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- Aug 10, 2015
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Worn Boots
Author’s note: I wrote this so called ‘demi-novel’ because usually on weekdays I had nothing to do as I couldn’t play on me computer. Aside that, I’ve already done something similar to this about a year ago with the disciplined Gallaylas and the laid back Zalevsky, it was simply a 14 paged draft which I would type every day in the school library. I personally found it to be lacking in vocabulary and description (mind you, I got a B on my report card for English) so I hope this will be better.
Aside all that crap mentioned above, I personally loved the soldiers in fantasy movies, the heroes were cool, but I delved right into the soldiers rallied behind the heroes, such as Lord of the Rings, Gondor’s army I was interested in, especially their shiny uniforms.
But I personally found Warcraft to be more writable upon as the grim, mud slogging footmen was a daily sight in the war torn land of Azeroth. Also the lore is richer, so there’s that.
Now, come inside, little child, into the white van!
Prologue:
The clerk raised an eyebrow at his desk; he was entitled to a small cosy room with a recently invented gnomish fireplace which really did keep the room warm. Something was amiss though. He scanned his Ashwood desk, eyes running over the countless documents that were incomplete and placed in a messy manner. He eyed his ink bottle; he knew that he left it somewhere near it. Two neatly stacked papers he looked for, and he had found it. With a slight grunt, he picked up the documents and squinted, the text was very small as it had to fit numerous words onto the small page.
___________________________________________________
Gallaylas Linehart – Stormwind Army, enlisted NCO footman.
Commissioned with free-roam.
Current status: alive
Location: Elwynn Forest, Westbrook Garrison, Stormwind controlled territory.
Past employment: Lordaeronian Army
Past employment recommendations:
Hearthglen – Centre Gate, held the line steady and inspired other soldiers to stand in the thick of the fray, slaying four ‘recent risens*’ in the process ; inserted a great display of swordsmanship, discipline and leadership skills, was commended by Captain Falric, Royal Guard of Lordaeron who was attached to the First Legion for the time being.
* Term for recently risen slaves of the Scourge, fresh off the battlefield. Conducted by Death Knights and higher classed Necromancers in an emergency. Symptoms include: immense pale skin, the blood dropping freely when moving around (although depends on the kill point), a blue flame from their eyes and quotes such as ‘The Lich King demands.” Please also note that recent risens possess the same amount of knowledge as they had, use caution when fighting former soldiers, they will still have their training. Recent risens are classified as ‘ghouls’ after five months, during the process, their skin decays heavily. If their skin hasn’t decayed at all and they still sport the following symptoms above (excluding the kill point), then they are classified as ‘Captains’, ‘Champions’, ‘Elites’ or sometimes ‘Death Knights’.
Battle of Mount Hyjal – When Lady Proudmoore’s bastion was overrun, Linehart held the flank and steadied the line, allowing numerous wounded soldiers and civilians (quartermasters, etc.) to escape to Thrall’s fortifications, displayed an elite level of swordsmanship and courage in death’s face. Witnesses say that he went against a towering abomination and defeated it, but not without taking a heavy blow.
Unnamed skirmish and liberation in Ashenvale Forest – Deployed by Joint Theramore-Stormwind Command to due to his tenaciousness and superior soldiering skills, engaged a platoon of 30 grunts, 2 NCOs and 1 officer with his squad of 10. Elite leadership skills demonstrated with initiative and realism. Involved tactics: sudden volley fire from the trees using the skills of the Sentinels and shock to the vital moment by Gallaylas and Zalevsky. No casualties but a bruise to one of the Sentinel’s shoulder. Further down the path, he stalked a messenger sent from the platoon as a distress signal and he was led to a minor post inhabited by 40 grunts, one NCO and an officer. Although they were aroused, he conducted his Sentinels to lay down a withering crossfire when they prepared to march out. In the aftermath, they scoured the camp for documents but only found six <comfort*> women, of night elven race. Gallaylas received a master forged bastard sword as a gift when he returned to Stormwind from the King himself.
*Refer to Stormwind Atrocities, Crimes and ‘Total War’ in the Stormwind Command Centre Library.
Physical features: Caucasian, black hair, blue eyes and stands at 5’9. No birthmarks whatsoever. Has a deep commanding voice. Slow in the run but fairly nimble, probably accounted for because of his experience. Medium exert capacity.
Refer to recruitment document replica in the Stormwind Command Centre for full details, criminal records <none> will be accessed in the Stormwind Guard Barracks Library with special permission or nobility birthrights.
Miscellaneous: At all times, he is to be excused of his lack of a sergeant’s standard issue long sword because of merit.
___________________________________________________
The clerk loosened his hands to let the paper slip onto the table; he readjusted his spectacles and focused on the remaining paper.
Zalevsky Edgrinton – Stormwind Army, enlisted NCO cavalier, but on foot due to ‘legality issues.’
Commissioned with free-roam (coupled with Gallaylas Linehart)
Current status: alive
Location: Elwynn Forest, Westbrook Garrison, Stormwind controlled territory.
Past employment: Lordaeronian Army
Past employment recommendations:
Battle of Mount Hyjal – Zalevsky valiantly took up his lance (despite being wounded) and a mount, and rode down a huge abomination at the doorstep of Lady Proudmoore’s bastion causing huge trouble to the ranks, including heavy demoralisation on the militiamen. With the abomination’s fall, the militia rallied around their sergeants and formed a line in cohesion to prepare for more assaults. Demonstration of horsemanship and bravery was at an elite level.
