Veterans of the First War
Greetings fellow guests. Allow me to introduce myself as Neveah Scottis, your host for the hour. I will speak more about myself later.
I wish to speak of those who fought under the banner of Azeroth during the First War, decades ago before the Alliance had even formed. To document their bravery as well as honor their dedication to the vitalness of our survival lest such sacrifice be forgotten.
I do not put myself before others, especially those who endured the hardships of warfare at its very forefront. Thus my story will be told last.
In the Age of Chaos, two factions battled for dominance. The kingdom of Azeroth was a prosperous one. The humans who dwelled there turned the land into a paradise.
The knights of Stormwind and the clerics of Northshire Abbey roamed far and wide, serving the King's people with honor and justice. The well-trained armies of the King maintained a lasting peace for many generations.
Then came the orcish hordes...
No one knew where these creatures came from, and none were prepared for the terror that they spawned.
Their warriors wielded axes and spears with deadly proficiency, while others rode dark wolves as black as the moonless night. Unimagined were the destructive powers of their evil magicks, derived from the fires of the underworld.
With an ingenious arsenal of weaponry and powerful magic, these two forces collided in a contest of cunning, intellect, and brute strength, with the victor having claimed dominance over the whole of Azeroth.
I welcome you to pay heed to the tales surrounding this conflict, namely that of the heroes who triumphed not, but fought bravely against such a fate nonetheless. It is this bravery that allowed us to eventually reclaim these lands and triumph over the evil that turned our world upon its backside.
You listen to me now because of them. You live because of them. If you do not mean much to yourself, then regard whatever else you hold dear, for without our victory, none of it would have remained.
***
The kingdom of Azeroth was indeed a prosperous one. The people lived in a time of relative peace and prosperity for many generations, where the darkest of fables lurked only in myths and legends, beyond great distances in lands seldom visited and in times long past.
To think that things could ever change was unimaginable, for no cause could be conceived. Nor could any comprehend that if such a change were to occur, that the bright hue of these times could darken ever in the slightest, that it would happen so suddenly and so drastically.
But that was the fate that transpired. Emerging forth from the most terrifying possibility, the darkness manifested. The worst had come from seemingly nothing and nowhere. So uncanny was the hour of doom, there could never again be a moment of true peace, for such peace can not be trusted, and when trust is broken, it is broken forever.
Vigilance was an asset of our people. Despite years lacking dire turmoil, the human race garnered armor and weaponry surpassing that of whatever dangers that did tarnish the lands. We were well capable of defending ourselves, and our smiths and tacticians lazed not. If we did not grow, we at least did not weaken.
A reason for the faithful lay heavily upon our past. If the Light was to be praised and a military made manifest, then perhaps the Light did exist and perhaps the old lore of the Underworld and its inhabitants held true. What need would we have of these things if these stories had all been but fairytales? Advanced civilizations are not born out of myths and fanciful literature, although imagination can be a powerful tool.
Residing within the pristine walls of the city of Stormwind, Samuel Stormbrook was the son of an admiral and a healer of the Light. Barely at home, the duty his parents beheld forced Samuel to spend most of his time outdoors; it would be considered abnormal for one so young to be left alone for long.
He thus kept his father company on the most tranquil of days, which were many, and so his father could spare the time to teach his child the merits of admiralty. Upon his father's presence, he would learn and adapt to the mannerisms of being a naval officer and whatnot, such as figure of speech, body language, and various other characteristics associated with someone in his father's office. He would also learn about how ships were built and how they worked, and would on occasion, depart from the docks along with his father and men to witness his tutorship come to life. Eventually, even tactics were discussed, if conflict were to occur of course. As a young boy, Samuel foresaw all of these things coming into fruition, but with him at the helm. Dreams were made, as they often were, as a child experienced things that were meant to be looked up to. Like many a young lad, the idea of being a hero that even a father would be proud of shone brightly upon the horizon of time.
