under Ranger-General Halduron Bright-wing.”
“Neither of whom is here,” said Malkorok, stepping protectively near Garrosh. “Instead we have this little third-ranking whelp.”
Kelantir turned coolly to Malkorok. “You also have two ships filled with blood elves willing to fight and die for the Horde,” she said.“Unless you are so sufficient in numbers and supplies that our feeble support will not be necessary.”
Garrosh had never much cared for blood elves, and this female was getting under his skin. “You have a chance to prove your people’s worth in battle today,” he said. “Take care you do not squander it.”
“My people are familiar with war and battles and sacrifice, Warchief Garrosh,” snapped Kelantir. “You will not find us lacking.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the docks, her plate mail— how can she even bear it on such a tiny, twig-fragile frame? Garrosh wondered—clanking slightly as she strode.
“Warchief—” interjected Gallywix, but Malkorok silenced the loquacious goblin with a single glance. Garrosh directed his attention to the Forsaken, who, in contrast to the arrogance displayed by the blood elf, bowed almost obsequiously low. He was a warrior of sorts, if the blade sheathed at his bony hip was any indication. He had no hair—it apparently had rotted off by this point—and his skin was the pale green color of decay.
“Captain Frandis Farley, sir, commanding the Forsaken units in the name of Sylvanas Windrunner, in service to the Horde and your good self,” he said in a rasping, deep voice. While his jaw moved properly to form the words, once he had stopped speaking, it seemed to drop into a permanently gaping expression.
“And where is your Dark Lady?” asked Garrosh.
Farley lifted his head, and his eyes gleamed with yellow light. “Why,” he said, sounding surprised, “holding reserves and standing ready to command when, after your inevitable victory, the Horde marches on Theramore.”
The response was audacious and cunning, and Garrosh threw back his head and laughed. “Perhaps we should send you in to simply talk to the lady Jaina, and she will voluntarily surrender completely.”
“My warchief flatters me. But that would deprive the Horde of a well-earned victory, would it not?”
“Fight as skillfully as you speak today, Frandis Farley, and your warchief will be well pleased.”
“I shall endeavor to do so.” Some foul substance gathered at one corner of the slack jaw and dripped to the hard-baked earth. “Now, with your permission, I will see to unloading the cargo my lady has sent.”
Pleased with the banter, though still irritated at both Sylvanas and Lor’themar for sending underlings instead of coming themselves, Garrosh finally turned to Gallywix. The goblin had dropped his eager-to-please mask and chomped sullenly on his cigar, the top hat slipping over his low brow.
“You, Trade Prince, seem to be the only one who has come to Ratchet to lead your people into battle. I will remember this.”
The mask slipped back into place immediately. “Well, I am not so much leading my people into battle as overseeing getting them here and settled, and making sure the supplies you requested were properly delivered, if you understand my—”
Garrosh absently patted Gallywix’s top hat and walked down to the dock to get a better view of the ships and cargo.
At first, it would seem a strange choice. Other than warm bodies to physically fight in the battle ahead, the ships were filled not with swords or bows or armor, but with carefully stacked timbers, securely tied with ropes into tidy bundles, and carts bearing rocks.
But Garrosh nodded his approval. He sighed, forcing down his impatience, and indicated that some of the larger, more physically powerful orcs should give the slender blood elves and the—in some cases quite literally—skin-and-bones Forsaken some assistance in unloading the cargo.
Soon—perhaps within
“Neither of whom is here,” said Malkorok, stepping protectively near Garrosh. “Instead we have this little third-ranking whelp.”
Kelantir turned coolly to Malkorok. “You also have two ships filled with blood elves willing to fight and die for the Horde,” she said.“Unless you are so sufficient in numbers and supplies that our feeble support will not be necessary.”
Garrosh had never much cared for blood elves, and this female was getting under his skin. “You have a chance to prove your people’s worth in battle today,” he said. “Take care you do not squander it.”
“My people are familiar with war and battles and sacrifice, Warchief Garrosh,” snapped Kelantir. “You will not find us lacking.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the docks, her plate mail— how can she even bear it on such a tiny, twig-fragile frame? Garrosh wondered—clanking slightly as she strode.
“Warchief—” interjected Gallywix, but Malkorok silenced the loquacious goblin with a single glance. Garrosh directed his attention to the Forsaken, who, in contrast to the arrogance displayed by the blood elf, bowed almost obsequiously low. He was a warrior of sorts, if the blade sheathed at his bony hip was any indication. He had no hair—it apparently had rotted off by this point—and his skin was the pale green color of decay.
“Captain Frandis Farley, sir, commanding the Forsaken units in the name of Sylvanas Windrunner, in service to the Horde and your good self,” he said in a rasping, deep voice. While his jaw moved properly to form the words, once he had stopped speaking, it seemed to drop into a permanently gaping expression.
“And where is your Dark Lady?” asked Garrosh.
Farley lifted his head, and his eyes gleamed with yellow light. “Why,” he said, sounding surprised, “holding reserves and standing ready to command when, after your inevitable victory, the Horde marches on Theramore.”
The response was audacious and cunning, and Garrosh threw back his head and laughed. “Perhaps we should send you in to simply talk to the lady Jaina, and she will voluntarily surrender completely.”
“My warchief flatters me. But that would deprive the Horde of a well-earned victory, would it not?”
“Fight as skillfully as you speak today, Frandis Farley, and your warchief will be well pleased.”
“I shall endeavor to do so.” Some foul substance gathered at one corner of the slack jaw and dripped to the hard-baked earth. “Now, with your permission, I will see to unloading the cargo my lady has sent.”
Pleased with the banter, though still irritated at both Sylvanas and Lor’themar for sending underlings instead of coming themselves, Garrosh finally turned to Gallywix. The goblin had dropped his eager-to-please mask and chomped sullenly on his cigar, the top hat slipping over his low brow.
“You, Trade Prince, seem to be the only one who has come to Ratchet to lead your people into battle. I will remember this.”
The mask slipped back into place immediately. “Well, I am not so much leading my people into battle as overseeing getting them here and settled, and making sure the supplies you requested were properly delivered, if you understand my—”
Garrosh absently patted Gallywix’s top hat and walked down to the dock to get a better view of the ships and cargo.
At first, it would seem a strange choice. Other than warm bodies to physically fight in the battle ahead, the ships were filled not with swords or bows or armor, but with carefully stacked timbers, securely tied with ropes into tidy bundles, and carts bearing rocks.
But Garrosh nodded his approval. He sighed, forcing down his impatience, and indicated that some of the larger, more physically powerful orcs should give the slender blood elves and the—in some cases quite literally—skin-and-bones Forsaken some assistance in unloading the cargo.
Soon—perhaps within
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