Unnamed skirmish and liberation in Ashenvale Forest: Deployed to Ashenvale by Stormwind Command due to his tenacious and ‘chivalry’, engaged a platoon of 30 grunts, 2 NCOs and 1 officer with his squad of 10. Delivered a shock move at the vital moment with Gallaylas, swathed down at least ten single-handedly (according to witnesses) and delivered a killing blow to their morale by committing a blade-storm (a technique usually used in imitation in duels). Later, he helped Gallaylas stalk a messenger sent from the platoon as a distress signal and he was led to a minor post inhabited by 40 grunts, one NCO and an officer. Although they were aroused, he helped Gallaylas direct the Sentinels to set up a deadly crossfire, and when the order was given to cease fire, the squad quickly scoured the camp for documents, but only found six <comfort> women of the night elven race.
Physical features: Caucasian with a slightly tanned skin, orange eyes and stands at approximately 6’2. He sports an enchanting and charismatic voice. His face has two scars, one on his left cheek and another on his forehead. Quick in the run especially short distance but hopeless at nimbleness. Astonishing exert capacity.
Refer to the recruitment document replica in the Stormwind Command Centre for full details, criminal records <none> will be accessed in the Stormwind Guard Barracks Library with special permission or nobility birthrights.
Miscellaneous: Apart of the minor nobility, please note to handle him carefully when around eye-catching women especially.
The clerk sighed with relief as the documents appeared to be in order.
“Less work for me.” He muttered as he stacked the two pieces of paper together and laid it down, shortly before laying back onto his chair. It was the afternoon for him.
If not the luckiest.
He was lucky.
The Elwynn forest was just another example of laziness and tranquillity. Farmers would simply sit in the sun’s reach on their ranches and the Guards would pull another tankard for their comrades. Such was the well-deserved justice upheld by his royal majesty King Varian Wyrnn, lord of Stormwind of the Alliance.
“Your other left, damn your eyes!” Sergeant-Major Gallaylas screamed out at a clumsy recruit. The Sergeant then frowned quickly after the dumbfounded recruit accidently tripped over an obstacle. He was lucky no one could see his frown, because he had a large reputation for being ‘the most staunchest and stoic’ sergeant in the Eastern Kingdoms. However, was he lucky? More like coincidence as his face was shrouded by a large plate helmet with blue linings along the slits and a proud mane of horse hair poking up. He hardly ever took off his helmet, even when it was courtesy or etiquette he kept it on. Only men of the years ever saw his pale face, littered with rough marks and scars, his black hair set in a way that never fell from its position; aside that, the man was virtually indistinguishable among the other soldiers by having the same armour. Firm plate armour lined with blue. However, double plated shoulders with a raised end dictated that he was not a ranker and his fierce tenacious aura of discipline around him doubled the chances of identification.
“Mid-guard in orders, idiot!” Junior-Knight Zalevsky would often bellow with his loud, deep and commanding (yet charming sometimes) voice during combat drills. A dashing rogue with jet black hair (that was kept messily, for the ladies obviously), charming blue eyes and a well-built body bend on claiming every woman on Azeroth with a huge two handed sword. Easily described by Gallaylas as a ‘foolish, easily-distracted yet brave and handsome bastard’, sometimes Gallaylas would ponder for short periods of time on how he got his promotion and more, his richly made gold armour with huge ornate pauldrons, polished metal gauntlets, silvery plate leggings, crested breastplate and pure silver greaves. How much he scoffed at the practicability of the armour (as it easily was penetrated in battle), cannot be measured.
Such was a typical day of Gallaylas and Zalevsky, once renowned heroes now put into a monotonous life of a Drill-Sergeant in the Elwynn’s barracks and garrison, Westbrook.
“Bloody hell, they put me off.” Gallaylas yawned, he slowly started his ascend on the staircase leading to the NCOs’ quarters. Dark, cold and firm the planks were on the staircase. Zalevsky quickly caught up with him, but not with small speckles of food jumping from his mouth.
“Fresh meat coupled with inability to remember drills, what a meal!” Zalevsky wiped his mouth with his back of his bare hand and winded around the banister to walk up with his friend.
“Remember Hearthglen, what about five or four, or six years ago? When the Scourge assaulted the town?” Gallaylas lifted his statue a little bit, intent on starting a conversation.
“Yes, 2nd Cavalier Battalion, bloody great fun on the West Gate at that time.” Zalevsky quickly responded, like a hype of excitement in his veins.
Gallaylas yawned as he placed his two feet on the summit of the staircase, he turned for his left. “Good times, before when we got in this rat-hole.” He slowly lumbered away, rubbing his eyes.
“Good night.”
“Good night as well, and hope those buggers underneath us remember the drill manual.” Zalevsky turned right and quickly hopped away to his room.
“About. . .”
“FACE!” The lightly coloured cobblestone courtyard of Westbrook was lively, not only with stammering recruits and bellowing Sergeants, but also monotonous civilians, who were attending to the stables, the plants and trees surrounding it and the stonework encircling the whole garrison. The architecture of the garrison and its courtyard was simple. On paper, there was a fairly large circle, with a decently-sized square which represented the barracks on the north of the circle and a small rectangle towards the west, the majority of the area in front of the barracks was shaded gray which represented the cobblestone which served as the parade and training grounds.
Gallaylas sighed as eleven out of twenty-two failed to grasp the order. They turned left, right and even raised their hands for help.
“You’ll learn to value that order in the manual when there is enemy cavalry on your behind.” He quickly muttered under his breath and then pointed to the centre of the line, where the failures happened.
“About face, turn to face your back by order ‘Right Face’, executive command is ‘face’.” He quickly spurted out of his mouth, he went quicker than he would expect. Gallaylas then turned around when he heard the ominous yet familiar sound of boots upon cobblestone.
“Zalevsky, just in time.” He sighed in dismay. Zalevsky chuckled quickly and then retained his smile.
