Grommash 'Grom' Hellscream glowered at the oddly satisfied troll witch doctor after hearing him expin what the straauren shapeshifter shaman wanted from the Warsong—a male tauren who wasn't part of the tribe the Warchief had saved.

  The bull had been crystal clear oter.

  When this point was made, the orc warlord lost all i. His hope turo irritation, and only the witch doctor's insisten discussion saved the non-Bloodhoof's fate from being immediately dismissed and mocked. He wasn't oo py diplomacy.

  This irritation grew into anger after the troll's reting. Grommash had been wise not to partake in the discussion beyond the fact that the nguage barrier was a substantial annoyand his time would be used better elsewhere, or he would have executed this i bovine on the spot.

  Gorehowl–a on of legend and blood spilled across hundreds of battlefields and thousands of lives–was tightly gripped, his knuckles paling. A tauren loyal to the tribe, his brother in all but blood, had e and desired the unthinkable. No, the Grimtotem ordered the impossible.

  "He demands that we step away? Does he truly dare wish that I bend the knee under such weak threats? To demand of the Warsong to ply like honorless cowards for crimes of defending ourselves, bah madness! Damn this sacred forest, damn it all! It shall be the foundation of my brother's Horde! That I swore!" the Chieftain of the Warsong roared, smashing his chest with his fist, fury sm behind every word.

  Thrall's wasteful and wrongful punishment of his to cut trees–elite warrireatest of the Horde lowered to lowly peons–was oo abide by no matter the disagreement. The Warchief's words were ws; defying them was treachery unless a Mak'gora was decred.

  Something that never was to happen.

  He obeyed the younger orc's and and would y his life–his honor–for him, for his loyalty was deep, and respect ran deeper. Though using the Warsong for menial tasks was beyond foolish, its ultimate purpose was most o build a new homend for the Horde.

  But it wasn't only a menial task from the past skirmishes, to his delight. This primeval forest wasn't void of inhabitants, and defehey were not. Those warrior women with their males' magicks anding the tree and animals themselves…

  They quenched a thirst–something visceral reawakened by the sughter of those weak-blooded humans–a bloodlust that had been reignited and ready to be set abze once more. And none would temper this process.

  "I didn't believe any other way, bossman. But dat be what de messenger said. Dat if we don' stop cuttin' de purple elves' trees, we be taken out by force, and dat his warnin' be our only ce out, mon." The old troll repeated with a scoff, the goldish metallic scale oip of his staff refleg the bonfire's light with the same shine as his aged eyes.

  "Then go Kul'narmu, inform this tauren that he is unweled. Let them e. Let them test their words under my Gorehowl. I challehem to try! I will crush them. Their petty tricks and frail pet pnts are nothing to the Warsong 's might." Grommash decred with a rumbling tone of finality.

  A bck eagle flew away into the shadowy of Ashenvale. Loud screeches from its beak spread across the Warsong camp and annous departure in the notly silent woods. The sound of the wild was absent, as was the ever-present now absent whistlings of the breeze against the branches and leaves of trees, plunging the world into an oppressive, unnatural silence.

  "Who dares defile this a nd and murder its eternal wardens? Who dares the wrath of arius and the night elves? Who dares sy mercy?"

  A deep, mighty voice echoed across the orcish camp, and a being resembling a taur appeared, yet any parison fell short as he came into view from the trees' shadow. His upper body was of a male night elf with majestitlers and arms made of bark and the muscur lower half of a stag. All who gazed upon his form khis was no normal being.

  He advanced with slow, decisive steps, his hooves clopping on the grass; each tap sehrough the hearts of his frozen audieil he stopped on a mound surrounded by ruins. His wrathful bright greeared into the souls of all, judging them, and his verdict couldn't be more evident.

  He found them unworthy, despicable pests to be freed from their mortal coils.

  Then he lifted one hand, and the root-like fingers shihe purest of emerald light. The following words were lost, but their meaning was clear.

  "Now, my warriors and servant of the wilds, se these demoches of this grove so that I may mend its wound!"

  Like thunder, Ashenvale rumbled as thousands of trees, as, and youngs creaked with life at on the edge of the camp. And the forest moved to him. Thousands split open into cavernous maws, r with guttural shrieks as baleful eyes formed, giving the shapes of distorted wrathful visages.

  The ground below the trees shook as their roots busted from the fertile soil, being bulky armored feet, the grass rolling off them in waves as craters were left behind. Their branches shifted into massive arms, ending in gnarly fingers capable of rendering any who eheir rao broken pieces.

  The first to suffer this very same fate was an orc riding a giant silver-furred wolf.

  "The forest is ing alive! We're utack! We're und-!" The wolf rider–a raider–screamed, but a nearby walking tree grabbed his torso before unceremoniously ripping his head off. The loyal stead that was the dire wolf followed soon after by roots entrapping its paws as smaller spirits of nature drow uheir mass for it to bee fertilizer.

  Many more followed as chaos exploded across the vast clearing. Orcs, whether they were peons or warriors, panicked as the trees they were chopping fought all of a sudden back with a vea. Any who didn't retreat were swiftly put to bloody pieces by the maddened spirits of nature.