Another significant portion of his upbringing was with his mother, who often tended to the gardens or the ill or the faithful at the cathedral. Much of what she did was considered a bore by others of his age, but Samuel's maturity allowed him to persist. His mother's work was more gentle and simplistic, but it was nice to have these things from time to time. With her, he began to learn about the healing arts, though he never got deeply involved. With good impressions in mind, he followed his mother's instructions and volunteered in her stead whenever she had asked for him to do so. Like his mother, he was a welcome sight and those who resided within and around the cathedral were always happy to see him. Of course, that may be in part of their respect for his mother, and perhaps it was also in recognition for someone who often trotted beyond to as often trod about. Indeed his presence brought about yet another air of unity and cohesion among the people, who never truly saw other classes of folk as less than equal.
When he did not accompany either of his parents, he spent his time playing with the other children, and when he grew older, spent time with them nonetheless. No one came and went, and the names and faces of those he knew back then would be the same as those of his later life. One such lass would become his betrothed, and she bore the name of Susan. In short, they were known as Sam and Sue Storm.
One reason why he preferred his father's work over his mother's was the prospect of adventure. This became ever more notable as he developed. The dangers of the wilds and the lands beyond beckoned Samuel to pick up blade and shield and learn how to wield them, but the empowering feeling of adventure surpassed even that; Samuel did not grow afraid, but became ever eager. To span the distances, he learned horseback. In his adult life, he would eventually join the Stormwind Army and become a knight.
To serve and protect land and home, to keep vileness at bay and perhaps pursue it at its source, Samuel Stormbrook took his job seriously. He was proud of himself as were his parents, and eventually his wife. To stand shoulder to shoulder with others of like mind and stature only strengthened his resolve. All the right elements came together to prepare him for the future, all of which became a necessity when the dark portal opened.
By the war's end, every ounce of his fabric had been tarnished. The valor he possessed so much of had been used up, but there had been just enough to keep him going.
Samuel fought bravely against the mass of demonic stench, swaying eastward in the dire intent to liberate his people and put an end to the orcish threat. From the forest of Elwynn and beyond, he finally made it to the ashy realm of the mountainous region of Blackrock. When victory had been at hand, the weight thereof weakened his grip, and slipped through his fingers.
Surviving many a battle just barely, as knights were often at the forefront due to their speed, he was forced to retreat just as quickly. Perhaps it was his speed that saved him and his steed. It pained him to be among the first to retreat for he had grown used to enduring that his men were behind him when facing battle rather than away from it. He fought as hard as he could, like any other man, and refused to relent even as the fires of death wailed against the charring stonework of Stormwind.
For it to have come to this altered the reality of so many, that even the most stoic wavered. Perhaps there had been but a moment in which Samuel thought of giving up, that none of this could be real, and that death would release him from this torment and thus return him to the reality he had known all his life.
The irony of this Age having been known as that of Chaos.
It was on that final night he said his goodbyes. At the helm, he rallied his people upon his father's battleship, and followed the other vessels to the lands beyond. Honoring his father by taking the bridge, he promised to one day avenge his mother by taking up the Light.
Such ill fortune was met not purely due to the sudden urgency of the situation, but for the fact that the young were to be evacuated first. There had not been enough room to evacuate everyone. His parents had been spared the fortune of rescue, but they stood behind willingly.
To Samuel's eventual surprise, his father being an admiral meant that he was treasured in naval artifacts and memorabilia of a variety of kinds. In their possession was a spare boat, that while not particularly large, was good enough to get his father and mother away from the ensuing din, frenzy, and mayhem. To their delight, after having been retrieved by a flight of dwarven gryphon riders, they were paired with others who had fled northward and cared for just as fondly by the all-too benevolent children of the earth.
Samuel Stormbrook
Residence: Stormwind City
Unit Type: Knight
Raised within Grand Hamlet, Blair Bastion was the son of a smith and a baker. His father, the smith, crafted tools, aided in the construction of various structures, performed repairs, and developed the weaponry and armor used by the troops stationed therein and sometimes abroad.
