from above.
Despite the size and nature of the operation, fighting in the surrounding Grizzly Hills has been relatively light. The thickly wooded region does much to hamper both traditional infantry battles and the newly emerging siege warfare. Instead, conflict in the Grizzly Hills is marked by long games of shadowboxing between lightly-armored scouts and rangers.
And the Alliance is better at it.
In part this is because of their worgen irregulars - ever since the nation of Gilneas joined the Alliance, the worgen of the Grizzly Hills have been drawn ever closer to their distant cousins. However in the main, it is because the Alliance commanders have shown more wisdom than their counterparts. At the end of the Scourge War, the Westfall Brigade infantry division was recalled from the region, leaving behind a hardy corps of guerrilla fighters. Striking from the simple hunting lodge at Amberpine Ridge, Alliance foresters harrass the orcish operations all the way from the logging grounds to Venture Bay where the cut timber is loaded and shipped.
In response, Conquerer Gorgonna requests scouts and rangers of her own. Instead, Garrosh Hellscream sends heavy infanty with orders to crush resistance. As a result, Conquest Hold has become known as a deathtrap, an honorless quagmire where soldiers go to die.
The commanding officer of the Alliance forces is a mere lieutenant, a man named Dumont. He is thrown from his bed as the land quakes and erupts with a thunderous explosion. Half-awake, he scrabbles for his nearby armor and weapon as he rushes from the room, shouting, "everyone up! We're under attack!"
At the same time, his worgen counterpart bursts from his own room with a bellow of "what in the freezing hells was that?!" The other half of the team nicknamed by the men as 'the Dues', Sergeant Ducal had once been a soldier of Stormwind before succumbing to the worgen curse and trading in his tabard for a thick fur coat. Only a quirk of fate has brought him back into the fold.
One of the rangers kicks in the lodge's door. "Conquest Hold just got blown away!" the young man all but screams. A moment later, the men of the lodge are gathered on the platform that overlooks the nearby gorge. Through the heavily wooded landscape they can see fire and smoke rising into the night sky.
"Do we act on this?" Ducal questions.
"Are you kidding?" Dumont sputters. "Wake everyone."
"By everyone, do you mea-
"Everyone."
------------------------------------------
Shortly after the destruction of Conquest Hold, on the other side of the world, Zoram'gar Port is the next site to fall victim to the strike cruiser's bombardment.
Once a beachside outpost, the collection of stilted tents grew over time into one of the Horde's distinctive fortresses, stone walls and a great pier with a lighthouse taking shape on the western coast of Kalimdor. Apart from Bilgewater Harbor and Orgrimmar itself, it is the Horde's largest coastal fortress on the entire landmass.
The third magma bomb strikes the walled port very close to the base of the pier. The crews of vessels at anchor are thrown to the deck as the warships rock with the wave produced. Before they can regain their feet, the warhead goes off. Zoram'gar vanishes beneath a wall of water and fire. The fortress walls topple. Warships are overturned and thrown for meters like children's toys. The lighthouse topples into the ocean.
With the loss of the armored port, the continent of Kalimdor gains a new, natural harbor.
--------------------------------------------
The last of the Bellator's four targets is the ironically-named Desolation Hold.
The principal hardpoint of Horde operations in southern Kalimdor, Desolation Hold is the centerpiece of the military's defenses in the Barrens region. During the recent battles between the Horde and Alliance that took place following the burning of Camp Taurajo, Desolation Hold served as the fulcrum of power that turned the tide against invaders from the coastal city of Theramore.
In the months to come, Garrosh Hellscream had intended to use the base as a final staging grounds for his ongoing campaign to destroy the nation-state. As such, a great many of the Horde's forces were drawn close to Desolation - tauren guerilla fighters and wind riders, orc troops and wolfriders, goblin sappers, mechanics, and snipers.
All of it is overseen by Warlord Bloodhilt, the orc responsible for pulling victory from the jaws of imminent defeat during the Barrens campaign. A battle-hungry veteran, Bloodhilt is a favorite of Hellscream, and noises have been made that if it weren't for the long-established record of Overlord Agmar and the meteoric rise of General Nazgrim he would currently be serving at the Warchief's hand.
Bloodhilt survives the initial impact. Inspecting his maps in the fortress tower, the warlord is blinded by a sudden shock of heated dust, deafened by the noise of impact. Despite that, he scrabbles for his axe and lurches towards the stairs, ducking his head and attempting to cover his face behind one arm. "Defensive positions!" he roars. "Defens-"
The detonation of the magma bomb cuts him off with a roar and whoosh of flame. Desolation Hold is leveled, as is a good chunk of the mountain range against which the fortress rests.
To the south, the quillboar see the falling star and lift their weapons, letting loose a series of squealing cheers.
A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
Moderator: LadyTevar
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
02:10:29
As the magma bombs rain down from orbit, the Bellator Lancea completes its drop into the world's atmosphere and angles in towards the coast of Stranglethorn.
Following the guide beacon of ninth squad's drop pod, the Lancea comes in low over the water, nightvision camras zeroing in on the distinctive shape of the armored pod and the space marines surrounging it.
It has taken Sergeant Draco's ninth squad more than an hour to drag the waterlogged conveyance out of the shallow water and push it up onto the beach. In part this has been due to several minor interruptions - interruptions consisting of attacks by snakelike creatures that swim up from the deeper waters and large humanoids coming from out of the jungle presumably to pick at the burning remainds of ninth squad's target.
Despite that, as the Lancea closes in the pod sits securely on the beach, a wide track showing where it has been pushed up from the water. Draco hangs from the edge of the pod, arm outstetched to wave the thunderhawk down. As the Lancea's engines begin to kick the sand up from the beach, he ducks inside and hits to door control, closing up the pod with ninth squad inside.
The Lancea drops its altitude until it all but sets down on the beach, ninth squad's pod sliding in between the prongs of its skeletal hull. With a hum of machinery, a pair of arms extend from the undercarriage of the craft's fuselage, moving to take hold of the pod's superstructure. Electromagnets clamp down tightly, a grip strong enough to hold the pod secure through the violence of escape velocity.
"Draco here," a voice says over the ship's vox as the thunderhawk starts to lift from the beach. "Thanks for the pickup, Lancea."
"Our pleasure, boys. How was the beach party?"
"Bonfire got a little out of hand."
---------------------------------------
2:11:51
Following the devastating hammer blow dealt to the city of Orgrimmar, the Ultramarines' next few actions seem almost like afterthoughts by comparison.
The town of Razor Hill falls prey to the Bellator Pilum. The thunderhawk doesn't take the time to set down amidst the wood-and-stone encampment. Passing overhead at low velocity, the Pilum drops a quartet of smart bombs that rain down onto the walled encampment. One punches through the roof of the main fortification, while a second glances from the face of the inn. The remaining pair both fall in the open.
The detonation of each 500-pound bomb is a shock to the senses. The masonry of Razor Hill stronghold shatters, while the inn has its foundations knocked out from underneath it. The palisade wall disintigrates into flying splinters and burning wreckage. The few orcs that survive the punch of the bombs are killed by the firestorm that follows.
By then, the Pilum has already left the burning wreck of the outpost behind.
----------------------------------------------------
Kargathia Keep is a larger fortress than that of Razor Hill. It has to be - it is the nerve center of the Warsong Clan's operations in Ashenvale.
A mere stone's throw from Orgrimmar itself, Kargathia has been the backstop of the Horde's defenses against the army of the night elves for years. It has weathered several attacks and steadfastly supporting the clan wolfriders that tirelessly maintain the Horde's front line against the Alliance.
The havoc wreaked upon Orgrimmar has not gone unnoticed. Far from it; the Warsong are in a frenzy of activity as they prepare their fortifications for an assault. It comes much sooner than they believe.
Engines scream as the Bellator Hasta soars in from the southeast, wheeling about overhead. The sponson-mounted bolters roar to life, explosive rounds chasing after anyone unlucky enough to be caught out in the open. Peons flee in terror; ironically enough their instinctive reaction makes it easier for the thunderhawk's guns to track and slay them.
The Hasta's last pair of hellstrike missiles fly out from under the wings, punching through the wooden roof of the keep before detonating deep inside the structure. Kargathia Keep collapses amidst a broad fireball.
Tilting its wings, the thunderhawk strafes across the wide, clear-cut area that surrounds the keep's fortifications. The bolters continue to roar as the Hasta adds its twin-linked lascannons to the assault, targeting the primitive machinery and vehicles of the orcs.
In barely thirty seconds, the massacre ends and the thunderhawk banks hard, whirling about to face the west. Its engines flare and the vehicle departs, all but grazing the treetops of Ashenvale.
Soon enough, the night elven scouts will come slinking through the forest to investigate the smoke and fire. They will find few survivors.
Retribution will follow.
--------------------------------------------
2:14:17
The attack on the Valley of Trials begins and ends in seconds.
As the Pilum passes overhead, it drops another quartet of smart bombs - a ridiculous amount of overkill, all considered.
The first two strike the gateway at the mouth of the valley, obliterating it completely. The next pair drop at the entrance to the Den. The encampment outside the cave is engulfed in fire and the cave itself collapses with the shock of the explosion.
Banking right, the Pilum makes its new course west-northwest. The thunderhawk leaves behind the burning wreck of the orcs' proving grounds. The handful of survivors - the few fortunate enough to be away from the Den when the bombs fell - have a hard journey ahead of them as they attempt to climb out of the valley's wreckage and cross the kilometers of desert to what remains of Sen'jin Village.
--------------------------------------------
02:15:23
The flight deck of the Lancea is quiet as the craft passes low over the jungles of eastern Stranglethorn. The room itself is dark but for the red tinge of the instrumentation, highlighting the faces of the flight crew.
"ETA ten minutes to site two," announces the craft's navigator.
There is a long moment of silence afterwards, before the Lancea's co-pilot speaks softly. "We're going to beat them to the drop site," he says. He says aloud what all of them are thinking. Eighth squad has taken a big gamble, running back and forth between their primary target and the tertiary one nearby. Despite the monumental effort poured into the gambit - and the successful destruction of two enemy fortifications - it will not reflect well on the squad to have the Lancea sitting in the skies over an empty drop pod, waiting for them to finish their sprint back.
With careful deliberation, the thunderhawk's pilot moves his hand to the throttle. "Keep an eye on that weather pattern we noticed to the south," he says aloud. "I don't like the look of those crosswinds." He eases the throttle back by a slight measure.
"Yessir," the co-pilot replies smartly.
As the magma bombs rain down from orbit, the Bellator Lancea completes its drop into the world's atmosphere and angles in towards the coast of Stranglethorn.
Following the guide beacon of ninth squad's drop pod, the Lancea comes in low over the water, nightvision camras zeroing in on the distinctive shape of the armored pod and the space marines surrounging it.
It has taken Sergeant Draco's ninth squad more than an hour to drag the waterlogged conveyance out of the shallow water and push it up onto the beach. In part this has been due to several minor interruptions - interruptions consisting of attacks by snakelike creatures that swim up from the deeper waters and large humanoids coming from out of the jungle presumably to pick at the burning remainds of ninth squad's target.
Despite that, as the Lancea closes in the pod sits securely on the beach, a wide track showing where it has been pushed up from the water. Draco hangs from the edge of the pod, arm outstetched to wave the thunderhawk down. As the Lancea's engines begin to kick the sand up from the beach, he ducks inside and hits to door control, closing up the pod with ninth squad inside.
The Lancea drops its altitude until it all but sets down on the beach, ninth squad's pod sliding in between the prongs of its skeletal hull. With a hum of machinery, a pair of arms extend from the undercarriage of the craft's fuselage, moving to take hold of the pod's superstructure. Electromagnets clamp down tightly, a grip strong enough to hold the pod secure through the violence of escape velocity.
"Draco here," a voice says over the ship's vox as the thunderhawk starts to lift from the beach. "Thanks for the pickup, Lancea."
"Our pleasure, boys. How was the beach party?"
"Bonfire got a little out of hand."
---------------------------------------
2:11:51
Following the devastating hammer blow dealt to the city of Orgrimmar, the Ultramarines' next few actions seem almost like afterthoughts by comparison.
The town of Razor Hill falls prey to the Bellator Pilum. The thunderhawk doesn't take the time to set down amidst the wood-and-stone encampment. Passing overhead at low velocity, the Pilum drops a quartet of smart bombs that rain down onto the walled encampment. One punches through the roof of the main fortification, while a second glances from the face of the inn. The remaining pair both fall in the open.
The detonation of each 500-pound bomb is a shock to the senses. The masonry of Razor Hill stronghold shatters, while the inn has its foundations knocked out from underneath it. The palisade wall disintigrates into flying splinters and burning wreckage. The few orcs that survive the punch of the bombs are killed by the firestorm that follows.
By then, the Pilum has already left the burning wreck of the outpost behind.
----------------------------------------------------
Kargathia Keep is a larger fortress than that of Razor Hill. It has to be - it is the nerve center of the Warsong Clan's operations in Ashenvale.
A mere stone's throw from Orgrimmar itself, Kargathia has been the backstop of the Horde's defenses against the army of the night elves for years. It has weathered several attacks and steadfastly supporting the clan wolfriders that tirelessly maintain the Horde's front line against the Alliance.
The havoc wreaked upon Orgrimmar has not gone unnoticed. Far from it; the Warsong are in a frenzy of activity as they prepare their fortifications for an assault. It comes much sooner than they believe.
Engines scream as the Bellator Hasta soars in from the southeast, wheeling about overhead. The sponson-mounted bolters roar to life, explosive rounds chasing after anyone unlucky enough to be caught out in the open. Peons flee in terror; ironically enough their instinctive reaction makes it easier for the thunderhawk's guns to track and slay them.
The Hasta's last pair of hellstrike missiles fly out from under the wings, punching through the wooden roof of the keep before detonating deep inside the structure. Kargathia Keep collapses amidst a broad fireball.
Tilting its wings, the thunderhawk strafes across the wide, clear-cut area that surrounds the keep's fortifications. The bolters continue to roar as the Hasta adds its twin-linked lascannons to the assault, targeting the primitive machinery and vehicles of the orcs.
In barely thirty seconds, the massacre ends and the thunderhawk banks hard, whirling about to face the west. Its engines flare and the vehicle departs, all but grazing the treetops of Ashenvale.
Soon enough, the night elven scouts will come slinking through the forest to investigate the smoke and fire. They will find few survivors.
Retribution will follow.
--------------------------------------------
2:14:17
The attack on the Valley of Trials begins and ends in seconds.