“Like drunkards pulled out of the inn at Goldshire?” Zalevsky rested his hands on his girdle as he looked at the recruits talking and chatting freely without the permission of ‘At ease, FIELD.’ This was a denotation for you to rest your stance and talk freely.
“Even worse, they’re majority from Old Town in Stormwind City, not just drinking; the problem is, for a lot of them also like to whore late until the early next-morning.” Gallaylas dug his head in his hands, with apparent disappointment and dismay. He scooped up his head and then set on his tolerance mode.
“Right you lads!” He said sharply, gave a few paces forward and then drew his dull-looking bastard-sword, the sound of steel rattling and slithering on the inside iron of his scabbard was even more ominous and imitating when he pulled it out slowly, to the dismay of the recruits.
“See this? It’s a fairly fresh trophy granted by King Varian himself when I knocked some orcs around in Ashenvale Forest, far west to Kalimdor.” He brandished it with upmost pride, flickering it around with noticeable wrist movements. It made little flash and gleam in the broad sunlight compared to knightly swords used by Sirs and Lords.
Zalevsky moved silently next to Gallaylas, giving a cough. “He will use the flat bit of the blade to discipline you if you fail to grasp drill again.” He coughed out and cleared his throat. Gallaylas nodded slowly.
“You’re not in Goldshire or Stormwind City anymore, not in any place in fact, but you’re in the Stormwind Army.” He addressed loud and clear to the troop of misfits in front of him.
Suddenly, a civilian cook dressed in plain white garbs stepped from the barracks holding a bell and spatula. “Lunch, come on quickly!” he beat the spatula on the bell, making a vague ringing noise, more disrupting than anything else and stepped back in.
Gallaylas sheathed his sword quickly, knotted his hands and then placed them firmly behind his waist. “Frontal, FACE!”
“Troop, RIGHT FACE!”
“Dismissed!”
When the troops marched off finally in order and broke ranks when out of the Sergeant’s earshot, Gallaylas clutched his head and bent over. “Bloody hell, they are good headache givers!” And the troops filing past him to get to the mess hall were contributing more to it.
Gallaylas slowly skewered a piece of pork on his plate and then lifted the fork up. At about a hand’s height above the table he placed the fork down quickly, obviously discontent with the ‘exotic’ pork and potatoes, accompanied by a small pint of Elwynn-Apple juice which was vaguely brown in the dark cup. Alongside the meals, instead of his service on the frontlines, he received instructor work back in the most boring and dull, yet safe outpost in the whole entire kingdom. His main troubles was the lack of adventure, his weapons weren’t stained with blood and his armour un-muddied, his clean as ever. The atmosphere and environment didn’t suit him as well. A cheery and lively hall, with wood supports holding a large roof and clean cobblestone at its base, he was rather used to the shoddy and dodgy looking canvas tent, trustworthy due to the warmth compared to the open night, with sentry duty another turn to have a conversation with Zale. He leant sideways to the right, Zale already stuffing his face with food amongst the other hundred or so soldiers within the mess hall.
“Where would you like to be deployed?” Gallaylas gave a slight nudge before asking, trying to grab his attention from his plate. Zalevsky turned his head gingerly, careful not to spill any food from the corner of his lips. He held up his finger for a second, before swallowing and then opened his mouth.
“Ashenvale.” He answered briefly, before taking a sip from his mug and placing it down.
Gallaylas only nodded. “Away from here, eh?”
Gallaylas actually pondered on the sentence that escaped freely from his mouth. What, ten or seven years in armed service? And all that time, only minor wounds were presented. From the grassy moors of Lordaeron to the exotic and mystical deserts and forests of Kalimdor and the civil unrest of the Eastern Kingdoms, he virtually had marched, sweated and killed on (nearly) every continent.
Gallaylas then shook his head, trying to free his head to finish his meal when he found his table flooded with familiar liquids from his cup.
“Sorry sir!” a squeaky voice popped seemingly out of nowhere behind him, and Gallaylas exhaled deeply.
The sound of a door knock was heard throughout the hallway of the NCOs’ quarters in the early morning. Early mornings for Gallaylas meant paperwork that he was entitled to when he was transferred to Westbrook. He was in the middle of scribbling a document when someone knocked on his door. He raised an eyebrow at the door and then dropped his pen indistinctively, rose up slowly and then shambled to his door.
He placed his hand on the door knob, the brass and wood knob was a familiar object in the room to him, sporting a cool surface and shiny finish, a simple ‘W.B Garrison’ was engraved onto the knob, clear enough for the unobservant to read.
“Stormwind Guard, Private Thomas, Elwynn Forest.” The man at the door stood at attention, his posture straight and proper. He was dressed immaculately in the simple campaign uniform of Stormwind. A steel helmet with distinguishable blue horse hair at the roof, slits well forged enough for one to see yet have protection at the same time and the traditional blue trim at the outlines of the helmet. The pauldrons were almost simple as the helmet. A rounded steel sheet with a blue trim, two of them were provided to wear on each of the shoulders. His breastplate well defined, with polish at every glance and blue linings again, its undercoat of mail was not excluded as it had the same shine as its other steel sheeted cousins. He also featured less-cared-for gauntlets, leg guards and steel boots, all with the blue lining but it was fading off, it was countered for with a slight polish. His tabard was also partly ripped, like it travelled through a forest of thorns, though the yellow lion on the blue background was clearly identifiable. His shield was strapped to his back, with a narrow strip of leather entrusted to hold the shield’s place. His arming sword was sheathed and placed close enough to his girdle for a quick draw. His face was young and tanned, no doubt that he was experienced although.
“Sergeant Major Gallaylas. No need to salute so early in the morning.” He calmed the soldier down who was clearly in the middle of presenting a salute to an officer.
Thomas nodded and produced a document from one of his pouches on his girdle. It was rolled flawlessly with a scarlet patch securing it, which engraved ‘S.A.S’. It was the Stormwind Armed Seal, meant for documents containing orders and the other related topics.