Being one of the furthest settlements of not only the kingdom of Azeroth, but humanity as a whole, there was plenty of prospect to be had as well as need for garrison. Just southward, the mountainous border divided Azeroth and territory yet unexplored, and many an adventurer would pass through the hamlet en route to the jungles that were rumored to exist out yonder, often in groups. Not all who ventured returned, but those that did relayed information of varying degrees of importance.
Mapping out the southern landmass progressed over the years, but lack of interest and perceived purpose in charting these territories by the King and his predecessors left such notions almost entirely discarded. With the events that would occur in the near future, exploration of such caliber would be furtherly postponed, and the kingdom would not establish an official expedition for some time.
That being said, the dangers that loomed nearby called for the hamlet to be reinforced, as borders often did. However, the aforementioned space was the least of their concerns. Just to the east, dark fogs clouded the mountainous territory thence. Amidst this dreary cloak, an eerie tower oft pierced the sky, despite the sheets of gloom that dressed its position. This was the Tower of Medivh, or it would soon be. Most scholars referred to it as Karazhan, with such even noted by Khadgar himself, who had become an apprentice of the traitor Medivh.
Grand Hamlet itself was left relatively unscathed despite its position. It resided peacefully among the rolling hills and fields of Azeroth, encroached upon by only the ever expanding forestry of Elwynn, and hidden among the vibrant greens, golds, and reds of Brightwood. Here the sun shone brightly, and the birds chirped happily. The air was tranquil here, with folklore pertaining to violet-skinned women watching the unsuspecting out in the forests much like ghosts or stalking predators being the worst of stories, at least for those that touched the ears of the young. The nights were equally beautiful, with the full moon shining upon the calm waters of the nearby river arraying a sense of romanticism.
Blair's father would eventually craft a suit of armor for his son, and the two would often trod along the borders of the hamlet, and as Blair grew older, a little further. Blair had slain his first wolf this way, a menacing terror no doubt, but one considered memorable as far as father and son bondage was concerned.
While in love, Blair's father did not always agree with his mother. He knew his son's girth grew from the pastries she often baked, them being her specialty, of course. It was a pleasure to cook this wolf meat, a different diet for his son, and camp out in the wilderness for a few days every now and then. The mother would come to join on their little adventures every so often as well, where she mostly honored the father's wishes. The exercises of such activity strengthened Blair, but his father couldn't help but think that what was accomplished never evolved his son to an athletic threshold, rather that it simply undid most of the girth he accused his lover of being responsible for. Nonetheless, Blair was a big child, and would become a big man, and he did become strong. The best of both worlds, his parents ought to assume.
In adulthood, Blair would train to become a footman, and a footman he did become. He would find himself stationed in the same vicinity he grew up in. Most of what he did with his father was now his job, and thus not as much time had been spent with him. His mother, on the other hand, was all too eager to fatten the troops, and they were all too eager to reward themselves with her desserts after a long day of work.
It was not common for them to do so, as their vocation--despite the peace of the time--did not call for them to laze about regularly. Their training regulated them to a somewhat strict diet, and on occasion, they would have had to feast upon the rations provided or what mother nature yielded. This diversity sated everyone's appetite, and they were grateful.
But the thought never crossed Blair or the troops that they themselves could be eaten. Ogres were not a common sight, but they did exist. No cave system was permitted to be entered unless it was under official military operations as creatures such as these resided within, among a few others, with some arguably more terrifying. Here, darkness manifested. Tales of man-eating ogres, of course, but also of giant insects, elemental manifestations, undead, and sentient, acidic slime. None of which provided a good way to go out. Even the bravest of troops and their command refused any expenditure pertaining to these portals to the Underworld.