As the Pilum passes overhead, it drops another quartet of smart bombs - a ridiculous amount of overkill, all considered.
The first two strike the gateway at the mouth of the valley, obliterating it completely. The next pair drop at the entrance to the Den. The encampment outside the cave is engulfed in fire and the cave itself collapses with the shock of the explosion.
Banking right, the Pilum makes its new course west-northwest. The thunderhawk leaves behind the burning wreck of the orcs' proving grounds. The handful of survivors - the few fortunate enough to be away from the Den when the bombs fell - have a hard journey ahead of them as they attempt to climb out of the valley's wreckage and cross the kilometers of desert to what remains of Sen'jin Village.
--------------------------------------------
02:15:23
The flight deck of the Lancea is quiet as the craft passes low over the jungles of eastern Stranglethorn. The room itself is dark but for the red tinge of the instrumentation, highlighting the faces of the flight crew.
"ETA ten minutes to site two," announces the craft's navigator.
There is a long moment of silence afterwards, before the Lancea's co-pilot speaks softly. "We're going to beat them to the drop site," he says. He says aloud what all of them are thinking. Eighth squad has taken a big gamble, running back and forth between their primary target and the tertiary one nearby. Despite the monumental effort poured into the gambit - and the successful destruction of two enemy fortifications - it will not reflect well on the squad to have the Lancea sitting in the skies over an empty drop pod, waiting for them to finish their sprint back.
With careful deliberation, the thunderhawk's pilot moves his hand to the throttle. "Keep an eye on that weather pattern we noticed to the south," he says aloud. "I don't like the look of those crosswinds." He eases the throttle back by a slight measure.
"Yessir," the co-pilot replies smartly.
JADAFETWA
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
02:18:54
If Kargathia Keep had been the anchor of Warsong Clan's battlefront, Splintertree Post is the armored prow.
Although it is not the most forward base in the Horde's operations, Splintertree's central location amidst the Ashenvale roads means that it is routinely the hardest-hit of the Horde's strongholds in the region.
The place consists of the Horde's favored palisade walls, enclosing a series of guard towers and a number of stone buildings set around the fortified entrance of a mine dug into the earth. A handful of demolishers sit inside the protected area, ready for the task of lobbing burning payloads over the walls at any attackers.
This afternoon, one such assault is well underway. Gigantic ancients like moving, walking trees lob boulders and swipe at orcish warriors with their massive arms. Night elven sentinels fight with bow and glaive.
The roar of engines overtakes the battlefield as the Bellator Hasta descends overhead. The thunderhawk soars past Splintertree's defensive wall, sailing in to land in the center of the base's open enclosure. The battle outside comes to a near-total halt as orc and night elf alike turn their heads upwards to watch the boxy vehicle land.
With a rumble of machinery the Hasta's doors cycle open and the men of first, third, and fourth squads pour out. Gunfire follows, accompanied by the sound of the thunderhawk's lascannons as the twin-linked weapons fire into the structure of the mine entrance, collapsing it in a brief, furious firestorm.
The orcs' front line shatters as the soldiers turn back - instinctively reacting to the sudden battle erupting inside their stronghold. The night elves punish them for their error, cutting through the few that remain to oppose them before chasing after those who retreat.
The first through the gate is Sentinel Farsong of the Silverwing order. She is greeted by a scene of slaughter. Splintertree's buildings burn, most of them little more than piles of rubble. The crew of the place - principally orcs, but also trolls, tauren, and goblins - lie where they have fallen, torn apart by the fury of the attackers and their brutal weapons.
She's not discomfited by the destruction. Farsong is used to the savagery of war. The part that disturbs the night elf is how quickly it all unfolded. A minute? Two?
Splintertree Post has stood for just over five years. In less than five minutes it has been completely destroyed.
The night elf gets a good look at one of the attackers. It brings her up short. The man is an armored giant the size of a tauren or perhaps even an ogre. In one hand he holds a gun that looks like it could make a fair pass as a dwarven rocket launcher. In the other, a banner with arcane symbols worked into the fabric. The colors that he wears a blue and gold and white, and that is what provokes Farsong's suspicion.
"Hey," she calls out. "Who are you?"
The giant seems to take no notice of her. He's already turning away to begin walking back towards the airship at the center of Splintertree.
"I asked you a question," the night elf persists, striding quickly to catch up with the mysterious intruder. "Who are you? Are you from Stormwind?" The giant does not respond, and with a scowl the sentinel moves closer to his side. "Hey, I'm talking to you," she says as she sets a restraining hand on his arm.
It's a crucial error.
Alcrayn twists without warning. His hand flies out to ram the stock of his bolt pistol into the long-eared female's jaw. The strength of the blow snaps Farsong's head back with a wet crack. The sentinel falls, already dead before she hits the ground. Alcrayn walks on towards the Hasta.
Behind him, another sentinel throws up her arm to prevent her fellows from chasing after the departing giants.
The thunderhawk lifts off without further interference.
--------------------------------------------
02:22:14
There was once a time when the town known as Crossroads had been a thriving trade community. Situated almost perfectly between four cities - Orgrimmar to the northeast, Ratchet to the southeast, Thunder Bluff to the southwest, and Sun Rock to the northwest, the town had grown rapidly in a mere handful of years as numerous traders had passed through. Warriors and hunters of the Horde had been drawn to the place as well, seeking game beasts and wild centaur to challenge their skills.
In the past year, with the shifting of the world's tectonic plates, although Crossroads had escaped destruction it had seen much of its signature trade slowly perish. The rift that opened across the Barrens severed almost all the trade that had once drifted up from Thunder Bluff, while the war between the Horde and Alliance had advanced a front into the Stonetalon Mountains, likewise ending much of the travel that had come forth out of the western reaches.
Still, the Crossroads had not faded as much as some might have feared. Young warriors still came forth to challenge the beasts and raiders that made the Barrens their home. Caravans hauling war materiel and other goods passed between Orgrimmar and the outlying villages of Kalimdor.
As a result, in the the early-afternoon heat of the savannah, the walled community is all but full when the Bellator Pilum arrives.
The thunderhawk drops its remaining payload as it passes overhead - eight more of the smart bombs locked into place beneath the ship's wings. In staggered pairs they fall from their mountings, and a series of rolling booms erupt in the Pilum's wake, following the craft's course from one end of Crossroads to the other.
Only a handful survive. Unfortunately for them, the sound of the blasts has drawn the attention of the centaur raiders that dwell in the outer reaches of the savannah. With the walls of the town burning, with the guard tower destroyed, what is left is easy pickings for the warbands.
----------------------------------------------
2:31:47
"Sure doesn't look like airship decking," the lieutenant says.
Joanna Blueheart knocks the knuckles of her gauntlet against the steel box and listens to the sounds produced. "Could be a cargo container," she supposes.
"Think whoever hit this place left it behind?"
"Could be," the Mashtide captain murmurs, stepping back and craning her head back to look up at the thing. "It sure doesn't belong here."
Joanna and her detachment stand amidst the ruins of Stonard. Awakened by the mysterious blast from across the swamp, the captain brought a mere handful of her soldiers to investigate. Their progress had been slow, cautious as they crossed the battlefield that lies between Marshtide Watch and the orcish settlement. A few picket guards had crossed their path, but aside from stragglers the expected challenge had never come, and little by little they had crossed into what remained of Stonard.
"Hey, there's buttons over here," says one of the other soldiers looking the weird thing over. "Think maybe we can open it up?"
"Don't touch them," Joanna warns. "The thing might blow up in our faces."
"So, what do we do with it, cap?"
Joanna runs her tongue over her teeth in thought. "Well, this thing won't fit in any of our wagons. Doubt our horses could pull it through the swamp. Best thing to do is probably get a flyer on the way to Stormwind, see if we can get them to pull one of the airships to swing down here-"
"YOU!" an impossibly loud voice booms. "GET AWAY FROM THERE!"
Joanna and her soldiers swing around in shocked surprise as they come face to face with a ten-man squad of giants in blue armor and crimson helms. Each one levels a gun that looks like the centerpiece on a siege tank.
"Whoa!" the Marshtide captain sputters, backpedaling from the curiosity. She lifts her hands, motioning with the right for her men to do likewise. "Easy, big guy, easy. We're moving."
"Further," the harsh voice barks as the giants advance. "FURTHER!"
The soldiers of Stormwind draw back first twenty, then thirty, then fifty paces as the interlopers move to encircle the curiosity that matches the coloring of their armor. Sure enough, one of them taps on the buttons while the others keep the soldiers covered with their big guns. With a whine of machinery the sides of the big box split open into doors that lay out into ramps.
"Who are you people?" Joanna dares shout over the sound. There's no reply. Some of the armored figures begin to file into the boxy structure - Joanna half-expects to see the thing begin to rise into the air.
One of them, however, moves to stand between the thing and the gathered soldiers. "Make no moves forward," he says. "Or you will be shot."
A rising howl builds as he speaks, and a few moments later an airship drops from the sky. Not one of the giant boatlike things Stormwind has begun to use in the war effort over the past year, but a boxy metal shape like a siege tank given wings. Instinctively, the Stormwind soldiers duck their heads and retreat from the wash of air as the thing comes down.
As Joanna watches from beneath the shield of one arm, the last of the armored giants move to enter the metallic shell, the doors closing up after them. As they do so, the airship drops lower, and behind the flash of its running lights Joanna can see a pair of metal arms take hold of the box, pulling it up against the flying machine's hull to nestle just behind another, identical box. Joanna's eyes widen at the concept of many such things falling out of the sky.
As abruptly as it arrived, the airship wheels about and departs, heading towards the northeast. As the roar of engines fades away, Joanna's lieutenant looks to her and questions, "what now?"
The blonde woman shakes her head to clear some of the last echoes of that roaring from her ears. "Now? We double-time it back to Marshtide and get a flyer on his way to Stormwind to report this," she says.
-------------------------------------
02:37:10
The last of the Horde's strongholds on Kalimdor to fall to the Ultramarines is a dumping ground of equipment and personnel alike; a sorry legacy of a mishandled campaign.
Krom'gar Fortress is a mountainside emplacement, set atop a plateau overlooking the Windshear Crags. Once, it had shown the promise of becoming like unto Kargathia Keep - an anchoring point for a great offensive into the Stonetalon Mountains.
But then the incompetence of Overlord Krom'gar and the disastrous losses inflicted to both Horde and Alliance alike by his efforts to take the region led to the death of the orc himself and the subsequent dissolution of his army. Now, the fortress that bears his name serves only as a deterrent to prevent the Alliance from marching their forces up the western coast of Kalimdor to support the lines of battle in Ashenvale.
The Pilum comes in low over the eastern reaches of the Stonetalon Mountains, sponson-mounted bolters roaring as the thunderhawk comes in to hover at the edge of the plateau upon which the fortress rests. The armored dropship disgorges the whole of fifth, sixth, and seventh squads. The thirty marines make short work of the orcs that guard the place, moving to clear the towers and fortifications of the place in systematic fashion.
As it departs, the Pilum spins about to fire a shot from its turbo-laser into the entrance of the mine beneath the fortess. It collapses without resistance.
----------------------------------------
02:44:06
The goblin town of Fuselight is rocked by the sonic boom produced by the Bellator Lancea as the thunderhawk passes by, several kilometers off the coast of the eastern kingdoms.
With the Pilum and the Hasta wrapping up their operations on the other side of the world, the Lancea's crew pushes the thunderhawk's engines dangerously close to the red line. The primarch's plan has allowed for spare time for the transport to make its retrievals, but after slacking their speed to ensure a timely arrive at eighth squad's dropsite, the Lancea's crew run their transport hard to make up for lost minutes.
If Kargathia Keep had been the anchor of Warsong Clan's battlefront, Splintertree Post is the armored prow.
Although it is not the most forward base in the Horde's operations, Splintertree's central location amidst the Ashenvale roads means that it is routinely the hardest-hit of the Horde's strongholds in the region.
The place consists of the Horde's favored palisade walls, enclosing a series of guard towers and a number of stone buildings set around the fortified entrance of a mine dug into the earth. A handful of demolishers sit inside the protected area, ready for the task of lobbing burning payloads over the walls at any attackers.
This afternoon, one such assault is well underway. Gigantic ancients like moving, walking trees lob boulders and swipe at orcish warriors with their massive arms. Night elven sentinels fight with bow and glaive.
The roar of engines overtakes the battlefield as the Bellator Hasta descends overhead. The thunderhawk soars past Splintertree's defensive wall, sailing in to land in the center of the base's open enclosure. The battle outside comes to a near-total halt as orc and night elf alike turn their heads upwards to watch the boxy vehicle land.
With a rumble of machinery the Hasta's doors cycle open and the men of first, third, and fourth squads pour out. Gunfire follows, accompanied by the sound of the thunderhawk's lascannons as the twin-linked weapons fire into the structure of the mine entrance, collapsing it in a brief, furious firestorm.
The orcs' front line shatters as the soldiers turn back - instinctively reacting to the sudden battle erupting inside their stronghold. The night elves punish them for their error, cutting through the few that remain to oppose them before chasing after those who retreat.
The first through the gate is Sentinel Farsong of the Silverwing order. She is greeted by a scene of slaughter. Splintertree's buildings burn, most of them little more than piles of rubble. The crew of the place - principally orcs, but also trolls, tauren, and goblins - lie where they have fallen, torn apart by the fury of the attackers and their brutal weapons.
She's not discomfited by the destruction. Farsong is used to the savagery of war. The part that disturbs the night elf is how quickly it all unfolded. A minute? Two?
Splintertree Post has stood for just over five years. In less than five minutes it has been completely destroyed.
The night elf gets a good look at one of the attackers. It brings her up short. The man is an armored giant the size of a tauren or perhaps even an ogre. In one hand he holds a gun that looks like it could make a fair pass as a dwarven rocket launcher. In the other, a banner with arcane symbols worked into the fabric. The colors that he wears a blue and gold and white, and that is what provokes Farsong's suspicion.
"Hey," she calls out. "Who are you?"
The giant seems to take no notice of her. He's already turning away to begin walking back towards the airship at the center of Splintertree.
"I asked you a question," the night elf persists, striding quickly to catch up with the mysterious intruder. "Who are you? Are you from Stormwind?" The giant does not respond, and with a scowl the sentinel moves closer to his side. "Hey, I'm talking to you," she says as she sets a restraining hand on his arm.
It's a crucial error.
