Warcraft To the Warchief

Cold was usually not something that bothered Warraven. She knew the cold of the depths of the lakes. She knew the cold that came with the storm, the howling wind embracing her. She had even traveled far north enough to where the snows blanketed the land and fire warred with the frozen ground in the form of hot springs. The duality of the elements, the primal instinct of the earth. She knew the cold.

This was cold that should not be.

She exhaled hard, her breath turning to mist and then vanishing as the sun fought back against the ice that crackled around her hooves. The stench around her was almost overwhelming. The heat of Orgrimmar filled her lungs, a dry dust, and the press of so many bodies, trapped in their armor and sweating from exertion, accompanied it. It was not enough to block out the stench of the abomination, the foresworn of the earth that lay mere feet away. The shaman took a few steps away, watching her step on the icy patch of ground that refused to die, despite the sun. It too reeked, of foul corruption, the unliving, that which should not be. She did not look back at the mound of putrid flesh. It was torn nearly to pieces, the arrows and blades of the Horde doing their work to bring down the abomination. The exposed ribs were shattered to pieces, a contribution that Warraven had given to the cause.

She did not look back. There were more to kill.

Part of her mind reeled at the thought that the Lich King would be so bold. This was the haven of the Horde! Orgrimmar. Warraven had grimly pushed that thought away, letting the swell of bloodlust in her heart replace it instead. They had come with the sounding of horns, a cry to battle that stirred the hearts of every warrior in the streets. Those that could not fight hid themselves in their houses, barricading the door and waiting for safety. Those that could fight… they milled about in chaos. Blood elves, slender with the fel fire in their eyes, dredging up raw power to hold in their hands. The Forsaken, so familiar with the Lich King's armies, fighting with a ferocity born of knowing what was at stake, knowing what it meant to be a slave. The trolls, cackling as they slipped into combat, as nimble as the branches of a tree. The orcs, unwilling to give up the home they had bought with blood and now shed that blood once again to defend it. And her people, the tauren.

One of the skeletal dragons screeched overhead and breathed out a bolt of frost. It struck one of the defenders and the orc was frozen to the spot, encased in the sheen of ice, a warcry stopped by the ice that imprisoned him. Even when the abomination smashed a thick arm through the ice prison she did not see fear in his eyes. The ground was littered with blood-stained shards and the walking dead just trampled them underfoot, its cry echoing the dragons. Warraven roared with the primal fury of a shaman and charged.

She met it head on, heedlessly throwing herself at it, pitching her mass against its. Her mace carved deep into its side, her off-hand mace into the shoulder. It roared and threw her back, its backhand slamming into her chest. She landed on her back, bounced, and staggered to her feet. The air would not come. It hurt to breath. Still, there was no time and she dug her hooves in, dropping her center of gravity, and willed herself to become the earth upon with she stood, an immovable anchor. The abomination hit her again, and this time it was a contest of wills, its hooked blade caught on her crossed maces, straining to break through her parry and rake the point into her stomach. She did not move.

Fire exploded along the creature's back and the stench of death intensified. She saw movement, briefly, a flash of robes and the glow of more fire. Reinforcements. The tauren dropped lower to the ground, watching the abomination's hideous grin broaden as its primitive mind thought her beaten. No. Just gathering her strength. When the second lance of fire struck she shoved off the ground, a cry to the spirits escaping her bruised lungs. The earth answered and her weapons were like a storm, the wind howling around her, telling her to become like it, to breath, to dance, to fight. It wasn't until the creature hit the ground, its head nearly torn off save for a thin strip of flesh, that she saw the others that had been aiding her. An orc looked up, his ax coated with congealed blood, and she saw the gaping holes that he had hacked into the creature's body. The places where the flesh had simply been burnt away, exposing long dead organs that no longer functioned.

"Where's the rally point?" The elf mage walked a wide berth around the fallen abomination.

"There is none," Warraven gasped, trying to catch her breath, "Just hunt the things in the streets."

For a moment the three just stared at each other. The elf's face was composed but Warraven could see the tautness in his stance, the smattering of blood along one shoulder. The orc just glanced about with the impatience for battle, uncertainty of where to go the only thing holding him back.