“Immediate orders from Lord Maxen of Westridge, the First Regiment, Elwynn Brigade.” Thomas smartly said, the documents sliding from his hands as Gallaylas, with his free arm, reached to draw a letter-opener. Thomas stamped his feet, about turned and the marched away briskly, not without closing the door behind him with a firm slam. Gallaylas plucked the red seal open and then discarded the blade with a toss to the table and then unrolled the note.
“Lord Maxen of Westridge – Elwynn Brigade
Sergeant Major Gallaylas, your exploits have been unnoticed since the past weeks when you were put on instructor duty at Westbrook. It grieves to me that your skill at arms and knowledge is wasted on simple drilling and basic training, instead of being used on the front. Our scouts have reported a large floating ‘ship’ coming from the Great Sea going to Stormwind. We believe this is an unknown force, and would like your mind to investigate the matter.
Your friend from Lordaeron, Zalevsky has also proved himself before, his skill at arms surpasses the best cavaliers of Westridge, although not in the mind. You and Zalevsky are to come to Stormwind Harbour, Marines’ Quarter and report to one of the quartermasters there. You shall ride at a fast speed, only breaking from the saddle to have a quick meal, time is quickly running out. You are to bring your full campaign uniform with you and other ‘trinkets’ you wish to carry along.
First Regiment – Lord Maxen of Westridge
Long live Stormwind!”
Maxen. The name sounded familiar to him along with the First Regiment. Gallaylas rolled up the letter and then placed it clumsily on the table. The First Regiment was the most prestigious and elite regiment in the whole entire army, only offset by the 7th Legion, but they too complement The First Regiment, for their skill at arms surpasses the ordinary and the mind is filled only with the heroic and courageous thoughts of riding and marching for the Alliance. However, it wouldn’t have existed if Maxen wasn’t born. He was one of the most spectacular men in the army, a natural born leader, fighter and tactician of Westridge. Although his love life was rocky and his body aging quickly, he made his title fairly and kept it close to his heart. One particular feature of him was an eye patch; he lost an eye campaigning in… Well, Maxen himself couldn’t remember after the long years under his belt.
Gallaylas nodded to himself. Finally! A gateway out of the dull idyllic life of an instructor at Westbrook! He laughed quietly with himself at the thought of it.
The stable hand lifted an eyebrow at the two approaching figures. One was immensely tall and towered his moderate companion.
He was in the middle of saddling up a horse for an appointment for two men. As he squinted at the figures in the distance, he noticed that they were the men that he was looking for and then picked up his pace on saddling the horse.
“I trust the horses are ready.” a cold sharp voice rung out from behind the stable hand, almost jumping at him.
“Yes sir.” The more like stable boy simply squeaked out, he wasn’t quivering in fear, but he was gripped firmly by the commanding and disciplined aura of the Sergeant-Major, even though he had no eye contact with him.
Zalevsky stepped up and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the grip wasn’t like the coldness of the Sergeant-Major, but it was warm, soft and calming. “No need to startle him, Gallaylas.” He simply chuckled; the Sergeant-Major just gave a roll of his eyes and grunted.
The boy nodded eagerly and thrust a hand out to Zalevsky, his eyes blue, face freckled and sun touched with a small yet noticeable smile on his face. “My name is William, milord.” He spoke with a green accent, almost asymmetrical towards Gallaylas’ low sharp tone.
“William, Pleasure to meet you!” Zalevsky quickly took William’s hand, shaking it firm and quick before placing his hands on his girdle.
“Please, we need to act quicker.” Gallaylas sighed as he mounted a saddled Courser; he struggled to get on at first, almost missing the stirrup with his right foot and stumbling on the way up. The horse was coloured a bright brown, common in Stormwind but still prized for the courage in death’s face, just like other five-hundred or so colours bred for war. William frowned as he was being rushed without any formal greeting from the more ‘serious’ man and finished saddling a horse. “Your horse, Zalevsky.” He said as the horse whinnied and bowed in the presence of the Knight-Sergeant, a beautiful pale stallion, with the polished saddle adding even more to the show-off. Zalevsky (in the Sergeant-Major’s eyes) leapt upon the horse with the perfect movements and found him sitting comfortably on the saddle with the reins in his gauntlets.
“Bloody Cavalier, showing off.” He muttered as he quickly took lead by setting his horse in a slow gait out into the courtyard. Zalevsky quickly followed along, giving a two fingered salute to his new found friend William.
The well-placed cobblestone road was an easy trip for the horses and the duo. It wasn’t as trippy and adventurous as Ashenvale where you would expect to run along bear-footed or hard and blister-inducing as the now-razed Stratholme, but rather a mix in-between, with soft boots being enough for long periods of walking. Although the road was good enough for travelling upon, the scenery of it literally wasn’t enough for any tastes. The Elwynn Forest itself placated this. Beautiful as it ever will be, already peaking and like a young princess little in the years. Little in the years is such a lie the Elwynn cannot tolerated. Ever since the Titans shaped the earth, it was always alive from the start of the world.
While Zale looked around with eyebrows lifted and astonishment, Gallaylas simply kept his eyes ahead on the road. He’d much rather prefer a company forming a square formation in such perfectness and timely order than looking at a field of green. His tastes weren’t exactly blunt but it was rather unsharpened. Gallaylas’ ears pricked up when he heard a desperate noise from the blue. He saw a figure moving towards him, but was blurred by the distance. He was waving some sort of a tool, a scythe or hammer; he would have deciphered it if he was closer. Gallaylas instantly kicked his horse into a gallop to the man. Zale shook his head shortly before expertly catching up to Gallaylas with his horsemanship.