Alcrayn twists without warning. His hand flies out to ram the stock of his bolt pistol into the long-eared female's jaw. The strength of the blow snaps Farsong's head back with a wet crack. The sentinel falls, already dead before she hits the ground. Alcrayn walks on towards the Hasta.
Behind him, another sentinel throws up her arm to prevent her fellows from chasing after the departing giants.
The thunderhawk lifts off without further interference.
--------------------------------------------
02:22:14
There was once a time when the town known as Crossroads had been a thriving trade community. Situated almost perfectly between four cities - Orgrimmar to the northeast, Ratchet to the southeast, Thunder Bluff to the southwest, and Sun Rock to the northwest, the town had grown rapidly in a mere handful of years as numerous traders had passed through. Warriors and hunters of the Horde had been drawn to the place as well, seeking game beasts and wild centaur to challenge their skills.
In the past year, with the shifting of the world's tectonic plates, although Crossroads had escaped destruction it had seen much of its signature trade slowly perish. The rift that opened across the Barrens severed almost all the trade that had once drifted up from Thunder Bluff, while the war between the Horde and Alliance had advanced a front into the Stonetalon Mountains, likewise ending much of the travel that had come forth out of the western reaches.
Still, the Crossroads had not faded as much as some might have feared. Young warriors still came forth to challenge the beasts and raiders that made the Barrens their home. Caravans hauling war materiel and other goods passed between Orgrimmar and the outlying villages of Kalimdor.
As a result, in the the early-afternoon heat of the savannah, the walled community is all but full when the Bellator Pilum arrives.
The thunderhawk drops its remaining payload as it passes overhead - eight more of the smart bombs locked into place beneath the ship's wings. In staggered pairs they fall from their mountings, and a series of rolling booms erupt in the Pilum's wake, following the craft's course from one end of Crossroads to the other.
Only a handful survive. Unfortunately for them, the sound of the blasts has drawn the attention of the centaur raiders that dwell in the outer reaches of the savannah. With the walls of the town burning, with the guard tower destroyed, what is left is easy pickings for the warbands.
----------------------------------------------
2:31:47
"Sure doesn't look like airship decking," the lieutenant says.
Joanna Blueheart knocks the knuckles of her gauntlet against the steel box and listens to the sounds produced. "Could be a cargo container," she supposes.
"Think whoever hit this place left it behind?"
"Could be," the Mashtide captain murmurs, stepping back and craning her head back to look up at the thing. "It sure doesn't belong here."
Joanna and her detachment stand amidst the ruins of Stonard. Awakened by the mysterious blast from across the swamp, the captain brought a mere handful of her soldiers to investigate. Their progress had been slow, cautious as they crossed the battlefield that lies between Marshtide Watch and the orcish settlement. A few picket guards had crossed their path, but aside from stragglers the expected challenge had never come, and little by little they had crossed into what remained of Stonard.
"Hey, there's buttons over here," says one of the other soldiers looking the weird thing over. "Think maybe we can open it up?"
"Don't touch them," Joanna warns. "The thing might blow up in our faces."
"So, what do we do with it, cap?"
Joanna runs her tongue over her teeth in thought. "Well, this thing won't fit in any of our wagons. Doubt our horses could pull it through the swamp. Best thing to do is probably get a flyer on the way to Stormwind, see if we can get them to pull one of the airships to swing down here-"
"YOU!" an impossibly loud voice booms. "GET AWAY FROM THERE!"
Joanna and her soldiers swing around in shocked surprise as they come face to face with a ten-man squad of giants in blue armor and crimson helms. Each one levels a gun that looks like the centerpiece on a siege tank.
"Whoa!" the Marshtide captain sputters, backpedaling from the curiosity. She lifts her hands, motioning with the right for her men to do likewise. "Easy, big guy, easy. We're moving."
"Further," the harsh voice barks as the giants advance. "FURTHER!"
The soldiers of Stormwind draw back first twenty, then thirty, then fifty paces as the interlopers move to encircle the curiosity that matches the coloring of their armor. Sure enough, one of them taps on the buttons while the others keep the soldiers covered with their big guns. With a whine of machinery the sides of the big box split open into doors that lay out into ramps.
"Who are you people?" Joanna dares shout over the sound. There's no reply. Some of the armored figures begin to file into the boxy structure - Joanna half-expects to see the thing begin to rise into the air.
One of them, however, moves to stand between the thing and the gathered soldiers. "Make no moves forward," he says. "Or you will be shot."
A rising howl builds as he speaks, and a few moments later an airship drops from the sky. Not one of the giant boatlike things Stormwind has begun to use in the war effort over the past year, but a boxy metal shape like a siege tank given wings. Instinctively, the Stormwind soldiers duck their heads and retreat from the wash of air as the thing comes down.
As Joanna watches from beneath the shield of one arm, the last of the armored giants move to enter the metallic shell, the doors closing up after them. As they do so, the airship drops lower, and behind the flash of its running lights Joanna can see a pair of metal arms take hold of the box, pulling it up against the flying machine's hull to nestle just behind another, identical box. Joanna's eyes widen at the concept of many such things falling out of the sky.
As abruptly as it arrived, the airship wheels about and departs, heading towards the northeast. As the roar of engines fades away, Joanna's lieutenant looks to her and questions, "what now?"
The blonde woman shakes her head to clear some of the last echoes of that roaring from her ears. "Now? We double-time it back to Marshtide and get a flyer on his way to Stormwind to report this," she says.
-------------------------------------
02:37:10
The last of the Horde's strongholds on Kalimdor to fall to the Ultramarines is a dumping ground of equipment and personnel alike; a sorry legacy of a mishandled campaign.
Krom'gar Fortress is a mountainside emplacement, set atop a plateau overlooking the Windshear Crags. Once, it had shown the promise of becoming like unto Kargathia Keep - an anchoring point for a great offensive into the Stonetalon Mountains.
But then the incompetence of Overlord Krom'gar and the disastrous losses inflicted to both Horde and Alliance alike by his efforts to take the region led to the death of the orc himself and the subsequent dissolution of his army. Now, the fortress that bears his name serves only as a deterrent to prevent the Alliance from marching their forces up the western coast of Kalimdor to support the lines of battle in Ashenvale.
The Pilum comes in low over the eastern reaches of the Stonetalon Mountains, sponson-mounted bolters roaring as the thunderhawk comes in to hover at the edge of the plateau upon which the fortress rests. The armored dropship disgorges the whole of fifth, sixth, and seventh squads. The thirty marines make short work of the orcs that guard the place, moving to clear the towers and fortifications of the place in systematic fashion.
As it departs, the Pilum spins about to fire a shot from its turbo-laser into the entrance of the mine beneath the fortess. It collapses without resistance.
----------------------------------------
02:44:06
The goblin town of Fuselight is rocked by the sonic boom produced by the Bellator Lancea as the thunderhawk passes by, several kilometers off the coast of the eastern kingdoms.
With the Pilum and the Hasta wrapping up their operations on the other side of the world, the Lancea's crew pushes the thunderhawk's engines dangerously close to the red line. The primarch's plan has allowed for spare time for the transport to make its retrievals, but after slacking their speed to ensure a timely arrive at eighth squad's dropsite, the Lancea's crew run their transport hard to make up for lost minutes.
JADAFETWA
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king of hybrids
- Redshirt
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 2013-09-17 06:48pm
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
hmm, that's about the entire orcish population of kalimdor, northrend and the southern EK; so that leaves kargath, frostwolf valley and the outland settlements left as centres of orc population. the smurfs can't reach outland obviously, kargath is almost certainly next and probably frostwolf as well (can we see thrall get squashed? 
*); but blood elves, goblins (bilgewater was mostly their own making) and tauren have been mostly left alone (for now)
so, is this "death to all orcs", "back to the camps with ye" or "your population now consists of a valley and some villages on an asteroid, bend the knee to stormwind, forever"?
either way, emps has an interesting definition of "nudge"
any chance they could level najastar on their way out?
*i usually lean horde; but i can get behind the schadenfreude
*); but blood elves, goblins (bilgewater was mostly their own making) and tauren have been mostly left alone (for now)so, is this "death to all orcs", "back to the camps with ye" or "your population now consists of a valley and some villages on an asteroid, bend the knee to stormwind, forever"?
either way, emps has an interesting definition of "nudge"
any chance they could level najastar on their way out?
*i usually lean horde; but i can get behind the schadenfreude
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
Hey, this is about as nudge as the Imperium gets. 
As far as the orcs go, well, I must admit that the basis of this fic was almost entirely catharsis for "oh my god I am so sick of WoW orcs" and the post-Wrath storylines that I increasingly hated over time. As a result part of the reason I didn't write this sooner is that for a long time I vacillated over just how far I was going to go - "Horde gets bombed from orbit" wasn't quite what I wanted. I will say it's not quite a "death to all orcs ever" and I don't hate all the characters I've killed in this, some of them are just members of the Horde I couldn't justify leaving alive, given the space marines' goals.
As for Nazjatar and other potential targets, well...
Spoiler
As far as the orcs go, well, I must admit that the basis of this fic was almost entirely catharsis for "oh my god I am so sick of WoW orcs" and the post-Wrath storylines that I increasingly hated over time. As a result part of the reason I didn't write this sooner is that for a long time I vacillated over just how far I was going to go - "Horde gets bombed from orbit" wasn't quite what I wanted. I will say it's not quite a "death to all orcs ever" and I don't hate all the characters I've killed in this, some of them are just members of the Horde I couldn't justify leaving alive, given the space marines' goals.
As for Nazjatar and other potential targets, well...
Spoiler
JADAFETWA
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king of hybrids
- Redshirt
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 2013-09-17 06:48pm
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
makes sense. hell, even blizzard seemed to have realised it a bit, judging by glorious new leaderKuja wrote:Hey, this is about as nudge as the Imperium gets.
As far as the orcs go, well, I must admit that the basis of this fic was almost entirely catharsis for "oh my god I am so sick of WoW orcs" and the post-Wrath storylines that I increasingly hated over time. As a result part of the reason I didn't write this sooner is that for a long time I vacillated over just how far I was going to go - "Horde gets bombed from orbit" wasn't quite what I wanted. I will say it's not quite a "death to all orcs ever" and I don't hate all the characters I've killed in this, some of them are just members of the Horde I couldn't justify leaving alive, given the space marines' goals.
thrall and drek'thar obviously need to die when the hammer comes down on the frostwolves, same with aggra and thrall's kid. it'll take too long for the smurfs to root out the orcs in neutral territory, and since varian isn't a "stick their kids on pikes" kind of guy; he'll probably manage to convince the rest of the alliance to stick the survivors back in the camps; so the orcs will probably survive as a species at least. forsaken are screwed obviously
SpoilerAs for Nazjatar and other potential targets, well...
Spoiler
and i'm guessing the WC humans in this aren't descended from vrykul?
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Highlord Laan
- Jedi Master
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- Location: Christo-fundie Theofascist Dominion of Nebraskistan
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
*cringe* I think Velen needs to teleport as many people to the dark portal and to Outland as possible. I hope I'm wrong.
Never underestimate the ingenuity and cruelty of the Irish.
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
eheheheheheheheheking of hybrids wrote:and i'm guessing the WC humans in this aren't descended from vrykul?
Spoiler
JADAFETWA
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
02:45:23
High above Kalimdor, the Pilum and the Hasta make rendezvous. There is chatter back and forth between the two thunderhawks.
Aboard the Hasta, Roboute Guilliman considers his options. It is too soon to move on Objective Secundus - he wants the full strength of the 64th Company present for that operation.
There are tertiaries that yet remain, however. Minor bases on other continents. He could turn the Pilum and the Hasta upon them in the time it takes the Lancea to complete its run. Or he could order the Bellator to fire a final round of magma bombs.
He decides upon the latter. A great deal of energy and ammunition has been expended in the pursuit of Objective Primaris, and though the 64th now has time to apply armor cement and exchange empty magazines for fresh ones, reserves are running low. If Objective Secundus proves difficult, the XIII Primarch wants his men well-supplied.
The twin thunderhawks move to stand off the coast as they await their cousin's rendezvous.
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02:48:35
From high orbit, the Bellator issues a warning to the Lancea to be aware of incoming fire. The Lancea acknowledges.
A moment later the bombardment cannon speaks. It fires a trio of projectiles, each several seconds apart as the cannon retargets in between each shot. After that, the weapon finally falls silent.
It will remain that way for the rest of the operation.
------------------------------------------------
02:54:02
It has been nearly one and a half standard hours since tenth squad made a slightly bumpy landing at Dragonmaw Port.
It's not much of a port any longer - the ships at dock have been scuttled by the squad's melta charges, the docks themselves split and collapsed by more such damage. Within the walls of the fortress, the forges, the stronghold, the storehouses...all of it burns, lighting up the night for miles around.
As the Lancea comes in overhead, Sergeant Timaeus is the last man of his squad to board the drop pod. The sergeant looks down at the ground at his feet. There, the chain of dark steel lays inert in the exact spot he dropped it over an hour ago. He still doesn't trust it to remain that way.
Despite the knowledge that he must look ridiculous to do so, as he looks down at the chain, the sergeant speaks- "special for you."
A melta charge thuds softly to the ground beside the chain, a one-minute timer already running.
Timaeus sprints for the safety of his drop pod and punches the door control.
As the Lancea pulls tenth squad's pod into place alongside the other two, Timaeus' charge detonates. The black chain is liquefied by its proximity to the blast. Its destruction is accompanied by a high-pitched grinding sound. To the superstitious, it might sound almost like a scream.
With the three pods loaded and clamped tight by the thunderhawk's magnetic arms, the Lancea reorients and once more heads out over the ocean, cycling up its engines to once more break the sound barrier.
It has one more passenger to pick up.
High above Kalimdor, the Pilum and the Hasta make rendezvous. There is chatter back and forth between the two thunderhawks.
Aboard the Hasta, Roboute Guilliman considers his options. It is too soon to move on Objective Secundus - he wants the full strength of the 64th Company present for that operation.
There are tertiaries that yet remain, however. Minor bases on other continents. He could turn the Pilum and the Hasta upon them in the time it takes the Lancea to complete its run. Or he could order the Bellator to fire a final round of magma bombs.
He decides upon the latter. A great deal of energy and ammunition has been expended in the pursuit of Objective Primaris, and though the 64th now has time to apply armor cement and exchange empty magazines for fresh ones, reserves are running low. If Objective Secundus proves difficult, the XIII Primarch wants his men well-supplied.