"We've got to rally," the elf said, "Form a –"

He never finished his sentence. A dragon swooped low, its tail smashing into the roof of a nearby house. Stone and wood showered down towards them, like the waves of the ocean. Warraven grabbed the elf and shoved him to the ground, dropping to her knees and shielding him with her body. The orc just raised an arm to protect his head and the debris fell across them. Warraven cried out in pain, a beam cracking across her shoulder blades, narrowly missing her skull. Smaller stones slammed into her legs, her arms, leaving small cuts on the places not protected by her armor. The elf just swore in his own language.

They both picked themselves up before the dust even started to settle. Warraven glanced to where the orc had stood and saw a green form half-buried under what remained of the roof. She made her way over, her stance unsteady in the debris. The elf was far quicker, simply stepping up on top of the stones that would not provide the larger tauren with any support.

"He's unconscious," the elf called back and Warraven stopped in place, "I'll dig him out. Go on ahead – you're just going to make this mess worse if you step on the wrong thing and collapse this even further while he's still pinned."

She tried to think of something to say. But the horns sounded again and the fur on her spine rose in response.

"Earth Mother protect you," she gasped, then turned.

It took only a second to shift into the form of the wolf. Her vision changed with it, becoming sharper, and her senses were filled with the stench of sweat, blood, and death. She followed the trail as it grew stronger, winding through the streets of Orgrimmar. She had to find the rally point, where the fighting was fiercest.

She heard it before she saw it. The cry was unmistakable and Warraven's paws faltered. Thrall. The Warchief. She recovered, ran faster. Her legs stretched out, snapping across the ground like wire and she rounded a corner, sending up a dust cloud as she skidded and the street opened up before her. There was the shallow lake to the left and the steep hill that lead up to where Thrall had been holding his meeting to discuss how best to fight the Lich King. She hesitated, scrambling to a stop, and stared.

The dragon had landed, breathing frost across the assembled warriors. Its bone claws sunk into the earth and the air temperature dropped noticeably. As she watched in horror it lifted its head, a struggling troll trapped in its maw. Then it shook, like a dog harrying its prey and bisected him. It roared again. Thrall's cry rang out to meet it.

She saw him standing before the beast, Doomhammer gripped in one hand, the other up in the air, signaling the warriors of the Horde to attack. Her heart echoed the cry and she howled, breaking into a run once more.

The dragon reared up and then descended, its forelegs slamming into the earth, crushing anyone unfortunate enough to be underneath and shaking the very ground. She could see cracks start up the wall of a nearby building. Every able-bodied warrior was converging on the dragon. She could see the stream of arrows and shot, vanishing into the liquid blue core of its body. A rather enterprising Forsaken hung on to the ridges of the spine, driving a sword in between the bones, finally sending half a vertebrae free before the dragon shook itself and sent the rogue flying. Warraven simply ran through the rank of ranged fighters, causing one to jump with a shout of surprise as her spectral body passed through his legs.

"Corrupt of the earth!" she roared, shifting into her tauren form, calling upon the fury of the spirits as she did.

Her maces slammed into the bone of the dragon's leg and a thin spiderweb of cracks started creeping upwards towards the joint. There were others beside her and slowly the bone splintered. The dragon was going down. It shrieked its hate to the skies and snapped its head forwards, its maw open to snatch up whoever it could, to add their blood its already stained teeth.

Doomhammer met it. The blow split the skull in two and the dragon toppled.

Warraven realized a moment too late which way the body of the dragon was falling. She started to turn, far too late. The dragon's bulk crashed around her and she screamed. The dust clogged her nostrils and she coughed, looking at either side of her in amazement. The ribs had fallen to her left and her right but not on top of her. She stood safe in the dragon's ribcage. Others hadn't been so lucky, but save for one they were being pulled free and delivered into the hands of those that could close the wounds and keep them standing.

The elf's words flashed in Warraven's mind. There were more dragons in the sky, raining down ice, and the bellow of abominations still haunted the streets. There had to be a rally point. They had to be driven back.

She turned, looking to where the skull lay destroyed. Thrall had turned from the dragon already and was breaking into a run further up the hill, the sun flashing off Doomhammer. There.

"To the Warchief!" she cried, brandishing her mace. "The Warchief!"

And the cry was echoed as she shifted back into the form of a wolf, leaping through the maze of bones and into the midst of the surge of people following Thrall. She could smell the forces of the Lich King before them. And they would meet them and drive them out.

She howled and the haunting cry was answered by the other shamans. Her sisters. Her brothers. Everyone who followed Thrall heedlessly in to battle, driven forward by the rallying cry. To the Warchief! For the Horde!


End file.