These weren't just stories either. A few have indeed been lost to such terrors, hence whence many a story had been born. But there was the ever-evasive tale of the sharp-featured lady who had saved a person once, before vanishing into the shadows. Violet-skinned, seemingly elvish, and great with a bow. These entities remained a mystery.
Blair's life thus far was a standard affair, but much would change when the orcish hordes would begin their campaign. Being a footman, Blair was often at the front, and the dire times called for him to be at the fray. He would stand toe-to-toe with many orcs, supported by archers from behind, and motivated by the flanking knights. Others dealt most of the damage; his duty was to protect them, to prevent the orcs from reaching them. His size and strength matched that of many a foul orcish monster, but even he felt out of his league on occasion.
Toward the war's end, tactics began to surmount to but a few as there had only been so many ways in which the humans could manage to challenge such an overwhelming force.
The horrors wrought by the orcs surpassed that of any fireside tale and made the fear of being eaten all the more real. The orcs themselves were a terrifying sight in every which way, and the first thing that had to be learned was strength against such adversity.
A lot of men had lost their lives, ill-prepared to face such beasts let alone overcome them. They were not only a frightening sight in terms of physical appearance, but also in terms of weaponry and magic utilized as well as their uncanny levels of hatred and anger. Their bulky mass too wavered the wits of many a man, who found themselves overpowered even if they had already been brave enough to fight an orc face-to-face. Deaths were many, bloody, and painful. When territory began to become lost, hope dwindled at an ever-increasing pace. Each defeat resounded loudly, adding onto each other like a nightmarish echo.
Many had tried to raise courage only to be felled in battle themselves, leading by example, albeit poorly. It seemed that such bravery was a fool's gamble, yet what were the soldiers to do other than what they signed up for? Against immeasurable odds, the humans laid down their lives in defense of their lands, even in the face of inevitable defeat.
It was only by mere fortune any of them lived to tell the tale. Blair himself did not die, but found himself severely wounded by the conflict's end. He would not recover for some time, and as a result, would not be able to lend his arm in battle should this darkness ever cross the tides of the Great Sea.
Blair Bastion
Residence: Grand Hamlet
Unit Type: Footman
Redridge was a strange place, but at least it brought much merry and cheer. The sunburned lands possessed a large lake system that seemed to thrive amidst even the hottest of days, though the nights were fondly chill. It is reasonable that as a frontier dwelling, the people therein required embellishment to wash out the worry of neighboring the unknown. The lake provided a great bounty and treasured hobby, as well as the namesake of the adjacent township of Lakeshire.
Kevin Quiver was born to a fisherman for a father and farmhand for a mother. His family was self-sustained, providing for their own in terms of food, and making bank as such necessity was as equally bountiful. They were not a homegrown company, however, as their personal labor was meant to sustain themselves and perhaps a friend or two. Kevin's father actually worked for a company, as did his mother, though her employer was considered more of a charity.
At a young age, Kevin would assist his parents in their endeavors, mostly as a hobby of course, but they did provide him with an allowance. Kevin was more of a father's child, so fishery had become more of his forte rather than gardening. The two would often spend a night at the local inn, and as a result, Kevin was introduced to alcoholic beverages at a reasonably young age.
Though most children took after their parents in some shape or form, Kevin developed his own hobby and thus his own passion. He worked as a lumberjack, or at least often worked with them, which resulted in the ease of his acquisition of bow and string. In his pastime he would often practice his skills with a bow or a crossbow, and his fellow coworkers would run fun contests of skill in that field. Target practice, speed, composure; all of the skills associated with such weaponry were practiced, even though it was not something he took seriously at first.
Eventually the fun surmounted to what would become an actual interest of his, and when he was off work, he would sometimes study and practice furthermore. His self-induced training would eventually be schooled by professionals in that field, and his inherent skills and his tutorship would land him a position in the army.
As a parting gesture, he assisted the Eastvale Logging Camp in clearing out some of the nearby threats, battling against wolf, bear and murloc, and as a reward, receiving much cheer from man, woman, and child. And a drink during the same nights.