The twin thunderhawks move to stand off the coast as they await their cousin's rendezvous.
-----------------------------------------------
02:48:35
From high orbit, the Bellator issues a warning to the Lancea to be aware of incoming fire. The Lancea acknowledges.
A moment later the bombardment cannon speaks. It fires a trio of projectiles, each several seconds apart as the cannon retargets in between each shot. After that, the weapon finally falls silent.
It will remain that way for the rest of the operation.
------------------------------------------------
02:54:02
It has been nearly one and a half standard hours since tenth squad made a slightly bumpy landing at Dragonmaw Port.
It's not much of a port any longer - the ships at dock have been scuttled by the squad's melta charges, the docks themselves split and collapsed by more such damage. Within the walls of the fortress, the forges, the stronghold, the storehouses...all of it burns, lighting up the night for miles around.
As the Lancea comes in overhead, Sergeant Timaeus is the last man of his squad to board the drop pod. The sergeant looks down at the ground at his feet. There, the chain of dark steel lays inert in the exact spot he dropped it over an hour ago. He still doesn't trust it to remain that way.
Despite the knowledge that he must look ridiculous to do so, as he looks down at the chain, the sergeant speaks- "special for you."
A melta charge thuds softly to the ground beside the chain, a one-minute timer already running.
Timaeus sprints for the safety of his drop pod and punches the door control.
As the Lancea pulls tenth squad's pod into place alongside the other two, Timaeus' charge detonates. The black chain is liquefied by its proximity to the blast. Its destruction is accompanied by a high-pitched grinding sound. To the superstitious, it might sound almost like a scream.
With the three pods loaded and clamped tight by the thunderhawk's magnetic arms, the Lancea reorients and once more heads out over the ocean, cycling up its engines to once more break the sound barrier.
It has one more passenger to pick up.
JADAFETWA
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
03:19:16
To call the installation of New Kargath a fortress is overly generous.
Although a fortified location, it is an outpost, a far-flung Horde base in a distant frontier. Understaffed, undersupplied, its sole boasting point is the presence of its hard-bitten Expeditionary Force. For years they have held their remote location, even through the Shattering's destruction of the original Kargath. They have taken the fight to the black dragons and the forces of the dark iron dwarves, keeping them contained far from the homelands of the Horde.
It all comes to an end in the mid-morning hours as the Bellator's magma bomb shatters the mountainside upon which the outpost is constructed. A massive avalanche ensues as sandstone melts and collapses upon itself.
The residents of Fuselight are awakened for the second time in a single night as the sound of distant rumbling washes over the town.
------------------------------------------
The Iceblood Garrison is quiet at this time of night. The guards stand at their posts in the freezing weather, watching for any incursion by the Stormpike Clan or their alliance in the greater Alliance.
None comes this night, but still Captain Galvanger walks the halls of his stronghold. He is silently bothered by a feeling of dread that has hung over him for weeks now, every since the night the elder shaman went into his frothing rage. Since that time, Drek'thar has been fitful, prone to bursts of raving-mad behavior.
It was not until his attendant Palkar found the old shaman attempting to clean his belongings from his room in preparation for an overland journey that the warriors of the Frostwolf Clan realized just how bad things were. Their beloved shaman, the effective chieftain of the clan since Thrall's ascension to Warchief, is succumbing to his dementia.
Galvanger taps the head of his favorite spear against his shoulder as he walks. After five years of war between Stormpike and Frostwolf, it may well be Drek'thar's advancing age that spells the doom of his clan. The Frostwolf cannot leave Alterac Valley, not even if they truly wanted to; they have become embroiled in a conflict that binds them to the snowy region as surely as a chain binds a wolf to his post.
The orcish captain is interrupted from his musings by the faint, but distinct feeling of the building shuddering beneath his feet.
He bursts into a run, spear leveled as he makes for the gate. From outside, as he draws near he can hear a roaring sound as he feels the chill air of Alterac on his face.
One of the guards intercepts him, arm out to place a palm upon the captain's chest. "Get back!" he's yelling over the roar. "Get ba-!"
A sudden tumult of wind and snow rushes past the entrance to the garrison, a snowstorm harsh enough to make the world shake. "What was that? What's happened?" he demands.
"I don't know! I just saw the wind coming towards us!" his subordinate replies.
In a few heartbeats the worst is past, however, and Galvanger leads the way out of the garrison. There's someone shouting his name, and he looks up to the men stationed at the nearby guard tower. "Get up here, captain!"
Galvanger feels a chill go through him, and the veteran breaks into a run, high-stepping through the loose snow left behind by the sudden windstorm. He gets to the ramp at the base of the tower and begins to climb. It's only as he reaches the highest levels that he skids to a halt.
His spear clatters to the floor.
Everything south of Iceblood Garrison has been obliterated. The pristine fields of snow and ice are gone, replaced by blackened and steaming molten rock. The formidable Tower Point has been erased. And as for Frostwolf Keep...the clanhome is at the center of the conflagration.
That feeling of dread slams back into him, tenfold. Galvanger's knee hits the floor as his stomach vents its contents.
-----------------------------------------
In the far north, a woman stands alone atop a ruined tower.
The wind buffets at her heavy mane of crimson hair, attempting to carry off the diaphanous cloak she wears.
At her throat, the fingers of one hand slowly stroke the polished surface of a heavy amethyst pendant.
Her amber gaze is turned up towards the sky. It is sunset where she is, and high above her in the darkened sky she can see the light from that mysterious star. As she watches, it seems to brighten, swell, and split off a piece of itself.
The 'piece' descends with all the speed and violence of a meteor, and the statuesque woman watches as it falls to the ground far to the west. From her vantage point, she can see the explosion created by the impact. She recognizes the place: Agmar's Hammer, a Horde fortress raised during the war with the Scourge. The orcs had always kept the place manned afterwards - with the knowledge that the nearby dragons were keeping a close watch on them.
As the light from the blast envelops the place, the watcher shuts her eyes and strokes her pendant once more. "Aman'Thul," she murmurs, the sound lost to the wind. "Will there be a reprieve, this time?"
-------------------------------------------
03:27:21
The Lancea sails in over the western reaches of Northrend, having crossed the terminator from night to day during its rapid flight.
The beacon identifying their target is quite a ways north of where they expected to find it. With but a single target, the dreadnought should have hit the fortress and then waited for them. Instead the Lancea finds itself soaring over broken tundra and steam pools as as it closes in on the signal.
A small outpost lies before them, blackened and wrecked. A handful of vehicles are parked outside the remains of the fortifications as if some siege has taken place. The Lancea circles once, searching for its target. "Where is he?" the co-pilot questions after a few moments.
As if in answer, a jet of flame whooshes upwards into the air, waving back and forth in an attention-grabbing manner.
"That'd be him," the pilot says.
-------------------------------------------
"Is that your ride?" Fizzcrank asks, watching the big, boxy plane circle about and begin coming in to land.
Mathis lowers his arm, cutting the pilot light on his flamer. "It is," he confirms in that impossibly deep voice. The two stand amidst the remains of Bor'gorok Outpost, the gnome atop his transport so that he doesn't have to crane his head back so far. "It is time for me to go," says the warrior from beyond the stars.
The announcement is met with a brief chorus of saddened voices - the crew of Fizzcrank Airstrip is not eager to see their giant friend leave so soon. "Goodbye, Mister Mathis," Fizzcrank himself says. "Thanks for coming down to help us out."
"I likewise thank you for your aid," Mathis replies. "Goodbye, tiny friends of humanity." With that, the humungous machine-man lumbers off towards his plane, whose bow splits open to reveal a hold just large enough for the venerable brother to fit inside.
At his left arm, the armored fuel line of the dreadnought's flamer has been welded back together. A set of marks are etched into the ceramite just beside the repairs. It is an emblem resembling a pair of crossed socket wrenches.
The gnomes wave as the bow closes and the big flying machine lifts off. Fizzcrank Fullthrottle himself holds up his rifle - not in a threatening manner, but one that lets the sun glint off the etching made to the weapon's scope. To the uninitiated it looks like a horseshoe, turned upwards in a 'u' shape.
To call the installation of New Kargath a fortress is overly generous.
Although a fortified location, it is an outpost, a far-flung Horde base in a distant frontier. Understaffed, undersupplied, its sole boasting point is the presence of its hard-bitten Expeditionary Force. For years they have held their remote location, even through the Shattering's destruction of the original Kargath. They have taken the fight to the black dragons and the forces of the dark iron dwarves, keeping them contained far from the homelands of the Horde.
It all comes to an end in the mid-morning hours as the Bellator's magma bomb shatters the mountainside upon which the outpost is constructed. A massive avalanche ensues as sandstone melts and collapses upon itself.
The residents of Fuselight are awakened for the second time in a single night as the sound of distant rumbling washes over the town.
------------------------------------------
The Iceblood Garrison is quiet at this time of night. The guards stand at their posts in the freezing weather, watching for any incursion by the Stormpike Clan or their alliance in the greater Alliance.
None comes this night, but still Captain Galvanger walks the halls of his stronghold. He is silently bothered by a feeling of dread that has hung over him for weeks now, every since the night the elder shaman went into his frothing rage. Since that time, Drek'thar has been fitful, prone to bursts of raving-mad behavior.
It was not until his attendant Palkar found the old shaman attempting to clean his belongings from his room in preparation for an overland journey that the warriors of the Frostwolf Clan realized just how bad things were. Their beloved shaman, the effective chieftain of the clan since Thrall's ascension to Warchief, is succumbing to his dementia.
Galvanger taps the head of his favorite spear against his shoulder as he walks. After five years of war between Stormpike and Frostwolf, it may well be Drek'thar's advancing age that spells the doom of his clan. The Frostwolf cannot leave Alterac Valley, not even if they truly wanted to; they have become embroiled in a conflict that binds them to the snowy region as surely as a chain binds a wolf to his post.
The orcish captain is interrupted from his musings by the faint, but distinct feeling of the building shuddering beneath his feet.
He bursts into a run, spear leveled as he makes for the gate. From outside, as he draws near he can hear a roaring sound as he feels the chill air of Alterac on his face.
One of the guards intercepts him, arm out to place a palm upon the captain's chest. "Get back!" he's yelling over the roar. "Get ba-!"
A sudden tumult of wind and snow rushes past the entrance to the garrison, a snowstorm harsh enough to make the world shake. "What was that? What's happened?" he demands.
"I don't know! I just saw the wind coming towards us!" his subordinate replies.
In a few heartbeats the worst is past, however, and Galvanger leads the way out of the garrison. There's someone shouting his name, and he looks up to the men stationed at the nearby guard tower. "Get up here, captain!"
Galvanger feels a chill go through him, and the veteran breaks into a run, high-stepping through the loose snow left behind by the sudden windstorm. He gets to the ramp at the base of the tower and begins to climb. It's only as he reaches the highest levels that he skids to a halt.
His spear clatters to the floor.
Everything south of Iceblood Garrison has been obliterated. The pristine fields of snow and ice are gone, replaced by blackened and steaming molten rock. The formidable Tower Point has been erased. And as for Frostwolf Keep...the clanhome is at the center of the conflagration.
That feeling of dread slams back into him, tenfold. Galvanger's knee hits the floor as his stomach vents its contents.
-----------------------------------------
In the far north, a woman stands alone atop a ruined tower.
The wind buffets at her heavy mane of crimson hair, attempting to carry off the diaphanous cloak she wears.
At her throat, the fingers of one hand slowly stroke the polished surface of a heavy amethyst pendant.
Her amber gaze is turned up towards the sky. It is sunset where she is, and high above her in the darkened sky she can see the light from that mysterious star. As she watches, it seems to brighten, swell, and split off a piece of itself.
The 'piece' descends with all the speed and violence of a meteor, and the statuesque woman watches as it falls to the ground far to the west. From her vantage point, she can see the explosion created by the impact. She recognizes the place: Agmar's Hammer, a Horde fortress raised during the war with the Scourge. The orcs had always kept the place manned afterwards - with the knowledge that the nearby dragons were keeping a close watch on them.
As the light from the blast envelops the place, the watcher shuts her eyes and strokes her pendant once more. "Aman'Thul," she murmurs, the sound lost to the wind. "Will there be a reprieve, this time?"
-------------------------------------------
03:27:21
The Lancea sails in over the western reaches of Northrend, having crossed the terminator from night to day during its rapid flight.
The beacon identifying their target is quite a ways north of where they expected to find it. With but a single target, the dreadnought should have hit the fortress and then waited for them. Instead the Lancea finds itself soaring over broken tundra and steam pools as as it closes in on the signal.
A small outpost lies before them, blackened and wrecked. A handful of vehicles are parked outside the remains of the fortifications as if some siege has taken place. The Lancea circles once, searching for its target. "Where is he?" the co-pilot questions after a few moments.
As if in answer, a jet of flame whooshes upwards into the air, waving back and forth in an attention-grabbing manner.
"That'd be him," the pilot says.
-------------------------------------------
"Is that your ride?" Fizzcrank asks, watching the big, boxy plane circle about and begin coming in to land.
Mathis lowers his arm, cutting the pilot light on his flamer. "It is," he confirms in that impossibly deep voice. The two stand amidst the remains of Bor'gorok Outpost, the gnome atop his transport so that he doesn't have to crane his head back so far. "It is time for me to go," says the warrior from beyond the stars.
The announcement is met with a brief chorus of saddened voices - the crew of Fizzcrank Airstrip is not eager to see their giant friend leave so soon. "Goodbye, Mister Mathis," Fizzcrank himself says. "Thanks for coming down to help us out."
"I likewise thank you for your aid," Mathis replies. "Goodbye, tiny friends of humanity." With that, the humungous machine-man lumbers off towards his plane, whose bow splits open to reveal a hold just large enough for the venerable brother to fit inside.
At his left arm, the armored fuel line of the dreadnought's flamer has been welded back together. A set of marks are etched into the ceramite just beside the repairs. It is an emblem resembling a pair of crossed socket wrenches.
The gnomes wave as the bow closes and the big flying machine lifts off. Fizzcrank Fullthrottle himself holds up his rifle - not in a threatening manner, but one that lets the sun glint off the etching made to the weapon's scope. To the uninitiated it looks like a horseshoe, turned upwards in a 'u' shape.
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Highlord Laan
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
Thats going to be one hell of a report from Fizzcrank. I obviously don't know how far you're going to take this, but I do hope you touch on some of the...reactions on Azeroth to the knowledge that there is a larger (MUCH larger) human presence...elsewhere. And I wonder if the Draenei have ever encountered the Imperium, being void wanderers for 25,000 years. Or at least heard enough to know to avoid the Imperium if they wish to live.