  No attacks proved worthwhile; the minute damage done seemingly khemselves in seds. Bdes barely chipped the living wood while spears bounced off uselessly ot stuck, and maces barely splihe outer yers if they weren't caught mid-swing.

  The realization was simple. Fighting was of no use. It spread fast and wide, but only a minority on the brunt of the frontline could disengage before roots and rge hands strangled and crushed them. Not even the famed bde masters, with their supernatural grace, illusory swiftness, and immerength, affected the r trees beyond cutting some branches and smaller ones before they healed.

  While slow and clumsy, their foes were undying, strer, felt no pain, cked vitals to pierce, heads to cut, and wooden armor no weaker thaal for skin that repaired itself through a verdant green magick. A magick seen in the past battles.

  Magic was not aer than the elite warriors of the Horde in the face of the beldam. The magic casters were overwhelmed by the suddenness and sheer number of eheir voodoos and elemental powers proved grievously ie to quell the evergreen tide.

  Fires were extinguished before reag their targets by mysterious currents, and the fra that hit was healed swiftly, rendering any damage null. A simir fate befell lightning bolts as the arcs of deadly electricity were diverted to the ground.

  The closer to the forest was the earth, the more it refused to be molded uheir wills until it became an impossibility. Finally, water could only minimally assist the frontlihrough healing and blessing.

  But this was only a fra of what was happening.

  The foundation of the outermost buildings had crumbled. The feet of watch towers splintered, and the ones withio their death, screamiheir killer the ground or the cws of the marg forest. Structures kept too far from the heart caved in, crushing the ord trolls inside, and if not, a simir fate to the firsts awaited them.

  To be shredded to fleshy ribbons by limbs of bark.

  It was as if the essence of the elements, nature, and the wild themselves made their wrath known, and what a terrifying maion it was.

  "Steady yround!" Grommash bellowed, f order and rationality into the men and women closer to him. Or tried to as the chaos of the battlefield grew far beyond any hope of trol. Every sed worsened an already precarious situation.

  Around hundreds of these bizarre thin griffins with equine hindquarters flickered in the night sky; their numbers were few, and the Darkspear trolls could easily skewer them. But it wasn't to be. They were also small in number, giving the elven women riders ample freedom to raih with their bows and arrows.

  The even fewer shamans fared er; the flying riders were weaving at the edge of the verdant army too far for their spells to reach, and when close by, they were protected by the moving forest . And the orcish spell casters' focus couldn't exclusively be ohis new variable added to the rising difficulty of maniputing the primordial forces of nature, amplifying an already present vicious cycle.

  The less said for the troll witch doctors, the better, as they numbered smaller than the fingers of an orc's hand. Try as they might, their efforts were invisible, a destiny that was shared among all.

  It was a deadly chraphy, and the Horde could not respond to paying for this inadequa the toll of their blood.

  Then, the situation worsened.

  Among the rampaging grove, nimble figures danced between branches and roots. Female kaldorei on foot and riding rge saber-toothed felines made their presenown by their crest-shaped bdes and precise arrows, killing with the silent swiftness of the winds. Among them were some of their mase terparts who healed and shielded friends aangled foes.

  A dramatic opposite to the ways of the taurens of dark and grey fur painted in carmine aint marg on the ground. The hulking warriors maneuvered with speed aness, betraying their size as they hacked at the invading force, simultaneously weaving behind the walking trees, using them as moving shields.

  Horns, mouths, and hoofed feet were used in equal measure to ventional ons. They fought to kill. And kill they did with any means avaible.

  Their ferocity and viciousness were of an iy that surprised even the Warsong Chieftain. This trait was shared with their shamans–little may be their poputioheir focus wasn't on interrupting the Warsong's own magic users. Water flowed in orcs' every orifice before either turning to ice or drowning their host while hands of stone ripped them apart limb from limb, leaving them bleeding to death or being stampeded.

  "The Grimtotem…" Grommash realized, his eyes an eerie glow e and rationality. Then his gaze caught on a familiar color–a striking o blue–and the only one who had it was this tauren diplomat.

  The tauren stared right back, the distance making his smile almost imperceptible yet enough for the bdemaster to see as the Grimtotem druid lifted his staff, a green glow shining from the tip, putting the upward lips in evide ohin blue, thorny vines slowly slithered across the camps.

  At first, no one paid attention to the strange occurreil a grunt stepped on a blue vihen a troll, followed by a kodo, and then hundreds more of the above—orcs the main victims. Footwear offered no prote against the thorns who dug into their flesh regardless.

  Almost without fault, screams of unfiltered agony came out of their throat. The stabbed areas lost all sensation outside of pain–amplifying it–and the sensation and boilirified acid coursed through their flesh. They became easy prey or were stepped on by rampaging kodos from the agony c through the beasts' soles.

  Grom would relish fighting a force of such power at any other time, but it wasn't such time. Victory became an impossibility the moment the first line of defense was shattered from the start, and every moment of retreat hammered itself as an obligation.

