Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw

[Nosh'marak]

Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw

Silence.. Naught but an eerie breeze blowing past the hundreds of Horde and Alliance soldiers, illuminated by the light of a great fire across the waters. The fires of a great tree, once a symbol of life, set alight by those too foolish to understand. By those so blinded by hate and dishonour, that they do not even realize what keeps them alive. Silence broken by a scream of terror, one drowned out and replaced by a mind returning to the present, the words of a great spirit echoing in said mind...

"YOU CALL FOR ME TO WITNESS YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. AND SO I HAVE WITNESSED YOU, WITNESSED YOUR DEEDS AND YOUR TRIBUTES. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT HENCEFORTH ON THE BATTLEFIELD, YOU WILL RENDER MY JUDGMENT UPON THOSE WHO STAND AGAINST US. YOU WILL JUDGE THEM IN MY NAME, AND THEN PERHAPS, YOU YOURSELF WILL PROVE WORTHY TO STAND BESIDE ME AS MY CHAMPION. I WILL BE WATCHING YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. WILL YOU RISE ABOVE WHERE MANY HAVE FALLEN AND TAKE YOUR PLACE BESIDE ME, OR WILL YOU FALL LIKE COUNTLESS HAVE BEFORE YOU?"

... A similar silence to the night of the burning lay heavy over the ranks of twitchy and war-craving savages; warriors with no regard for mercy, only for honour and the spilling of blood standing on the fields of Silverpine. Some shivered with nervosity, others hungrily licked their warpainted lips and their chipped tusks. For a moment, the loss and disgrace of the worldtree seemed gone, like dust on the wind. All that mattered was victory, as the grunts, archers, spellcasters, wolfriders, and others, stood lined up. Far to the right in their lines, past the endless ranks of mixed races, stood fearless wolves, topped by fearless Orc riders, lead by ambition and honour. Three stood at the front. Leader figures, perhaps. One was a rugged old wolf, Mag'har and pure. Tall as two humans stacked atop eachother, and even wiser. One was a battle-worn and scarred, yet young, grey wolf with cunning in his eyes and lust for battle in his blood, donning iron claws. The one who was in front of both however, was somewhat of both. A wise, cunning, and experienced wolf, one who had proven his worth a hundred times before and lead his pack to victory countless times. The Wolf of the Iron Claw sat proudly atop his trusted companion, a bone clad, hulking worg; young yet experienced, much like his rider. Behind the Wolf of the Iron Claw, sat many more alike him. The Iron Warriors of the Red Blade clan, the Nag'Ogar aspiring to stand among the Bloodriders of their kin, with excitement and battle lust amongst their ranks. The silence was broken by the leader, the Wolfking, who looked back at his trusted advisor, the battle-worn and cunning Rrosh-tul, the Wolf of the Iron Claw. He uttered a few simple, yet powerful words.

"Your Nag'Ogar stand ready, Rrosh-tul?"

The Rrosh-tul gave a short nod, one that was followed by the rhythmic beating of heavy war drums in the back of the Horde lines; starting off slow, it soon built up to a menacing song of war, the drums endlessly echoing over the field of battle for what seemed like an eternity. The Rrosh-tul raised his gaze toward the Gilnean town of Pyrewood, grinning to himself and licking his broken right tusk. As the drum beat sounded as if it were to reach its climax, a powerful shout was carried by the wind, from the lips of the Troll commander, and ending up at every soldier's ear.

"SONS AND DAUGHTA'S O' DA 'ORDE! CHARGE!"