Never underestimate the ingenuity and cruelty of the Irish.
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king of hybrids
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
the emperor perhaps (And that it took the titans being present/channeling through the watchers to stop DoT-era humans from destroying them is quite worrying); but the imperium is what 200-500 years old at this stage?Highlord Laan wrote:Thats going to be one hell of a report from Fizzcrank. I obviously don't know how far you're going to take this, but I do hope you touch on some of the...reactions on Azeroth to the knowledge that there is a larger (MUCH larger) human presence...elsewhere. And I wonder if the Draenei have ever encountered the Imperium, being void wanderers for 25,000 years. Or at least heard enough to know to avoid the Imperium if they wish to live.
on the bright side... at least demographics ensure that if the imperium ever does come back; there'll be no chance of mistaking the descendants of the surviving orcs for greenskins; cause the mag'har are now the largest group
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bilateralrope
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
That assumes that they will have a viable breeding population after the Alliance reacts to the Ultras attack.king of hybrids wrote:on the bright side... at least demographics ensure that if the imperium ever does come back; there'll be no chance of mistaking the descendants of the surviving orcs for greenskins; cause the mag'har are now the largest group
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king of hybrids
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
varian's always been more "disband the horde" rather than "return the favor tenfold" even back then (at least where the orcs were concerned, forsaken are another matter); jaina hasn't gone (justifiably) crazy yet; tyrande and malfurion are "utterly crush, not butcher"; the three hammers don't trust each other enough to risk devoting the troops necessary and are reliant on varian to keep the peace; and velen is (Despite all reason) more concerned with the showdown with sargeras than the recent genocide and mutilation (krokul and lost ones) his people have suffered at orcish hands. genn and tandred are maybes; but neither are in a position to do much without the others' support. really the alliance has always been swimming in moral high ground; so odds are it's either deportation back to nagrand (which is actually much more hospitable than durotar) or back to the campsbilateralrope wrote:That assumes that they will have a viable breeding population after the Alliance reacts to the Ultras attack.king of hybrids wrote:on the bright side... at least demographics ensure that if the imperium ever does come back; there'll be no chance of mistaking the descendants of the surviving orcs for greenskins; cause the mag'har are now the largest group
besides; hunting down the mag'har in outland would require the naaru signing off on it; and their continued existence (despite the vast bulk of the naaru's followers being guys who survived the orc's first foray into organised genocide) till now would suggest that the wind chimes have plans for them that require their continued existence. odds are A'dals already got troops marching on garadar; and geyah hasn't survived this long to not know when to bow to the inevitable "protective custody"
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
03:54:41
"It is time," the prophet says.
-------------------------------------------
The trio of thunderhawks make rendezvous off the northwest coast of Kalimdor. The Hasta takes the lead, Pilum and Lancea taking up wing positions as they make for their next target - Objective Secundus.
The sweeping vistas of the Misty Island Archipelago unspool beneath them as they fly over reefs, shores, and mountains. Cordus of fifth squad remarks that the scenery reminds him of similar such archipelagos on his homeworld of Talassar.
Airspeed decreases as the trio drop altitude over Azuremyst Isle. The forested island is a far cry from the rocky desert of Orgrimmar, lush and flush with life. If there is one distinct feature the island can be said to possess, it is the odd, crystalline mountain that overlooks the landscape from the southwest. Clearly no natural phenomenon, great formations of steel embrace the width of the crystal structure. Satellite buildings cluster around the foot of the mountain, like pilot fish gathered around a great whale.
The thunderhawks of the Ultramarines' 64th Company come in to make a landing zone several kilometers from the face of the great mountain. The blue-green grass of the island is blown flat by the wash of the dropships' engines as they hover a mere handful of feet above the ground. Hasta and Pilum open their doors to let the marines storm out. Second squad, its ten massive cataphractii split with five aboard each dropship, reassemble as one unit.
The Lancea sends a notice to disembark to the men carried within the drop pods clamped to its fuselage, and the sergeants of each squad punch the doors open to join their company on the ground. Mathis disembarks in his own unsubtle fashion, hopping from the forward bay to leave a pair of indentations in the dirt as his tonnage hits the ground.
They gather in front of the thunderhawks - a hundred marines, ten-man squads arranged in two ranks. Roboute Guilliman has a chance to look them over as he steps from the Hasta and moves to stand before his gathered warriors. They look toughened and fearsome, their armor scarred from combat with the greenskins. Eighth squad in particular look a ruin, covered as they are in dull red dust.
The XIII Primarch steps in front of his men and lifts his voice to issue a simple order- "Company! March!"
The 64th moves forward in perfect formation, the great banner of the company held aloft by Alcrayn just behind the primarch's shoulder, while the massive form of venerable brother Mathis stomps along the right side of the ranks.
They leave the thunderhawks behind as they advance on the towering mountain-hive, their stride devouring the kilometers that lie between them and their objective. As they draw to within one kilometer, Guilliman's superhuman senses begin to discern the sight of a great crowd gathered at the steel gate, xenos creatures in clothing and armor that reflect the nature of their home with crystalline formations and glowing, simmering energy.
At a half-kilometer, Guilliman stops and holds up a hand. The 64th halts behind him, ranks fixed. "Company! Parade rest!" the primarch calls out. There is a clash of steel as the Ultramarines adjust their stance to shoulder-width, weapons cradled carefully in armored hands. Switching his vox bead to the command channel, he lowers his voice and warns, "remember my instructions."
"We will await your signal," Lucien Valtis replies. "That being said, my lord, if I see so much as one of them move to attack you I'll ram this entire company down that city's throat."
Guilliman is momentarily thrown by the vehemence of the reply, but the XIII Primarch manages a slight smile. "I appreciate the reassurance, captain," he says. With that he starts forward once more, leaving the company behind.
As he moves to cross the remaining distance, a figure detaches from the crowd awaiting him and likewise starts forward. A being as tall as a space marine, swathed in heavy robes, leaning on a great staff in the manner of an old man just beginning to feel the first pangs of frailty, though not so bent beneath them as to lean upon the implement. The being's eyes simmer with energy, and though he is not practised in the art himself Guilliman can readily sense the psychic might that lies beneath the figure's alabaster flesh. Inhuman hooves and tail, high cranial ridges and thick facial tendrils descending from the jaw put the lie to the humanoid shape beneath the robes the being wears.
Despite his height, the representative must still crane his head back to meet the primarch's gaze as they draw near to one another. Still clutching his staff, he lifts his free hand to his midsection and bows his head. "Welcome," he says in a deep, firm voice. "I have been expecting your arrival for some days. I am Velen, Prophet of the Naaru, and voice of the draenei."
"Precognisant," Guilliman says, thinking of his brother Magnus' claim to similar such powers. "And do you know who I am?" he questions.
"I do not know your name," Velen replies. "Only that you are the Thirteenth Son."
Guilliman lifts his hands just enough to fold the fingers of his right around the thick vambrace of his left. "My name," he says, "is Roboute Guilliman. I am indeed Primarch of the XIII Legion. Let us talk."
"It is time," the prophet says.
-------------------------------------------
The trio of thunderhawks make rendezvous off the northwest coast of Kalimdor. The Hasta takes the lead, Pilum and Lancea taking up wing positions as they make for their next target - Objective Secundus.
The sweeping vistas of the Misty Island Archipelago unspool beneath them as they fly over reefs, shores, and mountains. Cordus of fifth squad remarks that the scenery reminds him of similar such archipelagos on his homeworld of Talassar.
Airspeed decreases as the trio drop altitude over Azuremyst Isle. The forested island is a far cry from the rocky desert of Orgrimmar, lush and flush with life. If there is one distinct feature the island can be said to possess, it is the odd, crystalline mountain that overlooks the landscape from the southwest. Clearly no natural phenomenon, great formations of steel embrace the width of the crystal structure. Satellite buildings cluster around the foot of the mountain, like pilot fish gathered around a great whale.
The thunderhawks of the Ultramarines' 64th Company come in to make a landing zone several kilometers from the face of the great mountain. The blue-green grass of the island is blown flat by the wash of the dropships' engines as they hover a mere handful of feet above the ground. Hasta and Pilum open their doors to let the marines storm out. Second squad, its ten massive cataphractii split with five aboard each dropship, reassemble as one unit.
The Lancea sends a notice to disembark to the men carried within the drop pods clamped to its fuselage, and the sergeants of each squad punch the doors open to join their company on the ground. Mathis disembarks in his own unsubtle fashion, hopping from the forward bay to leave a pair of indentations in the dirt as his tonnage hits the ground.
They gather in front of the thunderhawks - a hundred marines, ten-man squads arranged in two ranks. Roboute Guilliman has a chance to look them over as he steps from the Hasta and moves to stand before his gathered warriors. They look toughened and fearsome, their armor scarred from combat with the greenskins. Eighth squad in particular look a ruin, covered as they are in dull red dust.
The XIII Primarch steps in front of his men and lifts his voice to issue a simple order- "Company! March!"
The 64th moves forward in perfect formation, the great banner of the company held aloft by Alcrayn just behind the primarch's shoulder, while the massive form of venerable brother Mathis stomps along the right side of the ranks.
They leave the thunderhawks behind as they advance on the towering mountain-hive, their stride devouring the kilometers that lie between them and their objective. As they draw to within one kilometer, Guilliman's superhuman senses begin to discern the sight of a great crowd gathered at the steel gate, xenos creatures in clothing and armor that reflect the nature of their home with crystalline formations and glowing, simmering energy.
At a half-kilometer, Guilliman stops and holds up a hand. The 64th halts behind him, ranks fixed. "Company! Parade rest!" the primarch calls out. There is a clash of steel as the Ultramarines adjust their stance to shoulder-width, weapons cradled carefully in armored hands. Switching his vox bead to the command channel, he lowers his voice and warns, "remember my instructions."
"We will await your signal," Lucien Valtis replies. "That being said, my lord, if I see so much as one of them move to attack you I'll ram this entire company down that city's throat."
Guilliman is momentarily thrown by the vehemence of the reply, but the XIII Primarch manages a slight smile. "I appreciate the reassurance, captain," he says. With that he starts forward once more, leaving the company behind.
As he moves to cross the remaining distance, a figure detaches from the crowd awaiting him and likewise starts forward. A being as tall as a space marine, swathed in heavy robes, leaning on a great staff in the manner of an old man just beginning to feel the first pangs of frailty, though not so bent beneath them as to lean upon the implement. The being's eyes simmer with energy, and though he is not practised in the art himself Guilliman can readily sense the psychic might that lies beneath the figure's alabaster flesh. Inhuman hooves and tail, high cranial ridges and thick facial tendrils descending from the jaw put the lie to the humanoid shape beneath the robes the being wears.
Despite his height, the representative must still crane his head back to meet the primarch's gaze as they draw near to one another. Still clutching his staff, he lifts his free hand to his midsection and bows his head. "Welcome," he says in a deep, firm voice. "I have been expecting your arrival for some days. I am Velen, Prophet of the Naaru, and voice of the draenei."
"Precognisant," Guilliman says, thinking of his brother Magnus' claim to similar such powers. "And do you know who I am?" he questions.
"I do not know your name," Velen replies. "Only that you are the Thirteenth Son."
Guilliman lifts his hands just enough to fold the fingers of his right around the thick vambrace of his left. "My name," he says, "is Roboute Guilliman. I am indeed Primarch of the XIII Legion. Let us talk."
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CyrilsScribe
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
Well...that was unexpected. But I guess this isn't the KILL THE ALIEN!!! Imperium just yet as their actions with Fizzcrank would seem to indicate. I imagine they will treat the Dranei like they would treat the Eldar, incredibly willy, very annoying, and extremely dangerous.
Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic.
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Highlord Laan
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Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
Hrm. Maybe The Emprah knows of the Draenei? Of Fizzcrank mentioned them as close allies of Azeroth's humans?
As for treating them like the Eldar, it kind of makes me chuckle. Oh, it makes sense from the Imperium's side, but what would drive them batty is all the time they'd spend overthinking Draenei objectives and methods, when what they see or what they were told is quite literally what they get. The Draenei aren't exactly known for (or very good at) being anything but forthright. if anything they're the polar opposite of the Eldar; Fully aware of their fuckups, completely willing to take responsibility for them, happy to help other races, and very humble.
The Eldar, after they partied so hard they spawned a chaos god and destroyed their civilization, got even more haughty and arrogant. The Draenei, after they experienced their own Horus Heresy where the bad guys won (is the Legion related to Chaos?) and saw their entire civilization fall in flames...started a 25000 year old guerrilla war and do their damdest to spare other races from the bloodshed. Draenor/Outland was a mistake (and they admit that) where they let their guard down.
And I think Velen would give Farseers nightmares. Honestly, of all Warcraft races, I think the Draenei might be the only ones that could survive in the 40K verse, if only by their massive magic/psionic capability. Their idealism mixed with pragmatism would probably make them sign on with the Tau.
As for treating them like the Eldar, it kind of makes me chuckle. Oh, it makes sense from the Imperium's side, but what would drive them batty is all the time they'd spend overthinking Draenei objectives and methods, when what they see or what they were told is quite literally what they get. The Draenei aren't exactly known for (or very good at) being anything but forthright. if anything they're the polar opposite of the Eldar; Fully aware of their fuckups, completely willing to take responsibility for them, happy to help other races, and very humble.
The Eldar, after they partied so hard they spawned a chaos god and destroyed their civilization, got even more haughty and arrogant. The Draenei, after they experienced their own Horus Heresy where the bad guys won (is the Legion related to Chaos?) and saw their entire civilization fall in flames...started a 25000 year old guerrilla war and do their damdest to spare other races from the bloodshed. Draenor/Outland was a mistake (and they admit that) where they let their guard down.
And I think Velen would give Farseers nightmares. Honestly, of all Warcraft races, I think the Draenei might be the only ones that could survive in the 40K verse, if only by their massive magic/psionic capability. Their idealism mixed with pragmatism would probably make them sign on with the Tau.
Never underestimate the ingenuity and cruelty of the Irish.
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
4:14:14
"Do you know why I've come?" the primarch asks.
"You are here to pass judgement on my race," Velen answers bluntly. He seems to have no trouble meeting Guilliman's eyes - a rarity, in the primarch's experience. "If we are found wanting you shall turn your warriors upon us."
