Blood in the Basin.

It's happy hour, the alcohol is flowing. It's time to pull up a tankard of ale, bottle of wine for the ladies and regail tales of heroism and grandeur.

Topic/Postby Reathor » 04 Dec 2009, 01:08

Blood in the Basin.

Once more, Alliance and Horde traded blows over the Arathi basin, years since the combat there began, Neither Stromgarde nor the Forsaken willing to give its resources to their enemy. The sun was setting, leaving an orangish shadow over the Basin, as once more the warring factions spilt blood in a most brutal war for dominance.

Reathor stepped through the Cavern into the basin, nodding briefly to the Stromgardian Soldiers who saluted him upon his entrance, hearing his name mentioned by the Soldiers, and the shouts of encouragement and praise, filled the paladin with a pride he had long forgotten. As Baron of the Alexander family, it was he who their duties now fell to, his oath to the Trollbane bloodline would not be forgotten, and the highlands would not fall. These lands were his home, and this was his war.

The paladin looked down over the basin, and charged forwards, hurling himself into the swirling melee in the Stable. Two gnomes lay dead, side by side, both appearing killed by hammer blows from a Large, and brutish looking orc. Three Stromgardian Soldiers were clearly visible, each locked in vicious combat with Forsaken Soldiers. On the Outskirts of the combat, a single dwarvern rifleman reloaded and prepared to take another shot, while a Night Elf darted here and there, revitalising the men in combat. The banner of the Alliance, that moments before had stood proudly over the Stable grounds, now lay amongst the dead.

Reathor smirked, his strides forward quickly breaking into a run as he unsheathed his family warblade, and rose his shield high. An orc became his first target, as it turned to face him, roaring a challenge and swinging its axe at his chest. The blow struck his shield, and Reathor’s response was fast, a quick lunge with his warblade slicing into the poorly armoured orcs chest. The creature tumbled backwards, shouting and cursing in its last moments, before toppling to the ground, its dieing groans drowned out by the clash of steel.
Reathor tilted his head to the side, spying a troll, armoured in banded leather and equipped with only a knife, running towards him. He spun, taking his shield around in a wide arc, the impact of it against the Trolls head knocking the creature to the ground, allowing the paladins blade a fast kill.
He turned once more, eyeing the heavily armoured forsaken, that now appeared to have finished throttling one of the Stromgardians and advanced towards him, raising its great sword and muttering a challenge in its foul tongue. Reathor advanced on it, sending a fast stab of his blade for the Forsakens chest. The creature easily repelled the blow, and swung a wide arc, throwing the Paladin clearly off balance. Reathor fell on one knee, raising his shield to take the impact of the Forsakens wild Sword swings, and swung out with his own weapon at the Undeads legs, knocking it to the floor with a loud thud.

Throwing his shield aside, Reathor picked up the fallen standard, and with one swift, precise blow, impaled it in the downed Forsaken Soldiers chest, rooting both banner and corpse firmly in the ground. Cheers erupted amongst the alliance in the combat nearby, who fought all the harder in the battle standards presence.

The Horde forces courage faltered, and there survivors fled deeper into the basin, giving the Alliance soldiers at the Stable a brief few minutes to recover from there injuries and prepare for the combat. Reathor stood, looking out over the Basin, his hand gripped tightly around his family blade. He sighed, spying the dead alliance soldiers, and shook his head.

“If this is to be a victory, it will be one defended only by the blood of the Alliance Finest”
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