Kevin Quiver was uncertain that his tenacity with a bow was a boon or a burden. During the war, he soon came to realize that every shot mattered, and all that were not taken were a missed opportunity to stem the tide of battle however much it could be swayed. It peeved him to relax even in the slightest, as his earliest days with such weaponry were utilized in such a fashion that he felt the need to provide prowess as if some sort of reputation was to be had. When eyes were upon him, even in joy, he took aim as diligently as ever. This habit of his would pay off, for many a bolt killed many an orc; his unrelenting barrage saw to that.
It was great to be good with such a weapon, but the pressure of feeling all too pivotal in such a massive conflict was a lot to bear in mind. The key to successful archery was a calm and clear mind. He took his shots, centering his attention onto such capability exclusively, and ignored the hysteria abound. There was an occasion or more in which he had worn out his welcome, and a clasping grasp pulled him from certain doom as the orcish hordes advanced ever onward despite the pressure he induced onto them.
He would eventually take up gorilla tactics as the lines of manpower did not match that of the orcs. Thankfully, this provided him with plenty of cover to hide behind after taking his shot, and also eradicated the fear of being pulverized by a catapult. His greatest triumph, so he was told, was the weakening of an encroaching demon. The mad creature sliced through trees like they were any other man, but he staved off its presence and assisted in the deliverance of its killing blows. Knowing that they were the greatest threats that the orcs could conjure, such an accomplishment was savored by many, and to him, those who bore witness.
As the conflict progressed, he was drawn further away from his home. The experience of witnessing the conflict first break out thence was a lot to take in, and seeing it fade from any hope of salvation was truly degrading, but he was proud to be among some of the first to heed the clarion call, and he felt that his survival and experiences could bring about a lot of insight and responsibility to the war effort, granting the humans the leeway and the courage needed to muster forth and take back that which had been lost. He lost no confidence despite enduring the brunt of the orcish war effort, for his heart remained where his home was, and it still beat earnestly.
That may be why he had retreated northward, toward the frigid realm of Khaz Modan, whereas many others braced themselves before the walls of Stormwind before retreating across the Great Sea. The lands of dwarf and gnome provided the closest route to safety from where Lakeshire had been.
Kevin Quiver
Residence: Lakeshire
Unit Type: Archer
Located not far north from Grand Hamlet, the township of Sunnyglade presides peacefully in equal measure. Here practitioners of magic congregate, as the iconic Tower of Azora stands firm amid the gentle sway of the pleasant winds of the area. Ever watchful yet somewhat isolated. When studies of the arts of magic cannot be mustered efficiently within the Mage's Quarter of Stormwind City, they are commenced herein. Unlike the tower in Stormwind, as well as its family of buildings, this tower is presided over by a school of gnomes. Their unique history has delivered onto human hands and minds newfound magics and insights into ethereal mythology that have indeed supplied our casters with a greater array of spells and incantations, expanding our knowledge and empowering us all the same.
Charles Swift, a local conjurer, volunteers at the tower and lives within Sunnyglade. Having studied magic for most of his life, he is often found at the forefront of every development, for his wisdom is great and yet despite his old age, his interest in learning remains ever vigorous. The nearby bodies of water have provided him with resources to practice his arts, as well as the serenity to think clearly.
Every holiday season, families gather to witness the splendor those adept at magic can cast, or the trickery of those less savvy in that regard, but those who enjoy cooperating with the Tower nonetheless. Every so often, these festivities are hosted abroad to be shared among the diverse dwellings of Azeroth.
Charles had taken delight in creating awe and wonder at the marvel of elemental manipulation. From the nearby bodies of water, summoned he has the great form of the water elemental. Docile by his will, yet a sight to behold nonetheless.
Beyond working within peaceful constraints, his magic has been utilized in warfare as well.