"You are correct in the essentials," Guilliman says with a nod. "And so I put it to you. Why should I refrain from turning loose the might of my Legion upon the draenei, as I have done upon the orcs?"
Velen is slow to reply. His gaze flickers, like that of a man hurriedly scanning the pages of a book, and Guilliman has the distinct impression that the alien psychic is searching for the correct response amongst innumerable possibilities. "My race," he finally says, "has always wished for peace. For many ages this desire has been denied us, and so we have cultivated the warriors and champions to protect our people. But they...are a necessity, borne of need rather than a will for conflict."
"But it is not simply a desire for peace that will satisfy my considerations," Guilliman replies. "I come to you not only as a warrior, but as a representative of humanity. What reassurance do you offer me on that front? Don't search for the correct reply," he adds, lifting his right hand slightly to raise a warning finger as Velen's eyes start to flicker once more. "Answer truthfully."
The prophet blinks, refocusing upon Guilliman's face. "Since our arrival upon this world we have been drawn into the conflicts here," he says. "In the past we have stood apart, hidden from the worlds upon which we made our home. Here we have embraced our neighbors. We have promised to stand fast to your race, and to the other races of the Alliance. It is our desire to stand fast alongside our allies, to support them as we may, to heal the wounds suffered by this world and to prevent it falling into darkness as we have seen so many others." Velen pauses, and Guilliman sees the hint of a smile touch the alien's features. "It is an irony," he says then, "that only recently I myself had to be reminded of this, by a human."
Despite himself, the primarch smiles faintly and lifts his brows. "And is he here to lend his voice in support to you now?" he questions.
Velen chuckles dryly. "As little as two days past, the reply to that question would have been 'yes.' However," the prophet's face sobers, "as I watched the visions of your coming I sent him home. I had seen many things, and when I watched the possible futures that would follow if indeed you found my people wanting, I knew that he would be safer amongst his own people rather than mine."
"Perhaps that says more than anything he could," Guilliman replies in a neutral tone.
Velen lifts his free hand, palm turned upwards. "And in truth, is it not better this way?" he asks. "Must an outsider step in to determine the fate of an entire people? Should a species not stand or fall by its own merits?"
Guilliman leans marginally closer. "Yours just did," he says softly.
With that he squares himself and moves to step around Velen's shoulder, lifting one arm to get the ancient figure to turn and accompany him. Together the pair of them walk towards the crowd of Velen's people, and Guilliman takes a long moment to survey the xenos gathering. There is a great deal of hushed whispering, all of it silenced as the primarch lifts one massive hand.
"I bring to you a message from my father," he announces, his voice carrying over the crowd. His eyes look past the multitude of faces as he recalls the precise wording. "Long has he watched your people. For many years he has observed you from afar, long suspecting that your fate would one day become tied to that of this world. What he did not know was whether that would be for good...or for ill.
"There was a time," the primarch continues as urgent whispers rise briefly and then fall. "That he gave the same consideration to the orcs. In aeons past, their people descended from a strain of warlike creatures that plied the stars. For ages, my father watched to see if they could rise above that origin. But even after all that had transpired, they willfully embraced a legacy of destruction that could not be tolerated. For this, my father sent me forth to draw their strength, and to crush them so thoroughly that never again would they rise up to threaten the fate of this world." He pauses briefly, letting the magnititude of that statement wash over them. "There may yet be survivors. Knowing their history as you do, be cautious of them.
"However, my father set upon me a second task," he goes on. "To observe and meet with your race directly, and to make my own determination whether or not you would suffer the same fate as that of the orcs." Guilliman sees fear reflected in many luminescent eyes, and many weapons raised in anticipation of battle.
"I have chosen to spare you the wrath of my Legion," he says then, but his face hardens with the statement. "However, I have come to bring a warning to you all. When my warriors and I depart, this world will yet be in danger from many sources. We have come to perform a task, and it has been accomplished. Our might is not to be garrisoned here, as vigilators and guardians. That...is your task," he says, curling his fingers and sweeping a pointed finger over the assembly. "Yours...and all those who yet dwell here.
"As you may suspect by now, this world is of note to my father. As such, he has worked some limited protections upon it. Know that the galaxy beyond is changing, and what you see before you - myself, and my warriors behind me - are but a small piece of that evolution. No longer do you have the freedom to sail amongst the stars as you once did. Your fate is indeed tied to the fate of this world. There will be no more hiding yourselves, no more fleeing from your enemies. You shall stand by the bonds that you have made, with courage and with honor, and by doing so you shall avoid the destruction that has been visited upon the orcs this day."
Guilliman lowers his hand and turns, sparing a moment to meet Velen's eyes once more. The primarch taps an armored fingertip against the orbit of one eye, a meaningful gesture. The prophet nods in return.
With that, the XIII Primarch departs, crossing back over the empty stretch of land to rejoin his warriors. "Company, fall out," he orders. As one, the 64th turn on their heel to make their way back to the idling thunderhawks.
"Do you know why I've come?" the primarch asks.
"You are here to pass judgement on my race," Velen answers bluntly. He seems to have no trouble meeting Guilliman's eyes - a rarity, in the primarch's experience. "If we are found wanting you shall turn your warriors upon us."
"You are correct in the essentials," Guilliman says with a nod. "And so I put it to you. Why should I refrain from turning loose the might of my Legion upon the draenei, as I have done upon the orcs?"
Velen is slow to reply. His gaze flickers, like that of a man hurriedly scanning the pages of a book, and Guilliman has the distinct impression that the alien psychic is searching for the correct response amongst innumerable possibilities. "My race," he finally says, "has always wished for peace. For many ages this desire has been denied us, and so we have cultivated the warriors and champions to protect our people. But they...are a necessity, borne of need rather than a will for conflict."
"But it is not simply a desire for peace that will satisfy my considerations," Guilliman replies. "I come to you not only as a warrior, but as a representative of humanity. What reassurance do you offer me on that front? Don't search for the correct reply," he adds, lifting his right hand slightly to raise a warning finger as Velen's eyes start to flicker once more. "Answer truthfully."
The prophet blinks, refocusing upon Guilliman's face. "Since our arrival upon this world we have been drawn into the conflicts here," he says. "In the past we have stood apart, hidden from the worlds upon which we made our home. Here we have embraced our neighbors. We have promised to stand fast to your race, and to the other races of the Alliance. It is our desire to stand fast alongside our allies, to support them as we may, to heal the wounds suffered by this world and to prevent it falling into darkness as we have seen so many others." Velen pauses, and Guilliman sees the hint of a smile touch the alien's features. "It is an irony," he says then, "that only recently I myself had to be reminded of this, by a human."
Despite himself, the primarch smiles faintly and lifts his brows. "And is he here to lend his voice in support to you now?" he questions.
Velen chuckles dryly. "As little as two days past, the reply to that question would have been 'yes.' However," the prophet's face sobers, "as I watched the visions of your coming I sent him home. I had seen many things, and when I watched the possible futures that would follow if indeed you found my people wanting, I knew that he would be safer amongst his own people rather than mine."
"Perhaps that says more than anything he could," Guilliman replies in a neutral tone.
Velen lifts his free hand, palm turned upwards. "And in truth, is it not better this way?" he asks. "Must an outsider step in to determine the fate of an entire people? Should a species not stand or fall by its own merits?"
Guilliman leans marginally closer. "Yours just did," he says softly.
With that he squares himself and moves to step around Velen's shoulder, lifting one arm to get the ancient figure to turn and accompany him. Together the pair of them walk towards the crowd of Velen's people, and Guilliman takes a long moment to survey the xenos gathering. There is a great deal of hushed whispering, all of it silenced as the primarch lifts one massive hand.
"I bring to you a message from my father," he announces, his voice carrying over the crowd. His eyes look past the multitude of faces as he recalls the precise wording. "Long has he watched your people. For many years he has observed you from afar, long suspecting that your fate would one day become tied to that of this world. What he did not know was whether that would be for good...or for ill.
"There was a time," the primarch continues as urgent whispers rise briefly and then fall. "That he gave the same consideration to the orcs. In aeons past, their people descended from a strain of warlike creatures that plied the stars. For ages, my father watched to see if they could rise above that origin. But even after all that had transpired, they willfully embraced a legacy of destruction that could not be tolerated. For this, my father sent me forth to draw their strength, and to crush them so thoroughly that never again would they rise up to threaten the fate of this world." He pauses briefly, letting the magnititude of that statement wash over them. "There may yet be survivors. Knowing their history as you do, be cautious of them.
"However, my father set upon me a second task," he goes on. "To observe and meet with your race directly, and to make my own determination whether or not you would suffer the same fate as that of the orcs." Guilliman sees fear reflected in many luminescent eyes, and many weapons raised in anticipation of battle.
"I have chosen to spare you the wrath of my Legion," he says then, but his face hardens with the statement. "However, I have come to bring a warning to you all. When my warriors and I depart, this world will yet be in danger from many sources. We have come to perform a task, and it has been accomplished. Our might is not to be garrisoned here, as vigilators and guardians. That...is your task," he says, curling his fingers and sweeping a pointed finger over the assembly. "Yours...and all those who yet dwell here.
"As you may suspect by now, this world is of note to my father. As such, he has worked some limited protections upon it. Know that the galaxy beyond is changing, and what you see before you - myself, and my warriors behind me - are but a small piece of that evolution. No longer do you have the freedom to sail amongst the stars as you once did. Your fate is indeed tied to the fate of this world. There will be no more hiding yourselves, no more fleeing from your enemies. You shall stand by the bonds that you have made, with courage and with honor, and by doing so you shall avoid the destruction that has been visited upon the orcs this day."
Guilliman lowers his hand and turns, sparing a moment to meet Velen's eyes once more. The primarch taps an armored fingertip against the orbit of one eye, a meaningful gesture. The prophet nods in return.
With that, the XIII Primarch departs, crossing back over the empty stretch of land to rejoin his warriors. "Company, fall out," he orders. As one, the 64th turn on their heel to make their way back to the idling thunderhawks.
JADAFETWA
-
king of hybrids
- Redshirt
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 2013-09-17 06:48pm
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
hmm, so the orcs descend from Orkz in this, rather than ogres/gronn...
still, the vast differences in physiology would indicate someone would have had to invest a significant amount of resources making the various modifications (genders, reproduction, skin color, decreased endurance etc.)... Spoiler
still, the vast differences in physiology would indicate someone would have had to invest a significant amount of resources making the various modifications (genders, reproduction, skin color, decreased endurance etc.)... Spoiler
also, now would be a really good time for the tauren. elves, goblins and trolls to start lynching the orcs in their settlements.
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
04:49:03
In high orbit, the trio of thunderhawks return to their parent strike cruiser. The Hasta is the first to make landing in the starboard bay, followed by the Lancea and finally the Pilum. The 64th Company disembarks in orderly fashion, Legion attendants already standing by to wash and clean their armor.
As ordered by the primarch, no trace of the world below shall be left upon them. Not even dust.
----------------------------------------------
06:37:21
As sunlight rolls over the eastern kingdoms, the people dwelling there wake up to a world very different than the one they understood when they last went to sleep.
The dwarves of the Stormpike Clan and their supporting forces in the Alliance are the first to take advantage of the devastation wrecked by the Ultramarines. Gathering their forces, they slam wholesale into the remnants of the Frostwolves. Captain Galvanger thinks briefly to sue for peace, but the guns of the Stormpike are not eager for negotiation. Five years of brutal conflict have left the dwarves hungry for blood.
In the end, Iceblood Garrison holds out for less than an hour. Only a handful of Frostwolves survive.
--------------------------------------------
08:29:43
As the day wanes slowly into night, the Darkspear Tribe is given a badly-needed piece of heartening news.
Vol'jin has been found, battered but alive in the wreckage of his longhouse.
The druid Zen'tabra sets herself to healing his many injuries, and despite initial concerns that he will not survive the night, the Shadow Hunter rallies, gaining strength enough to issue orders to the guards to set a great number of torches and prepare for a long nightly vigil. Doubtless the enemies of the Darkspear Tribe have noticed the calamity that has engulfed them. They must not think the trolls weak. Not now.
----------------------------------------------
10:09:52
With darkness enveloping Kalimdor and the light of the two moons filling the sky, the night elves make their move against the remnants of the Warsong Clan.
Despite the destruction of Kargathia Keep and Splintertree Post, the Warsong retain a great deal of their former strength, most of it centered around the defenses of the Mor'shan Rampart. However, without reinforcements from Orgrimmar and worse, with the Bilgewater Cartel recalling its personnel to Azshara to deal with the disaster at the harbor, it is a hollow strength at best. Silverwind Refuge, taken by the Horde in the early days of Hellscream's reign as Warchief, is reclaimed by the kaldorei in a matter of hours.
Still, determined to meet death on their terms, the outriders of the Warsong draw their blades across their chests in death-oaths and make the move of abandoning their defenses. Atop their great wolves, they sally forth from the lumber mills and emplacements they have manned for the better part of a decade.
The night elves and their allies in the draenei and the worgen await them with ready blades and drawn bows.
None of the Warsong last the remainder of the night.
------------------------------------------
11:41:01
The Regent Lord of Silvermoon watches the Horde burn, and prepares to add fuel to the fire.
Four years ago, his people made the choice to join the Horde. At the time, the decision had made sense. A human general had nearly claimed their prince's life. A continent of undeath had pressed upon their borders. The Sunwell, their greatest source of power, had become corrupted. When the closest hand of friendship had been extended by the one-time Ranger General, Sylvanas, and her Forsaken followers, they had been quick to take it.
But now, circumstances are different. The undead Scourge has receded greatly, the land it once occupied being retaken by the knights of the Argent Crusade. Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider is dead; a traitor to his own people. The Sunwell once more blazes with energy. Sylvanas' overtures of friendship had proved to be little more than groundwork laid so that she might blackmail the blood elves into joining the war in Northrend.
And now, Lor'themar Theron's astromancers, his diviners, his scryers are showing him the utter desolation of the Horde's strength. Lor'themar is dispassionate as he watches the fearsome tally unfold. A veteran of the Second War, he has little love in his heart for orcs, while the view presented to him of what remains of the Undercity leaves a curiously ashen taste in his mouth.
It had always been pragmatism and never geniune comradeship that motivated Theron to tie his people to the Horde. Now, as then, his choice is motivated by the desire to ensure a prosperous future for the sin'dorei.
Envoys are sent to the city of Dalaran and to Mardenholde Keep at Hearthglen, reaffirming the blood elves' friendship with the multiracial city and their hope for a beneficial relationship with the nation being rebuilt by Tirion Fordring and his paladins.