  With frustration, shame, and humiliation in his heart, he souhe war horn, the signal for the Warsong to retreat—an antithesis to the itself and the highest dishonor, but an honorless death was equally uable.

  From the shadow, the ing eyes of a dreadlord put his pn in motion after witnessing this pathetic dispy. A pn that was most simple and executed by a simple demand to a peer.

  It wouldn't take long for the Warsong to 'randomly' stumble upon a pond of sickly green water thrumming with energy and otherworldly power. With the demonic temptation a loss winning over the Warsong , the orcs drink the poisoned gift in liquid form with gusto.

  Forsaking their mind to a familiar rage and bloodlust for power. They grew taller, bulkier–better, faster, and stroheir muscles obsely bulging with pulsing veins as their taut green skins turned bloody, their new Fel-infused bodies almost rivaling in strength the taurens that had participated in f them to flee.

  The orc shamans had heard the whispered warnings and chose to ighem, for their allegiance wasn't to the spirits, ah was ing. It was for the best. This affront cost them much, f them to partake in the wretched water, for they had bee powerless.

  Yet master warlocks they didn't bee from this act. Still, the accursed blessing in their veins pensated generously. A fire remained a fire, be it of the elements or chaos, be it e or sickly green. Their power was limited and straightforward, but it otent.

  Only the trolls abstained from this folly. They warned of the danger but were swiftly ignored and could only passively wat muted horror and disgusted awe–only oh a metallic scale on his staff leased–their brother and sister-in-arms mutated into beasts thirsting for blood aru. Words of fleeing to inform Warchief Thrall spread and vinced many.

  But this decision was for ter, as Grommash Hellscream had chosen, and it wasn't for them to be ambushed this time.

  The demonic blood of Mannoroth pumping through the orcs' veins guided them to arius and the forder him. And the frenzied Warsong Fel orcs led by Grommash Hellscream brought death to the unprepared and still rec army of elves, taurens, and treants.

  The trolls wit all, and their desertion came soon after uhe and of the leading witch doctor Kul'narmu, but it had no ripple effe the massacre that followed.

  ons now hungering for life broke l through the spirits' bark, cutting the walking trees into agonizing pieces of wood. The once fearsome Grimtotem braves, able to hold three orcs per tauren and win, were eviscerated with little effort in the same ditions, for the orcs feared no pain ah, only seeking to inflict both.

  Arrows were less than insignifit invenieo the demonically fueled orcs. Eyes were pierced and skull perforated, but what were sujuries to one blinded by maddening fury? Only death could stop them, and die they did, i numbers, as was the price for their recklessness.

  The heart of the nd had stopped beating.

  A decapitated antlered head was held high before all upon a limp body hybrid of man a. Upon it was the Grommash, Gorehowl held low in the hand of a wounded arm, he roared to the heavens.

  "The demi-god has fallen! The Warsong is supreme!"

  At ohe defenders of Ashenvale's resistance shattered, the pilr that was the Lord of the Forest crumbling and f an immediate retreat of kaldorei and tauren one from stupefa evolving into despair as their will colpsed and the other from the rationality of being faced with unwinnable odds.

  But the time of celebration for the Warsong was short-lived. The triumphant cries of victory came to a halt as the slimy yet dry gurgling ughter of their beor from which they so readily drank the bl across the battleground.

  He was a monstrous creature of sheer preen fme, horns, teeth, and cws walking on fs of fate and muscles, as was his entire grotesque form. Two massive yet far two small, leathery wings jutted from his upper humanoid body while a double-bded polearm with jagged bdes rger and lohaallest of orcs was zily hoisted on one shoulder.

  "Hello again, Grommash." Mannoroth, the Destructor of worlds, the Fyer of civilizations, and leader of all the pit lords, rumbled with cruel glee.

  The Fel orc bdemaster iion stared in disbelief, the haze e quieting for but one moment, and he spoke with an almost imperceptible quiver in his voice, "Mannoroth it… 't be."

  "I've e t you and your brethren bato the fold. Though you orcs failed the Burning Legion before, you will serve us ohe pit lord boomed, a sadistic light shining behind his eyes at the horrified expression of his recovered favored pet.

  "No! We are… free!"

  And the demon lhed.

  "Stupid pitiful creature. I'm the rage-hmm?" Mannoroth suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing at a rge flying creature in the sky—a bat that could easily be mistaken for a small, if mature, dragon.

  One of those 'As,' perhaps? It certainly radiated a power no inferior to the weaker variety of those rown varmints millennia babsp;

  However, it was more the sheer life force it oozed–a lot to the point it was an oddity–that led to his assumptions than the amount of energy, which was, while potent and worth noting, nothing of the like of arius.

  The pit lord hummed pensively, briefly sideriing Grommash prove his loyalty to his true masters, but the idea held no sway for aook root. This flyi would prove a filling aertaining meal. Strong enough to growl back but uo do more than scratches.

  And killing another of the night elves' magical pets could only be beneficial.

  "Yes… I was growing bored of watg." He muttered, though his sves o be ordered first.

  The_Bip_Boop2003

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