A local kobold campaign had created enough chaos to warrant investment of the army, as directed by the King. The humans saw no shortage of victory when countering the kobold threat, that which was quickly diminished. Toward the end, an ambush lay in wait for the creatures. The conjurers were utilized as an integral component of the plan. It was declared that the steel-clad troops would wait near the mouth of the cave in ambush, as Charles and the rest would summon water elementals and use them to not only invade their base of operations, but flush them out by diminishing their own elementals within the cave system these kobolds called home. This flooded them and forced the survivors out into the open, where they were proceedingly ambushed.
Despite working with water, Charles was also capable of summoning giant scorpions, creatures who enjoyed the heat of the desert sun. Supposedly, he kept both a scorpion and a water elemental as a pet ...and as not to frighten anyone, they remained at a much smaller size.
As he was toward the end of his life, he foresaw the inheritance of knowledge, that which would eventually be cast aside for those who ought to follow. His own contributions to these arts assured him that the best days of mankind were still ahead, and he could only wonder at where magic would be years after his passing. The type of creativity magic provided would alleviate mankind to once unfathomable heights and perhaps one day man may ascend upon the stars, mirroring the supposed gods who created them.
Having peered into the Underworld, Charles was all too certain that great forces were at play, both wonders and terrors that even the third eye may struggle to perceive. Even he had to pause briefly when reports first came of otherworldly creatures amassing in the east and spreading havoc wherever they trod. While not nearly explored, surely knowledge of the creatures would have existed beforehand had they always been there. The dwarves and the gnomes knew of no migration, and neither did the northern kingdoms. Perhaps there were lands across the Forbidding Sea. Perhaps, Charles felt, something far more sinister was at play. This was indeed confirmed when Medivh was discovered to have summoned these creatures into Azeroth.
Those who had questioned his theories in regard to otherworldly phenomena came into agreement, and that while none truly understood any of such, there had never been room for a close mind within the township or its tower. The conjurers were steadfast in their preparation of warfare, for if this foe could not be bested with strength of arms and cunning of leadership, the insight and assets provided by practitioners of magic may prove to be crucial.
The true test of his mettle came when the orcs began their assault on Sunnyglade. It saddened Charles greatly that such a moment came to pass, but at least he had not been caught off guard when the first reports arrived, and when battle was first witnessed. Working with the other conjurers, Charles was savvy in his planning. He secured as many of the most important assets kept within the tower, distributing them toward the west and north in the hopes of preserving them. Portals had been created to hasten the evacuation. Then a rune was cast that would deliver the orcs onto death should they dare breach the tower.
It was of no surprise to him or the others that the orcs were not just simple beasts who relished in violence. Or perhaps they were, but more intelligible powers concealed themselves behind their ranks, using the brutes for all the dirty work and as a distraction while they pursued their true goals, whatever they may be.
It was a delight to learn that the tower remained after Sunnyglade had been razed, but it was also alarming. If the orcs learned anything, surely such a massive force of arms further bolstered by magics would create an even bigger threat. The orcs had already utilized magics of their own, none of which had been conceived on this plane of existence. Charles wondered if they would find anything of use, for human magics seemed to be much more tame in comparison. Yet magic was like alchemy. The right combination of ingredients may very well produce new results.
Amid the Light, he could only pray. That even if the orcs garnered new magics to add onto their already menacing arsenal, that they may still one day be defeated. There was no doubt in his mind that this threat was no longer local, if it ever had been. This conflict would sound across the globe. The world must stand united, for the fight of the millennia had only just begun.
Charles' contributions to the war effort were great. Each conjurer suffered the complete depletion of their magicka reserves upon the summoning of a single water elemental, but these behemoths were powerful indeed. A group of even a few of them could wreck utter havoc among the orcs, competed only by the warlock's own demons. Many troops thanked the conjurers greatly, for that which was made manifest by their staves may have very well saved Azeroth from a much darker fate, and it was already as grim as it had ever been.