A third courier goes to Stormwind. The message carried is a simple one - that should King Varian see fit, the nation of Quel'thalas is open to the idea of negotiating a return to the Alliance.
---------------------------------------
12:28:35
With their port in flames, the remnants of the Dragonmaw Clan watch with impotent rage as the zeppelins of the Bilgewater Cartel abandon the Krazzworks base, sailing away from the inevitable wrath of the Wildhammer dwarves.
It is a revenge ten years in the making. The Wildhammer first set their sights upon the base at Twin Peaks. Without the support of Orgrimmar, it falls almost immediately as the Dragonmaw pull back in frantic consolidation. Crushblow Outpost follows soon after, the Dragonmaw drawing all their forces back to their base at Bloodgulch.
Furious battle is joined in the skies above as gryphon riders of the Wildhammer slaughter the comparatively few dragonriders that remain amongst the orcs. With the Wildhammer drawing a tight cordon around the place, the spirits of the Dragonmaw are broken as they sue for peace.
The leaders of the Wildhammer - Colin Thundermar, Keegan Firebeard, Duglas Mullan, and General Kurdran Wildhammer himself - confer for some time in heated debate over whether or not to accept the unconditional surrender of the Dragonmaw. Heads must frequently be cooled by the presence of Cassius the White, Kurdran's advisor and Knight of the Silver Hand. The paladin urges the dwarves to accept the orcs' surrender, reminding them that it will likely take many Wildhammer lives to finish the fight should they continue to attack the cornered Dragonmaw.
In the end, Kurdran sends Cassius out with a message for King Varian Wrynn, asking for his advice on the matter.
But the time the paladin returns, Bloodgulch has been burnt to the ground. Not a single Dragonmaw orc lives amidst the wreckage. When the dwarves refuse to speak of the matter, Cassius throws his king's reply unopened into the fire and departs. He will never again serve alongside the Wildhammer.
In high orbit, the trio of thunderhawks return to their parent strike cruiser. The Hasta is the first to make landing in the starboard bay, followed by the Lancea and finally the Pilum. The 64th Company disembarks in orderly fashion, Legion attendants already standing by to wash and clean their armor.
As ordered by the primarch, no trace of the world below shall be left upon them. Not even dust.
----------------------------------------------
06:37:21
As sunlight rolls over the eastern kingdoms, the people dwelling there wake up to a world very different than the one they understood when they last went to sleep.
The dwarves of the Stormpike Clan and their supporting forces in the Alliance are the first to take advantage of the devastation wrecked by the Ultramarines. Gathering their forces, they slam wholesale into the remnants of the Frostwolves. Captain Galvanger thinks briefly to sue for peace, but the guns of the Stormpike are not eager for negotiation. Five years of brutal conflict have left the dwarves hungry for blood.
In the end, Iceblood Garrison holds out for less than an hour. Only a handful of Frostwolves survive.
--------------------------------------------
08:29:43
As the day wanes slowly into night, the Darkspear Tribe is given a badly-needed piece of heartening news.
Vol'jin has been found, battered but alive in the wreckage of his longhouse.
The druid Zen'tabra sets herself to healing his many injuries, and despite initial concerns that he will not survive the night, the Shadow Hunter rallies, gaining strength enough to issue orders to the guards to set a great number of torches and prepare for a long nightly vigil. Doubtless the enemies of the Darkspear Tribe have noticed the calamity that has engulfed them. They must not think the trolls weak. Not now.
----------------------------------------------
10:09:52
With darkness enveloping Kalimdor and the light of the two moons filling the sky, the night elves make their move against the remnants of the Warsong Clan.
Despite the destruction of Kargathia Keep and Splintertree Post, the Warsong retain a great deal of their former strength, most of it centered around the defenses of the Mor'shan Rampart. However, without reinforcements from Orgrimmar and worse, with the Bilgewater Cartel recalling its personnel to Azshara to deal with the disaster at the harbor, it is a hollow strength at best. Silverwind Refuge, taken by the Horde in the early days of Hellscream's reign as Warchief, is reclaimed by the kaldorei in a matter of hours.
Still, determined to meet death on their terms, the outriders of the Warsong draw their blades across their chests in death-oaths and make the move of abandoning their defenses. Atop their great wolves, they sally forth from the lumber mills and emplacements they have manned for the better part of a decade.
The night elves and their allies in the draenei and the worgen await them with ready blades and drawn bows.
None of the Warsong last the remainder of the night.
------------------------------------------
11:41:01
The Regent Lord of Silvermoon watches the Horde burn, and prepares to add fuel to the fire.
Four years ago, his people made the choice to join the Horde. At the time, the decision had made sense. A human general had nearly claimed their prince's life. A continent of undeath had pressed upon their borders. The Sunwell, their greatest source of power, had become corrupted. When the closest hand of friendship had been extended by the one-time Ranger General, Sylvanas, and her Forsaken followers, they had been quick to take it.
But now, circumstances are different. The undead Scourge has receded greatly, the land it once occupied being retaken by the knights of the Argent Crusade. Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider is dead; a traitor to his own people. The Sunwell once more blazes with energy. Sylvanas' overtures of friendship had proved to be little more than groundwork laid so that she might blackmail the blood elves into joining the war in Northrend.
And now, Lor'themar Theron's astromancers, his diviners, his scryers are showing him the utter desolation of the Horde's strength. Lor'themar is dispassionate as he watches the fearsome tally unfold. A veteran of the Second War, he has little love in his heart for orcs, while the view presented to him of what remains of the Undercity leaves a curiously ashen taste in his mouth.
It had always been pragmatism and never geniune comradeship that motivated Theron to tie his people to the Horde. Now, as then, his choice is motivated by the desire to ensure a prosperous future for the sin'dorei.
Envoys are sent to the city of Dalaran and to Mardenholde Keep at Hearthglen, reaffirming the blood elves' friendship with the multiracial city and their hope for a beneficial relationship with the nation being rebuilt by Tirion Fordring and his paladins.
A third courier goes to Stormwind. The message carried is a simple one - that should King Varian see fit, the nation of Quel'thalas is open to the idea of negotiating a return to the Alliance.
---------------------------------------
12:28:35
With their port in flames, the remnants of the Dragonmaw Clan watch with impotent rage as the zeppelins of the Bilgewater Cartel abandon the Krazzworks base, sailing away from the inevitable wrath of the Wildhammer dwarves.
It is a revenge ten years in the making. The Wildhammer first set their sights upon the base at Twin Peaks. Without the support of Orgrimmar, it falls almost immediately as the Dragonmaw pull back in frantic consolidation. Crushblow Outpost follows soon after, the Dragonmaw drawing all their forces back to their base at Bloodgulch.
Furious battle is joined in the skies above as gryphon riders of the Wildhammer slaughter the comparatively few dragonriders that remain amongst the orcs. With the Wildhammer drawing a tight cordon around the place, the spirits of the Dragonmaw are broken as they sue for peace.
The leaders of the Wildhammer - Colin Thundermar, Keegan Firebeard, Duglas Mullan, and General Kurdran Wildhammer himself - confer for some time in heated debate over whether or not to accept the unconditional surrender of the Dragonmaw. Heads must frequently be cooled by the presence of Cassius the White, Kurdran's advisor and Knight of the Silver Hand. The paladin urges the dwarves to accept the orcs' surrender, reminding them that it will likely take many Wildhammer lives to finish the fight should they continue to attack the cornered Dragonmaw.
In the end, Kurdran sends Cassius out with a message for King Varian Wrynn, asking for his advice on the matter.
But the time the paladin returns, Bloodgulch has been burnt to the ground. Not a single Dragonmaw orc lives amidst the wreckage. When the dwarves refuse to speak of the matter, Cassius throws his king's reply unopened into the fire and departs. He will never again serve alongside the Wildhammer.
JADAFETWA
-
king of hybrids
- Redshirt
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 2013-09-17 06:48pm
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
still doesn't explain the comparative loss of the insane agression (barring some wars with the ogres, the orcs were about your usual nomadic hunter-gatherer violence-wise before kil'jaeden got his claws into them) for millenia before the blood pact; i mean the amount of warp energy that would be required to overcome waagh! energy and Old One genetic engineering do not such a stabilizing factor make...Kuja wrote:Spoiler
...unless their descended from the brainboyz, in which case anything goes.
hmm, the fact that the letter was sealed hints that varian ordered no quarter; which is somewhat out of character at that satge; on the other hand the dragonmaw were dark horde holdouts until they ended up on the wrong side of a fel orc, so who cares?
and besides; this is a "orcs get extinct'd fic"
; so lets get this party started!moira's probably got`the dark irons storming blackrock spire from below; and etrigg's campy has probably been hit by alliance. whether or not they accept the surrender etrigg isn't stupid enough to not give is another matter; but the blackrocks will go don fighting
the Keepers of the Grove are probably having the centaur ravage the orc settlements (lore-wise theres tons of small farms and villages between desolace and orgrimmar); while the quillboar and harpies to likewise
baine is going to have to hand over any orcs and forsaken that reach the gates of mulgore if he wants his people safe; gallywix has probably already sold any; and vol'jin may eat them (i'd imagine alextraza is currently cooking in a mice meal of flash-fried thrall and aggra around now); and i'd imagine the sunreavers are currently seeing any orc magi in dalaran off the edge of the city while veressa distracts rhonin.
theres a good few orcs among tirion's troops in heatherglen (presumably with their families); so mutiny and purge?
basically, every green orc on azeroth is dead
the tricky bit will be outland. thrallmar's garrison should still be at full strength; but with the blood elves about to swap side; nazgrim would find himself between the sons of lothar, the firewing and the sha'tar. nazgrim's no idiot; but whether a surrender is accepted would be up to danath trollbane
and then there's the mag'har; who have a strong enough force in garadar they could probably "negotiate" their unconditional surrender. maybe the orcs will even get the message this time now that they've been reduced to their uncorrupted gene pool
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
15:29:35
One of the watchers atop the Greymane Wall sends a frantic message out to the leaders of the resistance. Its importance is reflected in the fact that Darius Crowley himself comes forth to the wall in response.
The leader of the Gilnean Liberation Front lifts a spyglass to his lone eye and looks through it. "Huh," he mutters. In the distance he can see the forward staging grounds of the Forsaken army. A number of their catapults appear to be damaged, some of them even crackling with flame. Although he can spot no movement, bodies lay out in the open.
He lowers the spyglass. "Tell Wyrmbane it looks like the Forsaken are doing our jobs for us," he says to his lieutenant. "We'll send some scouts to get a look at what's going on when dusk falls."
------------------------------------------
18:57:44
With the leylines supporting their portal vanished, the elite warriors of Hellscream's Reach abandon their posting at Tol Barad and plot escape via the use of their single transport ship. This proves only a stay of execution, however, as the Baradin Wardens get word to the Alliance fleet of the orcs' attempted flight.
Over the next day and night, cutters from the 7th Legion support fleet track and destroy the Horde ship as it tries to flee Gilnean waters.
With night coming on, the Alliance ships turn back to resume their postings off the Gilnean coast. A brief proposal to search for survivors is quickly shot down by the commanders of the fleet as a waste of time.
--------------------------------------------
21:27:31
Following radio communications with Captain Krazz aboard their zeppelin wing, a sudden coup takes place amongst the surviving elements of the Bilgewater Cartel.
Using illusions projected by electronic devices, the elite specialists of the Gob Squad distract the hobgoblins that guard Jastor Gallywix's Pleasure Palace and take the trade prince prisoner. Trade Prince Donais orders his colleague's assets seized and Gallywix himself is placed on trial. The charges are twenty-five thousand counts of reckless endangerment (the estimated populations of Bilgewater Harbor and Orgrimmar) as well as two charges of attempted (and insufficient) bribery of public officials.
The court's unbiased ruling is guilty, on the basis that if Gallywix had never signed contracts to the Horde, the Bilgewater Cartel would never have been attacked. The logic is considered sound by several well-credentialed and well-paid experts.
However, this is merely the first of the problems tackled by the Bilgewater officials. With a scapegoat successfully found and dealt with, the Cartel still faces the fact that the better part of its population and assets have been wiped away. Never one of the largest or wealthiest of the Kezan Cartels, the Bilgewater operation now faces hostile takeover.
Trade Prince Donais takes the helm and institutes a drastic restructuring. He transforms the Bilgewater from an industrial base into the Bilgewater Mercenary Company, offering everything from infiltration by the world-famous Gob Squad, to land-sea operations by the Dreadshredder Marines, and of course the aerial assets of the Krazz Wing.
Much to the annoyance of the High Tinker of Gnomeregan, the Steamwheedle Cartel, and the Wildhammer Clan, the Bilgewater Company will soon recieve a generous donation of gold from a Mister Elling Trias of Stormwind, who will then effectively sponsor them into the Alliance.
--------------------------------------------
22:53:19
Baine Bloodhoof faces the most difficult decision of his life.
The damage to the elements is impossible to dispute. Shaman and druids all across Kalimdor have felt the tremendous shocks inflicted upon their world by the destruction of Bilgewater Harbor, Ogrimmar and the Undercity. Opinions on the matter are mixed - the Forsaken in particular having few friends amongst the naturalists of the tauren - however the damage to the planet itself is most worrying.
But for now, that is a secondary concern. A handful of refugees have trickled into the tauren lands, one or two at a time. The miniscule number of them is disheartening - most are lone hunters and rangers out on far patrol, meaning they had the good fortune to be well away from the cities and towns of the Horde yesterday. Every major orcish encampment, it seems, has been devastated, whether by fire from the skies or the ravages of old foes.
Baine knows that soon he will be forced to choose. Even now, druids in the shape of great raptors soar in the skies above northern Kalimdor, watching the night elves and their allies push south. Soon there will be nothing standing between them and Thunder Bluff. At that point, time will run out, and he will have to either reaffirm his commitment to the Horde and stand against them, facing certain death...or repudiate his oaths and surrender, an act that will certainly entail handing over the few expatriots that dwell within his lands.
Already voices are urging him in one direction or another. Despite their honor-debt to the orcs, many tauren have become disillusioned with the Horde during the last year and the increasing militarization of Garrosh Hellscream. At the same time, others urge Baine to do what he can to protect the friends of Thunder Bluff.
Baine has always considered himself an honorable man. He has always wanted the best for his people. Yet now, it seems one desire may refute the other. Which will he choose?
