It seemed like something was always happening in New Bloodhoof and in most cases this was the truth. The undead loomed as a constant threat over Orgrimmar putting everyone huddled in the plains on edge. Battle drills were running in a field on the far side of the village, nearby a dwarf was arguing with a troll over the best way to temper the blades being hammered at one of the many makeshift forges, alliance and hoard alike shared their battle stories over what scraps of rationed food they were allowed, and off in his tent Roland was polishing his armor. The place that the warrior now came to live, a small village of tents and huts in it's own right, was not glamorous but it was safe and at the very lest his newfound comrades in arms were likeable enough.  It had seemed wise if not necessary at all times to be doing something productive at any given time, even if it was just to stave off the crippling feeling of hopelessness that clung to the air itself in these days.<br/><br/>Roland's armor was simple in it's design and composition, iron chainmail covered with rows of solid rectangular plates. The lowest portion of these plates formed a skirt around his waist, while those upon his chest formed a triangle which led downwards from his hefty shoulder plates allowing both a comfortable degree of protection and movement for the lofty human. With his oily rag he rubbed along the right shoulder plate with the love one might expect of jeweler handling a precious ruby, so focused on his task that he didn't even hear the young lad's first desperate cry as he ran through the mass of tents. "<span style="color: #4dff4d">The undead be comin', the undead be comin'! Baine be wantin' everyone who can raise a sword or sling a spell at the ready mon! The undead be comin'!</span><span style="color: #808080">" The Troll youth ran right by the opening of his tent, his words sending child right down his spine.</span><br/><span style="color: rgb(128,128,128)"><br/>
It was not but a fee moments later that the man came lumbering forth with a swish through the tent flaps, armor fully donned and his sledge slung back over his right shoulder. The village was in a frenzy by now as the clattering of metal rang from all sides, orcs and humans alike arming themselves, cries rose from what few youngsters that remained. Confidence was not the word to be used for the gait which carried the man in to the thick ring forming around the Chieftain, it was more of a grave responsibility. He stood taller than most of his fellow man, what few blood elves there were to be seen, and even a few of the orcs as he surveyed the small crowd. Then his attention turned towards the stables, he could see Molakatar poised above the rest of the crowd as his Kodo cantered about and then his mind went to his own Worg. He had yet to gain the same comfort with the animal as he had with his once proud warhorse but it seemed now more than ever such comfort was a luxury. "</span><span style="color: #0000ff">Well how bad is it Chief, what's the battle plan?</span><span style="color: #808080">" The man's voice bellowed through the cup his hand formed as he turned back around, one more dreary face in the gathering crowd.</span><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>