Michief in Thunder Bluff
- A belated response to the raids on Thunder Bluff! -
(NOTE: foul language included. Kiddies, beware!)
Vulture's voice erupted into the Harbingers' barracks like... like something horrible that Vodral really did not want to hear at that moment. He groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over his head for protection. The priest will go away, the priest will go away, the priest w -
Two large hands grasped his shoulder through the blanket and shook it wildly. "OI BROTHA, WAKE UP! C'mon, we don't got much toime now, eh? There's an attack on Thunder Bluff!"
"What de net'ah joo wakin' me up at - T'undah Bluff?!"
Fwoosh is possibly the only description of how Vodral emerged from the cot. He threw the blanket and leapt to his feet in near-naked glory, blinding Vulture for the next year or so in the process. As the priest ran out of the barracks as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him, as the other troll was in the process of scrambling around for his pants.
"VODRAL!" his hearthstone shrieked from his pack. Komarn, the hunter, was yelling through it, "Thunder Bluff! Alliance! NOW! They're killing my people!"
"LEMME GET MAH PANTS ON!" thundered Vodral.
The urgency immediately eased down a tad. As the troll tugged on the rest of his attire, the hearthstone continued to blair with conversations from the Harbingers. Great, thought their leader, and I'm still regenerating my hand from the last time I fought these bastards!
He almost broke the sound barrier as he snatched his pack from the ground and raced outside. It was a long ride to Thunder Bluff, and he'd have to make it within the next few hours if he wanted to join the fight before Cairne opened a can of whoop-ass and wiped the floor clean.
A wild cackle escaped him as he leapt on his raptor and whipped the reigns. This was going to be funny.
Thunder Bluff was in a state of chaos when Vodral arrived. Soldiers were shouting, sergeants were shouting even louder, civilians were screaming, and by all the corpses strewn about, the Spirit Healer was undoubtedly bitching up a fest in her otherworldly plane. Vodral stepped off the elevator and stared around, his expression quizzical.
He didn't want to do this, but sometimes, he reasoned, you just gotta' do what you've gotta' do. With a heavy heart, he drew in a deep breath. Several people nearby quickly ducked and covered their ears.
The individuals in the crowd either shouted in defense of their eardrums or stopped dead and stared at the enormous, red-clad troll.
"Hi," he said, "wheah's de action?"
Fingers pointed. Somewhere in the background, a man was saying in a very loud voice, "BASTARD BROKE MY EARS!"
Vodral grinned, tipped an imaginary hat, and simply said, "T'anks."
The Spirit Rise, eh? Idiots must be making an attempt on Cairne. Vodral laughed maniacally and flew across the bridge, much to the alarm of a few residents trying to get away from the fighting. They pressed themselves against the ropes and stared after him incredulously, then looked at each other. The look said this:
"What the nether is WRONG with trolls?!"
In truth, it wasn't that there was anything wrong with Vodral. It was just that he was very, well, excited. The allure of battle appealed to him and sucked him in until he was, at times, little more than a noisy, red-headed killing machine. As he skidded behind the main tent on the Spirit Rise and tore into a night elf, he hollered into his hearthstone a perfect example of how he felt:
"Dis's bettah dan sex!"
A short ways behind him, Lucrothe, a fellow Harbinger, stopped and stared at his hearthstone. He shook it and then said, "Uh, War Caller?"
Skulls cleaved, blood flew, unfortunate soldiers fell to the fields below.
"... You feeling alright?"
"Aw, c'mon!" Vodral slugged a rogue and grinned as she fell to the ground like a ragdoll. "Joo ain't gotta' deal wit' none a de mess. All joo got is killin'. Wit' de ot'ah option, dere's de mo'nin' aftah, de bitchin', de possibiliteh a kids..."
Lucrothe grimaced in mid-swing and cautiously said, "Whatever you say, War Caller."
The rest of the evening progressed much in the same fashion. With their hearthstones chattering away, Lucrothe and Vodral dove into the throngs of alliance and slaughtered as many as they could before ultimately being sent on a date with the Spirit Healer. After that, they returned and repeated the process ad-nauseum - up until the alliance finally retreated.
It was almost saddening to see them go. One by one, the elves, humans, dwarves, and even a few gnomes loaded themselves into the faire's cannon and shot off into the distance. Vodral managed to cleave a rogue before he escaped, but it wasn't the one he wanted to hit.
"Damnit," muttered the troll, "Xenophon got 'way."
He sighed and stared after the rapidly disappearing figures. A blood-bathed Lucrothe stood at his side, his expression hidden by his hulking helmet.
"Ah well, was a good fight. If dey come back," the troll turned to his undead comrade and grinned fiercely, "we'll make it so dey wish dey nevah been born. Foah now, d'ough..." he continued as he sauntered towards the lift, "... Ah t'ink we earned oahselves a drink."