In the end, Baine Bloodhoof chooses neither. He sends forth Tahu Sagewind as an ambassador to the Alliance forces. Thunder Bluff, the priest informs the coalition of worgen, night elf and draenei, no longer stands with the Horde - not because they have surrendered, he hastens to explain, but because there is no longer a Horde to stand by. With the death of the Warchief, the destruction of Orgrimmar and the complete destruction of the orcish military, all the lynchpins that once characterized the Horde are gone. As such, the oaths that once compelled the tauren to make war upon the Alliance no longer apply.
By the same token, Sagewind notes that since Thunder Bluff now stands as an independent state, it would be most beneficial to all if the Alliance would respect the lands traditionally belonging to the tauren people. For the moment, he presses, Baine Bloodhoof does not stand as an enemy to the Alliance. He reminds the leadership present of the ties the tauren have to the Earthen Ring and the Cenarion Circle, ties shared by all three of the western races of the Alliance. It is best, he ventures, that the bloodletting of the past be left now in the past.
It is a very fine line to walk, and it is later said that upon hearing the message General Shandris Feathermoon laughed aloud at the audacity of it.
Despite that, Tahu Sagewind returns to Thunder Bluff unharmed. In the end, the lands of the tauren stand unmolested.
One of the watchers atop the Greymane Wall sends a frantic message out to the leaders of the resistance. Its importance is reflected in the fact that Darius Crowley himself comes forth to the wall in response.
The leader of the Gilnean Liberation Front lifts a spyglass to his lone eye and looks through it. "Huh," he mutters. In the distance he can see the forward staging grounds of the Forsaken army. A number of their catapults appear to be damaged, some of them even crackling with flame. Although he can spot no movement, bodies lay out in the open.
He lowers the spyglass. "Tell Wyrmbane it looks like the Forsaken are doing our jobs for us," he says to his lieutenant. "We'll send some scouts to get a look at what's going on when dusk falls."
------------------------------------------
18:57:44
With the leylines supporting their portal vanished, the elite warriors of Hellscream's Reach abandon their posting at Tol Barad and plot escape via the use of their single transport ship. This proves only a stay of execution, however, as the Baradin Wardens get word to the Alliance fleet of the orcs' attempted flight.
Over the next day and night, cutters from the 7th Legion support fleet track and destroy the Horde ship as it tries to flee Gilnean waters.
With night coming on, the Alliance ships turn back to resume their postings off the Gilnean coast. A brief proposal to search for survivors is quickly shot down by the commanders of the fleet as a waste of time.
--------------------------------------------
21:27:31
Following radio communications with Captain Krazz aboard their zeppelin wing, a sudden coup takes place amongst the surviving elements of the Bilgewater Cartel.
Using illusions projected by electronic devices, the elite specialists of the Gob Squad distract the hobgoblins that guard Jastor Gallywix's Pleasure Palace and take the trade prince prisoner. Trade Prince Donais orders his colleague's assets seized and Gallywix himself is placed on trial. The charges are twenty-five thousand counts of reckless endangerment (the estimated populations of Bilgewater Harbor and Orgrimmar) as well as two charges of attempted (and insufficient) bribery of public officials.
The court's unbiased ruling is guilty, on the basis that if Gallywix had never signed contracts to the Horde, the Bilgewater Cartel would never have been attacked. The logic is considered sound by several well-credentialed and well-paid experts.
However, this is merely the first of the problems tackled by the Bilgewater officials. With a scapegoat successfully found and dealt with, the Cartel still faces the fact that the better part of its population and assets have been wiped away. Never one of the largest or wealthiest of the Kezan Cartels, the Bilgewater operation now faces hostile takeover.
Trade Prince Donais takes the helm and institutes a drastic restructuring. He transforms the Bilgewater from an industrial base into the Bilgewater Mercenary Company, offering everything from infiltration by the world-famous Gob Squad, to land-sea operations by the Dreadshredder Marines, and of course the aerial assets of the Krazz Wing.
Much to the annoyance of the High Tinker of Gnomeregan, the Steamwheedle Cartel, and the Wildhammer Clan, the Bilgewater Company will soon recieve a generous donation of gold from a Mister Elling Trias of Stormwind, who will then effectively sponsor them into the Alliance.
--------------------------------------------
22:53:19
Baine Bloodhoof faces the most difficult decision of his life.
The damage to the elements is impossible to dispute. Shaman and druids all across Kalimdor have felt the tremendous shocks inflicted upon their world by the destruction of Bilgewater Harbor, Ogrimmar and the Undercity. Opinions on the matter are mixed - the Forsaken in particular having few friends amongst the naturalists of the tauren - however the damage to the planet itself is most worrying.
But for now, that is a secondary concern. A handful of refugees have trickled into the tauren lands, one or two at a time. The miniscule number of them is disheartening - most are lone hunters and rangers out on far patrol, meaning they had the good fortune to be well away from the cities and towns of the Horde yesterday. Every major orcish encampment, it seems, has been devastated, whether by fire from the skies or the ravages of old foes.
Baine knows that soon he will be forced to choose. Even now, druids in the shape of great raptors soar in the skies above northern Kalimdor, watching the night elves and their allies push south. Soon there will be nothing standing between them and Thunder Bluff. At that point, time will run out, and he will have to either reaffirm his commitment to the Horde and stand against them, facing certain death...or repudiate his oaths and surrender, an act that will certainly entail handing over the few expatriots that dwell within his lands.
Already voices are urging him in one direction or another. Despite their honor-debt to the orcs, many tauren have become disillusioned with the Horde during the last year and the increasing militarization of Garrosh Hellscream. At the same time, others urge Baine to do what he can to protect the friends of Thunder Bluff.
Baine has always considered himself an honorable man. He has always wanted the best for his people. Yet now, it seems one desire may refute the other. Which will he choose?
In the end, Baine Bloodhoof chooses neither. He sends forth Tahu Sagewind as an ambassador to the Alliance forces. Thunder Bluff, the priest informs the coalition of worgen, night elf and draenei, no longer stands with the Horde - not because they have surrendered, he hastens to explain, but because there is no longer a Horde to stand by. With the death of the Warchief, the destruction of Orgrimmar and the complete destruction of the orcish military, all the lynchpins that once characterized the Horde are gone. As such, the oaths that once compelled the tauren to make war upon the Alliance no longer apply.
By the same token, Sagewind notes that since Thunder Bluff now stands as an independent state, it would be most beneficial to all if the Alliance would respect the lands traditionally belonging to the tauren people. For the moment, he presses, Baine Bloodhoof does not stand as an enemy to the Alliance. He reminds the leadership present of the ties the tauren have to the Earthen Ring and the Cenarion Circle, ties shared by all three of the western races of the Alliance. It is best, he ventures, that the bloodletting of the past be left now in the past.
It is a very fine line to walk, and it is later said that upon hearing the message General Shandris Feathermoon laughed aloud at the audacity of it.
Despite that, Tahu Sagewind returns to Thunder Bluff unharmed. In the end, the lands of the tauren stand unmolested.
JADAFETWA
Re: A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)
24:00:01
With a plume of escaping gases, the Bellator vents its run-off. It consists of water - the standard H2O found anywhere in the galaxy - mixed with particulates of dirt, soil, and plant matter along with trace amounts of blood from multiple species. Most of it will hang forever in orbit around the planet. The rest will burn up or boil away in the near-vacuum of the outer atmosphere.
With that done, the strike cruiser ceases its constant shield squelching and fires its maneuvering thrusters, peeling away from the world below. The operation mark stands halted at 04:51:49, the moment the last thunderhawk touched down in the vessel's bay. However, the ship's mark continues to run. It will run until the Bellator departs the system.
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25:17:38
Under cover of night, the Alliance forces make their first forays into the lands held by the Forsaken.
They begin first with the Gilnean wall, worgen and 7th Legion rangers creeping tentatively into the southern reaches of Silverpine. At the same time, scouts from the Stormpike Clan, freed now from the omnipresent conflict with the Frostwolves, begin a slow approach towards Tarren Mill.
What both groups find baffles them. The Forsaken battlefront outside Gilneas is a ruin, with evidence of serious conflict amongst the ranks of the undead army. Catapults are torn apart, and tanks of blight are smashed, their contents now emptied out upon the ground. Bodies are strewn everywhere.
In Tarren Mill, the situation is even more unsettling. Corporal Noreg Stormpike is the first to set eyes upon what he will later describe as "like summin' outta nightmare."
In the light of the two moons, Tarren Mill stands empty. Silent. Bodies hang from the walls of the buildings at the center of the town, Forsaken corpses strung along lines like bunches of peppers. Many of them bear the armor of the Deathguard. There are a handful of others, as well - a blood elf and several orcs. These lie undisturbed, with one exception.
The armored figure of High Warlord Cromush has been lashed to the roof of the gazebo at the center of the town square, impaled there upon the metal spikes that adorn the framework of the structure.
Struck deep into the ground before the corpse is a great, gleaming sword, and as Noreg Stormpike comes close to investigate the find, he sees a folded piece of parchment tied to the weapon's hilt. Wary of a trap, he cuts the note loose and cautiously unfolds it away from his face. Thanks to his sharp eyesight, he can read the words written within by the light of the moons-
To whomsoever may find this weapon-
I have a favor I must ask of you, if you be a man of honor. This sword is the rightful property of Danath Dungalion, called Trollbane. If he cannot recieve it, for whatever means, it then falls to the closest heir of the Trollbane lineage, and the people of Stromgarde. I no longer have the right to carry it.
Furthermore, let this letter stand as both a warning and a plea. The Banshee Queen's days are ended, but there are yet many that remain loyal to her vision. I ask that you fight them wherever you may find them. However, there are those amongst us that, while we find our fate abhorrent, are not quite ready to pass into the world beyond.
The kingdom of Alterac is a dead one, and it is appropriate that dead men fill it. Do not come bringing war - you shall soon find the passes to the highest reaches barred to you. In time, however, perhaps there may be peace. Of a kind.
I shall sign this letter as follows-
Galen, once the son of Thoras
Noreg turns his face from the carefully-written words to look up towards the northeast. The mountains of Alterac glimmer in the moonlight. A shiver goes through him to think of the mountain kingdom, a land that has been laid bare to raiders for well over a decade - a land so cold and hard-bitten that snow rests on the ground for fully half the year. The chill winds there make those of the snowy valley in which his clan rests seem like a mild breeze.
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37:19:26
In the Blasted Lands, the forces of Nethergarde Keep exact revenge for the Horde's sudden attacks upon their walls with the slaying of General Dar'toon and his bodyguard of fel orcs. With this act, the Nethergarde soldiery retake full control of the lands surrounding the Dark Portal.
Dreadmaul Hold is dismantled, the steel used in its construction carried across the crimson wasteland to construct additional defenses around the portal itself.
With a plume of escaping gases, the Bellator vents its run-off. It consists of water - the standard H2O found anywhere in the galaxy - mixed with particulates of dirt, soil, and plant matter along with trace amounts of blood from multiple species. Most of it will hang forever in orbit around the planet. The rest will burn up or boil away in the near-vacuum of the outer atmosphere.
With that done, the strike cruiser ceases its constant shield squelching and fires its maneuvering thrusters, peeling away from the world below. The operation mark stands halted at 04:51:49, the moment the last thunderhawk touched down in the vessel's bay. However, the ship's mark continues to run. It will run until the Bellator departs the system.
------------------------------------------
25:17:38
Under cover of night, the Alliance forces make their first forays into the lands held by the Forsaken.
They begin first with the Gilnean wall, worgen and 7th Legion rangers creeping tentatively into the southern reaches of Silverpine. At the same time, scouts from the Stormpike Clan, freed now from the omnipresent conflict with the Frostwolves, begin a slow approach towards Tarren Mill.
What both groups find baffles them. The Forsaken battlefront outside Gilneas is a ruin, with evidence of serious conflict amongst the ranks of the undead army. Catapults are torn apart, and tanks of blight are smashed, their contents now emptied out upon the ground. Bodies are strewn everywhere.
In Tarren Mill, the situation is even more unsettling. Corporal Noreg Stormpike is the first to set eyes upon what he will later describe as "like summin' outta nightmare."
In the light of the two moons, Tarren Mill stands empty. Silent. Bodies hang from the walls of the buildings at the center of the town, Forsaken corpses strung along lines like bunches of peppers. Many of them bear the armor of the Deathguard. There are a handful of others, as well - a blood elf and several orcs. These lie undisturbed, with one exception.
The armored figure of High Warlord Cromush has been lashed to the roof of the gazebo at the center of the town square, impaled there upon the metal spikes that adorn the framework of the structure.
Struck deep into the ground before the corpse is a great, gleaming sword, and as Noreg Stormpike comes close to investigate the find, he sees a folded piece of parchment tied to the weapon's hilt. Wary of a trap, he cuts the note loose and cautiously unfolds it away from his face. Thanks to his sharp eyesight, he can read the words written within by the light of the moons-
To whomsoever may find this weapon-
I have a favor I must ask of you, if you be a man of honor. This sword is the rightful property of Danath Dungalion, called Trollbane. If he cannot recieve it, for whatever means, it then falls to the closest heir of the Trollbane lineage, and the people of Stromgarde. I no longer have the right to carry it.
Furthermore, let this letter stand as both a warning and a plea. The Banshee Queen's days are ended, but there are yet many that remain loyal to her vision. I ask that you fight them wherever you may find them. However, there are those amongst us that, while we find our fate abhorrent, are not quite ready to pass into the world beyond.
The kingdom of Alterac is a dead one, and it is appropriate that dead men fill it. Do not come bringing war - you shall soon find the passes to the highest reaches barred to you. In time, however, perhaps there may be peace. Of a kind.
I shall sign this letter as follows-
Galen, once the son of Thoras
Noreg turns his face from the carefully-written words to look up towards the northeast. The mountains of Alterac glimmer in the moonlight. A shiver goes through him to think of the mountain kingdom, a land that has been laid bare to raiders for well over a decade - a land so cold and hard-bitten that snow rests on the ground for fully half the year. The chill winds there make those of the snowy valley in which his clan rests seem like a mild breeze.
---------------------------------------
37:19:26
In the Blasted Lands, the forces of Nethergarde Keep exact revenge for the Horde's sudden attacks upon their walls with the slaying of General Dar'toon and his bodyguard of fel orcs. With this act, the Nethergarde soldiery retake full control of the lands surrounding the Dark Portal.
Dreadmaul Hold is dismantled, the steel used in its construction carried across the crimson wasteland to construct additional defenses around the portal itself.
JADAFETWA