A farmer, Gallaylas thought, shoddy white shirt with blue overalls, a young face about twenty-six which was pale, eyes darting from here to there now and again, quick short breathing, bent posture, noticeable sweat even from a considerable distance and shaking of his hands, which half heartedly wielded a common short sword and near-useless round shield.
“Help!” he screamed out, despite being close enough to the Sergeant. Zale quickly came up and dismount, to the quiet sigh of relief from the Sergeant-Major.
“Your name?” he spoke softly and lifted off his helmet, a young handsome tanned face, blue eyes which glinted a little, a few small ‘battle’ scars and a slight beard. He whipped his greasy black hair when a strand landed in front of his eye, now in a rough place leading to behind his neck.
“Yorkyr.” His breathing became slower and milder in the soothing and friendlier manner of Zale.
“Zalevsky, but they call me Zale, although.” He laid a gauntlet on his shoulder, a cold and slightly heavy feeling.
Yorkyr raised his posture a little, his waterfalls of sweat began relieving itself and his shaking evolved into controlled hands by the side and nodded.
“Defias… They snuck into my farm and thought me play.” He shook his head in disgrace. The Defias, originally a group of stonemasons apart of the effort to rebuild Stormwind City who demanded their just pay which was thrown away by the corrupt Lady Prestor in Varian’s absence, now an honourless organisation of bandits and footpads who mercilessly ravage through poverty-stricken Westfall with nothing more but a blade and mask instead of a cause. ‘Bloody light-damned-hell.’ Gallaylas complained in his mind.
“I was lucky to throw down my scythe and get my equipment, but my wife…” he sighed and clenched his hands almost like in revenge, all sorts of anxiety gone from the past few seconds.
“I would have gotten a fighting chance if they didn’t press a blade against her throat. . .” he frowned as he loosened his hands. Zale nodded and slapped on his helmet, returning to his mount.
“Will you please help me? You do bear the uniform of Stormwind.” He pleaded.
Before the Sergeant could introduce himself and ultimately deny his request, Zale, always like a fool and a ‘hero’, quickly pounded his right arm onto his heart.
“We shall do our best in glory of your partner and Stormwind.” He exclaimed and quickly took up his reins, flicking his head to the road for Yorkyr to lead.
Gallaylas inched in closer to his friend. “May I remind you of our task in hand?” he whispered, almost showing an inch of anger and frustration.
“Yes, but we are also staunch followers of the Alliance and her ways; valour, honour and justice.” He quickly retorted back.
“And we’re ‘soldiers’, footmen of the Stormwind Lion. On paper we sound like that but in reality about half of us fight for a roof or three square meals everyday or some coins to fill their pocket. And probably about the rest of the forty-nine-point-nine percent fight because they had a choice from the Stockade or were an orphan.” He said in dead-lock seriousness.
“But in the end, they fight like lions, for king and kingdom, whenever they won’t have a pocket full of gold or not.” Zale softly replied as Yorkyr raised an eyebrow at the two.
Gallaylas retracted himself from his friend’s ear and stood in his saddle upright. “You’re right.” He said and sighed. “Sergeant-Major Gallaylas of Lordaeron, two continents I’ve marched in and the thickest action I’ve seen before.” He said in a proper manner, his head fully turned to Yorkyr. He received a nod in return and a slight voice just audible saying ‘Yorkyr’. Zale clapped his hands. “Lead the way Yorkyr.” And they began setting off to combat a threat.
Jack grinned as he ran his left hand slickly down his captive’s throat. “My husband will rip you apart, I swear it!” she barely made out, her voice showing fatigue from the previous events of abuse and beatings.
Jack chuckled. “What a lovely man you have Miss Ashley,” He said in a teasing tone before snapping back to a more serious and frightening one. “I would wager that he would pay a lot for you!” his voice filled the dark cold barn, the chattering and degradation of his companions silenced instantly. Jack, in a flash held a knife close to Ashley’s throat, the blade pricking on her warm flesh. Ashley could do nothing but whimper and mewl, with a few tears ‘trickling down her pale cheeks.
“But of course, I wouldn’t take a life as beautiful as you.” He chuckled as he retracted the knife slowly with Ashley still whimpering, but instead delivered a sharp blow towards her right cheek, which knocked her instantly on the ground; her crying became more known as she held her tender cheek. Jack simply smiled and fled the barn, with his criminal companions following him, not before verbally mocking and fleering Ashley. In a few seconds, she was all alone in the barn.
Gallaylas relieved himself of the saddle quickly, he hated horseback and always preferred to travel on foot. Zale led the mounts to a nearby fence and secured them with a rope, only receiving a generic whinny.
“This is the place?” the Sergeant-Major pointed to a cobblestone path that led off the main road, most likely to his estate.
“Aye.” Yorkyr nodded as he looked blankly down the track. It was flanked by the huge trees of the Elwynn, bushes and shrubs, a great opportunity for an ambush.
Zale brought himself next to the Sergeant-Major, unsheathing his huge great sword from his back that he polished and decorated at every point of free time. At least the height of a short spear it was, with inscriptions in the fuller, the blade polished to perfection and the grip well intact without any foreign markings. The pommel was expertly shaped into a head of a lion with a jewel in the centre. Despite the ornate looks, it was a rather deadly blade, enough to rend flesh and make a huge mess.
Gallaylas nodded and unstrapped his shield. A heater shaped shield with metal linings coloured yellow, a blue background with a gold lion sitting in the centre. Countering the artwork was numerous marks and scars, obviously old by the fact that the paint was redone over it. He rapped his knuckle on his shield, producing a solid audible sound, shortly before drawing out his simple bastard sword.
“Let’s get going.” Yorkyr eyed his companion’s sword and turned to Zale, who grinned in return with a gleaming and imitating two handed sword and advanced cautiously with the duo following in the same manner as well. Down the edgy path, every sound that was heard by the trio was responded with a lifting of a weapon.