Charles Swift
Residence: Sunnyglade
Unit Type: Conjurer
It is now time to illustrate my commitment to the cause of old. I hail from the kingdom of Dalaran, but for a moment in my life, I had relocated to Northshire Abbey. It was here I offered my talents as a healer, whence I had been further educated in that school of magic, though you may not often find many who would agree with the notion that the Light is by any shape or form associated with the same essence as magic. Regardless of what opinion one may bear, the Truth will remain the same, and the Truth is not for us to dictate.
During my time at the Abbey, I had become a cleric, which was a battle-ready healer. I ...was not satisfied with the idea. I wished to cure the ill within safe confines. I did not want to partake in battle lest I encourage it. My concern was not misplaced either, and it was understood. Thankfully, the duty of a cleric was not often regulated toward battle, as warfare was rare, but it remained a mission statement nonetheless. In the meantime, we would often tend martial ceremonies and political gatherings, keeping the peace so to say, and ensuring the heart of man continued to beat without the taint of corruption.
This was all bound to change, of course, so it is a good thing that my fate encompassed such an honor. Perhaps I had been too young and naive to think that we would never be called into battle. It is always good to keep your healers out of harm's way after all. There was a sense in providing for others wherever it was needed instead of dawdling within my own bubble of safety and security, where the woes of the world went through one ear and out the other.
While the church was always a home, and where I always wished to be, the Light needed no structures of wood and stone to dress the land in its warmth, for it was everywhere we were. For it was within us. Especially us clerics. Why not bring that Light where it was needed the most, to the darkest corners of the world or the darkest time of one's life?
When the Orcs invaded, we toughened up. We were trained with the troops not just to increase our own effectiveness in battle, but to adapt to working with them as too often we had been among ourselves. Extreme times called for extreme measures. The Light was often looked upon as a benevolent entity that sought only to cleanse the darker side of nature from itself, but it was during this time that I had learned that it was just as passionate in destroying that which countered it.
While not the most effective in aggressive warfare, the Light did provide utility. We could illuminate that which was too distant or too hidden from the naked eye to see, providing a bountiful amount of scouting opportunities and insight into the enemy's positioning and whatnot.
We, of course, could heal the troops as the battle progressed - our defining characteristic and one which I worked with the most. Our ranks remained strong because of this, as many troops went straight back into battle to reinforce our numbers with their presence once again.
Whenever the conjurers would summon their great elementals, we would buff them with invisibility, transforming a great asset of ours into something even more menacing to the enemy. This surprise tactic would see to the dismantling of enemy peon lines, allowing us to spearhead the assault as their own forces retreated to deal with this threat. I say that this was our greatest advantage.
We not only healed, but helped to stem the tide of battle by preventing the need for healing altogether.
With our combined might, one might think that victory was ultimately certain, but that was unfortunately not the case. The horde had a trick up their sleeve for every one of our own. I wish not to speak about what we had to deal with in our defense. I do not think I will ever recover from the trauma induced by the vile magicks of the horde.
There had not been a single battle that went truly our way, even though our ultimate defeat was dressed in many victories. I am glad I survived for as long as I did, for I was needed in almost every battle that took place, but I would have taken my life for another if I could.
When our losses began to rise to catastrophic degrees, my duty as a healer became a job in which rest was a privilege. When I finally did get to rest, I did not rest easily, for I knew that many others had fallen asleep in an untimely, violent manner.
A great struggle of mine is to not care too much. It is strange to be gifted with the power to heal and yet be called to steel myself against the reality of death. My ultimate battle was within myself, my final battle perhaps, for this inner turmoil would come to change me and from this struggle I'd be reborn.
Discipline had been lacking even though I thought I had known it all at this point. For many years, I returned to my original desire as to not meet the face of death amidst battle. My presence for the next decade would be vacant, but I would return, eventually. During this time, my power would only grow. If the Horde ever reached Dalaran, I would be ready.
They certainly will not.