A glorious wave of warcries emitted from the Horde lines as they charged; both shouts of "Lok'tar Ogar", and other shouts, in a long-forgotten Red Blade dialect of Orcish, signalling the start of the battle and the charge, the mass of Horde warriors swarming toward the Alliance defensive lines. The Wolf of the Iron Claw and his Iron Warriors however, stayed back for but a moment. When the Horde had started to cover ground, the Rrosh-tul howled out a call for blood. They circled wide, all the way around to the left flank, clashing with it and utterly dominating any that stood in their way. Cries for blood and glory drowned out pleas for mercy as the Nag'ogar fiercly cut down those who dared oppose them. The Wolf of the Iron Claw fought in an impressive display beside his worg, the beast and rider taking down one soldier after another. Not long after, they had breached the flank and the Alliance were on the run. The Iron Warriors savoured their victory for a moment, taking in every single whiff of blood they could, like the wolves they were. They were wolves, and they were wolves that had once more had a taste for blood in the hunt. Wasting no time, they once more swung atop their mounts, maws and claws bloodied by the fools who dared to encroach on their lands. They rode, spreading nothing short of terror on all sides of the Alliance. The humans and their allies were nothing but prey, ready to be chased down and have their blood spilled upon the cobblestones of the abandoned town. For many hours they rode, bringing death and destruction to those who yet stood in Pyrewood. Victory was theirs, and they loved every second of it.

Two days later, at the Sepulcher. The Horde has fallen back, and are preparing a counteroffensive against the Alliance, to deal a blow behind their front lines. The Nag'Ogar wolfriders once more stand ready to perform their duty.

Sounds of battle raged not far away, the wind carrying it along with smells of iron and death to the Orc's nostrils. It was a good day. Torches were strapped to their saddles, doused in oil and ready to be lit any moment. Pyrewood stood in the distance, empty and abandoned, yet still a beacon for the Alliance. A beacon of hope; hope that had to be crushed. With a snarl the Wolf of the Iron Claw commanded his riders, leading them. The Horde had pushed the Alliance back a fair bit, allowing safe passage for the wolfriders. Their wolves paws rhythmically beated against the cold soil beneath them. Tonight they needed no songs of war, no drums to raise their spirits. All they needed was the sensation of crushing the Alliance's hope; for hope has no place on a battlefield. Hope exists only in the minds of children, and those who are too weak to trust in true strength. Their wolves covered ground faster than many others would have, and their paws bore them to the flank of Pyrewood. They waited and scouted, growing more and more ferocious for every moment that passed. They were beasts, waiting to be unleashed.

And they were. In a flash of elemental fire, their torches were set alight, and their wolves carried them in to the town square. It was clearly abandoned, evacuated months if not years ago, the wood dry and chipped from neglect. As swiftly as they had entered, the Iron Warriors begun flinging their torches at the buildings, dousing every standing house in flames. They howled, savouring how they burned this beacon of hope. They finally got to the end of the town and halted, sniffing the air. There was a smell of fear on the wind, and the Wolf of the Iron Claw turned to his right, spotting two cowering figures. Humans, looking just old enough to fight. His gaze met theirs, and a sinister grin crept over his face. One turned pale, pale enough to believe he was dead, and fell to the ground, fainting. The other tried to run, as fast as his feet would carry him..  But Wolf's paws will always be faster than Human's feet, and he was stopped dead in his tracks, a bewildered look on his face. He was so intent on surviving, that not even the magi could keep him stuck as a sheep for more than a second. The Rrosh-tul snickered and slid off his worg, the beast hungrily eyeing the human, who fell to his knees, ready to die. The Wolf of the Iron Claw circled him, like a predator with his prey. The human whimpered for mercy, and the Rrosh-tul finally approached. He firmly grabbed the fragile being by his collar, hoisting him up and dragging him a few meters to the edge of a small hill. For once, the wolf spoke. He hoisted the human up, forcing him to watch Pyrewood, this beacon of hope, burn.

"You... Witness, our deeds. Witness what we do to your... Fragile hope. Remember, when the rest of your cities fall and your kin lie dead, the Wolf of the Iron Claw."

The frail human was tossed to the ground, left to watch hope turn to ash before him. Left by Wolves that showed no interest in such fragile prey, Wolves that now rode off to hunt prey more important than such miserable cowards who would run from battle. The smoke pillars rose to the night skies, proof of their deeds, carrying the smell of burnt wood and lost hope all the way to the front lines, the sinister wind taunting the Alliance soldiers, letting them know of their failure...