“Why won’t the buggers take us now?” Gallaylas quickened a pace forward to the cautious Yorkyr, making sure not to step on a twig to produce unwanted noise.
“The Defias aren’t particularly careful when they’ve just won.” Yorkyr barely said, showing a small scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, a twig of a stick was heard throughout the vicinity of the winding path. A sound of a sharp draw of a blade, and the trio immediately threw their guard up through the roof.
“I’d love if they had crossbows…” Yorkyr muttered to himself, his eyes darting around to his surroundings after the highly suspicious noise, just like his companions.
“So… Couple of more homicidal kings-men about their daily business?” an old voice growled from the rough bush, and in an instance, a dozen men jumped from the dense bushes around the path, all armed with a crude melee weapon. Their dress however didn’t catch up with the simplicity of their weapons. Rich clothing, albeit dusty and torn coupled with crimson face cloths tied to the back of their dirty heads.
Gallaylas’ eyes flew around at top speed. He took inconspicuous glances at their weapons. Rusted letter openers that were supposed to look like a dagger to the traveller’s eye, failed works of metal by blacksmiths, crude clubs fashioned from heavy branches, sharpened poles. He laughed in his mind at the thought of the Defias supplying their henchmen with anything viable towards proper soldiers. “I don’t think that Stormwind Command wants them alive.” Gallaylas edged slightly towards Zale and uttered quietly so that he could hear.
Ominous footsteps then virtually shook the ground. A taller bandit came from further down the track almost matching Zale, his head covered by a cowl and an even brighter facemask. His armour was nothing but a half of a rent breastplate with his stomach exposed and pants torn and ragged, on his feet he donned blackened mail chausses that seemed like high black boots and he expertly brandished a noble’s brand of arming sword.
“Come on! We can take ‘em!” Zale whispered back with excitement, almost loud enough to the footpads’ ears. Gallaylas simply shrugged. “I would like to hear what they have to say-”
“If they have anything to say.” Zale swung around with his two-hander with a wide grin on his face. A few eyebrows were raised quickly.
“Ah, the heroes are here.” The taller bandit beckoned with a sadistic tone in his voice and chuckled. “It grieves to you that a pretty young girl is being held in the barn with a knife to her throat.” He roughly placed a hand on his facemask and lowered it down quickly, revealing a scarred mouth which was deviously grinning.
Yorkyr pounded his chest with his shield arm. “You’re nothing but a sick bastard!” he shouted, raising his posture to the fullest which dictated that he was dangerous. However, a few bandits weren’t convinced and moved a pace forward.
Before Gallaylas could open his mouth to control Yorkyr, his taller companion immediately raised his sword and screamed ‘Have at thee!’
“I know that this wish would be impossible, but light damn that foolish boy!” Gallaylas cursed heavily in his mind and quickly bashed his sword on his shield. “Remember Lordaeron!” he shouted stoically, and in a quick succession, they ran forwards at full sprint. Yorkyr screamed a barbaric cry and ran forwards as well, directly towards the taller bandit.
Two bandits sprinted head on towards the Sergeant, who had his shield raised. The Sergeant quickly deflected a blow with his shield from one of them and stabbed another while in mid strike. “Thrust always beat the cut.” He chuckled to himself. He turned the blade slowly, maiming the helpless footpad who cried out loud for redemption and then the Sergeant released his blade quickly in a swift motion, trying to block out his ears from the ruckus caused by the dying man.
Zale chuckled as three of the lawless twirled and twisted their weapons. “Easy meat.” He grimaced and swung his sword in a deadly sweeping horizontal manner. He dissected one from his legs and another caught his blade in the lower ribs. Blood rushed from the both of them. The third one raised his short sword and crudely brought it down in an unfashioned manner. Zale quickly lifted his left hand and beat aside the blade which jumped out of its owner’s grasp.
“Mine!” Gallaylas shouted and quickly sprinted up with his full speed, his blade extended. The unlucky victim could only cower in the failure of mathematics.
Blood violently splattered over Gallaylas’ blade which was at least half way into the man. The Sergeant simply kicked the dead man with a brutal wallop and soon enough the blade was free of its lust.
Yorkyr quickly parried a blow with his sword and in return, bashed the attacker out of the living day lights with his shield. He swore that he saw teeth flying. The last three excluding the taller bandit were deeply concerned about the failure of mathematics and simply took their heels and ran with cries of despair on themselves.
“I’d wager that Jack’s had a little fun with Ashley.” The tall bastard laughed a sickly one and coughed into the open air. Yorkyr tightened his grip on his equipment and his face grew a bright red with fury. He was quickly tailed by the veteran-like duo and they dispersed onto his flanks.
Ashley screamed at the top of her lungs as she was being chased by the mad man around the dimly lit barn. “Please…” she whispered hoarsely as Jack cornered her and circled her, with a terrifying grin and devious eyes.
“So Yorkyr hasn’t given you a full-blown belly yet? I’ll make sure it happens when the sun goes down…” he chuckled, his eyes laid on her pale quivering face.
“Please…” she mewed meekly, her arms beginning to creep over her eyes to censor herself from this evil-of-a-bandit. Jack could only let out a short burst of laughter and he stepped forward, twinkling a slender thrusting dagger through a window perched high up from the madness.
A second seemed like a minute towards Ashley with this deranged man. Her vision was quickly blurred by tears forming in her eyes, which promptly ran down her cheek like there was no tomorrow. The wretch took a slow firm pace forward, the mewling of Ashley became more apparent now. “Fear… So delicious.” He whispered softly with an enchanting tone and slowly pushed aside the girl’s arms without any resistance.