Neveah Scottis
Residence: Northshire Abbey
Unit Type: Cleric
***
The flames climbed as high as the very structures they fed upon. The stench of death and destruction signified fate in our favor. These as well as the silence that followed the shill cry of a defeated foe heralded the passing of our mighty armies and its awesome victories.
I relished in every opportunity offered to me, to bestow upon the weak their overdue damnation. My blood empowered the vessel that was my body and the spirit that resided within whenever I marched into battle to slay man, woman, and child. I cared not for any sense of morality, for I have shed myself from such weakness. Strength was our idol, combat was our passion. To be among the forefront of what is expected from one such as myself proved to be a great responsibility, but it was one I savored.
I feared no death, for I became death. Any challenge spared me from any perceived boredom, when the constant slaying of human filth eventually became mundane. Yet truthfully, I never tired of it. Misfortune was had when I had been delegated to the protection of our bases and their assets rather than wringing chaos onto this world's resistance, but these remained tasks that I still found pride in.
Gruurk Barthrer is my name. I am a grunt for the Blackrock Clan, but Truth be told, my axe is who I really am. Do not recall me by name or by face; for my weapon is what I live and die by.
I was born into this clan and have served within it all my life. This will never change as I will never change. We orcs never changed; the blood offered to us by the denizens of this so-called Underworld only revealed to us who we really are. It gave us greater purpose. The feeling of liberation from our boring, mortal selves felt like our spirits breaking out of a shell that had imprisoned us for far too long.
The best of us became better, and the worst of us became good ...if they survived the transition. Never before had there been such a mass cohesion among our people, where respect was bountiful and free to give, but honor all the more upheld as the pinnacle of our culture. Defiance was paid in blood, as it should be. All opportunities to be forgiven had ceased.
When the weak were culled from our homeworld, our bloodlust found no peace, for there could never be. We orcs were destined to rule others, and this we learned whole heartedly. If Draenor did not provide, then perhaps other worlds will. When the portal opened, a newfound opportunity came to be. We relished at the thought of taking from others what had been ripe for us to pluck all along. These worlds called out to us, beckoning us to set them right, and so we did.
I took pleasure in stepping forth into the unknown, only to be greeted with the ugly sight of a pristine world tainted by perfection. Disgusting. We turned this blank canvas into a piece of art.
Despite this great undertaking having sated me greatly, the final battle at Stormwind City would be what truly freed us from our prior threshold. When the last stone crumbled, a great roar sounded among our army, enchanting the spectacular vista of fire, char, and smoke. The flames too resounded loudly along with us; this victory was more than material. The spirits clamored to embrace us all too willingly as the world had been grateful for its liberation.
I reflect then, on every battle fought up to this point, and knew that many more had yet to await. Each clash with sword and shield, each deflection of bolt and spell, brought me to this moment. It would be these things that would bring me even further.
The cleansing of this realm had only just begun. I am glad that the fun is not yet over.
Gruurk Barthrer
Unit Type: Grunt
I had thought that I was the only orc to become a staple, but the lack of us beckoned more to be named. I would like to introduce you to Atu Gorn, a Necrolyte who serves the Shadow Council closely.
Though not always privy to the inner workings of the Horde, Atu remained loyal. Most of his time had actually been among us, working within the safety of our bases and even aiding the troops. He proved to be a valuable asset, and would shield us from battle so the humans would waste themselves against their own dead instead. His necromantic powers were great, but his other abilities were also potent. I dare not describe that which I do not understand, so I would leave you to ask Atu himself. Perhaps he will even let you live shall you learn a secret or more.
We never grew close to our own practitioners of magic, let alone the Shadow Council. It is unfortunate that the aftermath of this most glorious war would see his end, and then his betrayal. Perhaps there remains an ounce of loyalty left, or was that a joke all along?
Atu Gorn
Unit Type: Necrolyte
You may view a videographic representation of this document here: Veterans of the First War (Warcraft)
Slowly turtling my way up.