Now he was inches away and the girl looked straight into his face with fear so apparent that a blind man could see. “Why do you cry?” his tone was soft but malicious, this only caused the girl to whine more. Jack slowly ran a gauntleted hand through her blond locks, soft and smooth. Ashley felt something shoot up her spine in turn of the events.
She was scared.
Jack quickly threw off his left gauntlet, producing a soft dim ‘thump noise’ on the ground and then hovered it over Ashley’s cleavage.
Her heart was now ramming against her ribcage. What will this sick wretch do to her? She closed her eyes, ensured it shut and braced herself. “Light bless me.” She whispered in her mind.
And then Jack threw his hand down with force, almost producing a rip in her upper dress. He could only give out a sigh as he fondled her chest region wildly, feeling very curve, slope and shape. And in an instant, Jack threw down his dagger and forced her onto the ground.
-SUBJECT TO MORE COPY AND PASTES FROM MY WORD DOCUMENT-
Please give a like!
Author’s note: I wrote this so called ‘demi-novel’ because usually on weekdays I had nothing to do as I couldn’t play on me computer. Aside that, I’ve already done something similar to this about a year ago with the disciplined Gallaylas and the laid back Zalevsky, it was simply a 14 paged draft which I would type every day in the school library. I personally found it to be lacking in vocabulary and description (mind you, I got a B on my report card for English) so I hope this will be better.
Aside all that crap mentioned above, I personally loved the soldiers in fantasy movies, the heroes were cool, but I delved right into the soldiers rallied behind the heroes, such as Lord of the Rings, Gondor’s army I was interested in, especially their shiny uniforms.
But I personally found Warcraft to be more writable upon as the grim, mud slogging footmen was a daily sight in the war torn land of Azeroth. Also the lore is richer, so there’s that.
Now, come inside, little child, into the white van!
Prologue:
The clerk raised an eyebrow at his desk; he was entitled to a small cosy room with a recently invented gnomish fireplace which really did keep the room warm. Something was amiss though. He scanned his Ashwood desk, eyes running over the countless documents that were incomplete and placed in a messy manner. He eyed his ink bottle; he knew that he left it somewhere near it. Two neatly stacked papers he looked for, and he had found it. With a slight grunt, he picked up the documents and squinted, the text was very small as it had to fit numerous words onto the small page.
___________________________________________________
Gallaylas Linehart – Stormwind Army, enlisted NCO footman.
Commissioned with free-roam.
Current status: alive
Location: Elwynn Forest, Westbrook Garrison, Stormwind controlled territory.
Past employment: Lordaeronian Army
Past employment recommendations:
Hearthglen – Centre Gate, held the line steady and inspired other soldiers to stand in the thick of the fray, slaying four ‘recent risens*’ in the process ; inserted a great display of swordsmanship, discipline and leadership skills, was commended by Captain Falric, Royal Guard of Lordaeron who was attached to the First Legion for the time being.
* Term for recently risen slaves of the Scourge, fresh off the battlefield. Conducted by Death Knights and higher classed Necromancers in an emergency. Symptoms include: immense pale skin, the blood dropping freely when moving around (although depends on the kill point), a blue flame from their eyes and quotes such as ‘The Lich King demands.” Please also note that recent risens possess the same amount of knowledge as they had, use caution when fighting former soldiers, they will still have their training. Recent risens are classified as ‘ghouls’ after five months, during the process, their skin decays heavily. If their skin hasn’t decayed at all and they still sport the following symptoms above (excluding the kill point), then they are classified as ‘Captains’, ‘Champions’, ‘Elites’ or sometimes ‘Death Knights’.
Battle of Mount Hyjal – When Lady Proudmoore’s bastion was overrun, Linehart held the flank and steadied the line, allowing numerous wounded soldiers and civilians (quartermasters, etc.) to escape to Thrall’s fortifications, displayed an elite level of swordsmanship and courage in death’s face. Witnesses say that he went against a towering abomination and defeated it, but not without taking a heavy blow.
Unnamed skirmish and liberation in Ashenvale Forest – Deployed by Joint Theramore-Stormwind Command to due to his tenaciousness and superior soldiering skills, engaged a platoon of 30 grunts, 2 NCOs and 1 officer with his squad of 10. Elite leadership skills demonstrated with initiative and realism. Involved tactics: sudden volley fire from the trees using the skills of the Sentinels and shock to the vital moment by Gallaylas and Zalevsky. No casualties but a bruise to one of the Sentinel’s shoulder. Further down the path, he stalked a messenger sent from the platoon as a distress signal and he was led to a minor post inhabited by 40 grunts, one NCO and an officer. Although they were aroused, he conducted his Sentinels to lay down a withering crossfire when they prepared to march out. In the aftermath, they scoured the camp for documents but only found six <comfort*> women, of night elven race. Gallaylas received a master forged bastard sword as a gift when he returned to Stormwind from the King himself.
*Refer to Stormwind Atrocities, Crimes and ‘Total War’ in the Stormwind Command Centre Library.
Physical features: Caucasian, black hair, blue eyes and stands at 5’9. No birthmarks whatsoever. Has a deep commanding voice. Slow in the run but fairly nimble, probably accounted for because of his experience. Medium exert capacity.
Refer to recruitment document replica in the Stormwind Command Centre for full details, criminal records <none> will be accessed in the Stormwind Guard Barracks Library with special permission or nobility birthrights.
Miscellaneous: At all times, he is to be excused of his lack of a sergeant’s standard issue long sword because of merit.
___________________________________________________
The clerk loosened his hands to let the paper slip onto the table; he readjusted his spectacles and focused on the remaining paper.
Zalevsky Edgrinton – Stormwind Army, enlisted NCO cavalier, but on foot due to ‘legality issues.’
Commissioned with free-roam (coupled with Gallaylas Linehart)
Current status: alive
Location: Elwynn Forest, Westbrook Garrison, Stormwind controlled territory.
Past employment: Lordaeronian Army
Past employment recommendations:
Battle of Mount Hyjal – Zalevsky valiantly took up his lance (despite being wounded) and a mount, and rode down a huge abomination at the doorstep of Lady Proudmoore’s bastion causing huge trouble to the ranks, including heavy demoralisation on the militiamen. With the abomination’s fall, the militia rallied around their sergeants and formed a line in cohesion to prepare for more assaults. Demonstration of horsemanship and bravery was at an elite level.
Unnamed skirmish and liberation in Ashenvale Forest: Deployed to Ashenvale by Stormwind Command due to his tenacious and ‘chivalry’, engaged a platoon of 30 grunts, 2 NCOs and 1 officer with his squad of 10. Delivered a shock move at the vital moment with Gallaylas, swathed down at least ten single-handedly (according to witnesses) and delivered a killing blow to their morale by committing a blade-storm (a technique usually used in imitation in duels). Later, he helped Gallaylas stalk a messenger sent from the platoon as a distress signal and he was led to a minor post inhabited by 40 grunts, one NCO and an officer. Although they were aroused, he helped Gallaylas direct the Sentinels to set up a deadly crossfire, and when the order was given to cease fire, the squad quickly scoured the camp for documents, but only found six <comfort> women of the night elven race.
Physical features: Caucasian with a slightly tanned skin, orange eyes and stands at approximately 6’2. He sports an enchanting and charismatic voice. His face has two scars, one on his left cheek and another on his forehead. Quick in the run especially short distance but hopeless at nimbleness. Astonishing exert capacity.
Refer to the recruitment document replica in the Stormwind Command Centre for full details, criminal records <none> will be accessed in the Stormwind Guard Barracks Library with special permission or nobility birthrights.
Miscellaneous: Apart of the minor nobility, please note to handle him carefully when around eye-catching women especially.
The clerk sighed with relief as the documents appeared to be in order.
“Less work for me.” He muttered as he stacked the two pieces of paper together and laid it down, shortly before laying back onto his chair. It was the afternoon for him.
If not the luckiest.
He was lucky.
The Elwynn forest was just another example of laziness and tranquillity. Farmers would simply sit in the sun’s reach on their ranches and the Guards would pull another tankard for their comrades. Such was the well-deserved justice upheld by his royal majesty King Varian Wyrnn, lord of Stormwind of the Alliance.
“Your other left, damn your eyes!” Sergeant-Major Gallaylas screamed out at a clumsy recruit. The Sergeant then frowned quickly after the dumbfounded recruit accidently tripped over an obstacle. He was lucky no one could see his frown, because he had a large reputation for being ‘the most staunchest and stoic’ sergeant in the Eastern Kingdoms. However, was he lucky? More like coincidence as his face was shrouded by a large plate helmet with blue linings along the slits and a proud mane of horse hair poking up. He hardly ever took off his helmet, even when it was courtesy or etiquette he kept it on. Only men of the years ever saw his pale face, littered with rough marks and scars, his black hair set in a way that never fell from its position; aside that, the man was virtually indistinguishable among the other soldiers by having the same armour. Firm plate armour lined with blue. However, double plated shoulders with a raised end dictated that he was not a ranker and his fierce tenacious aura of discipline around him doubled the chances of identification.
“Mid-guard in orders, idiot!” Junior-Knight Zalevsky would often bellow with his loud, deep and commanding (yet charming sometimes) voice during combat drills. A dashing rogue with jet black hair (that was kept messily, for the ladies obviously), charming blue eyes and a well-built body bend on claiming every woman on Azeroth with a huge two handed sword. Easily described by Gallaylas as a ‘foolish, easily-distracted yet brave and handsome bastard’, sometimes Gallaylas would ponder for short periods of time on how he got his promotion and more, his richly made gold armour with huge ornate pauldrons, polished metal gauntlets, silvery plate leggings, crested breastplate and pure silver greaves. How much he scoffed at the practicability of the armour (as it easily was penetrated in battle), cannot be measured.
Such was a typical day of Gallaylas and Zalevsky, once renowned heroes now put into a monotonous life of a Drill-Sergeant in the Elwynn’s barracks and garrison, Westbrook.
“Bloody hell, they put me off.” Gallaylas yawned, he slowly started his ascend on the staircase leading to the NCOs’ quarters. Dark, cold and firm the planks were on the staircase. Zalevsky quickly caught up with him, but not with small speckles of food jumping from his mouth.
“Fresh meat coupled with inability to remember drills, what a meal!” Zalevsky wiped his mouth with his back of his bare hand and winded around the banister to walk up with his friend.
“Remember Hearthglen, what about five or four, or six years ago? When the Scourge assaulted the town?” Gallaylas lifted his statue a little bit, intent on starting a conversation.
“Yes, 2nd Cavalier Battalion, bloody great fun on the West Gate at that time.” Zalevsky quickly responded, like a hype of excitement in his veins.
Gallaylas yawned as he placed his two feet on the summit of the staircase, he turned for his left. “Good times, before when we got in this rat-hole.” He slowly lumbered away, rubbing his eyes.
“Good night.”
“Good night as well, and hope those buggers underneath us remember the drill manual.” Zalevsky turned right and quickly hopped away to his room.
“About. . .”
“FACE!” The lightly coloured cobblestone courtyard of Westbrook was lively, not only with stammering recruits and bellowing Sergeants, but also monotonous civilians, who were attending to the stables, the plants and trees surrounding it and the stonework encircling the whole garrison. The architecture of the garrison and its courtyard was simple. On paper, there was a fairly large circle, with a decently-sized square which represented the barracks on the north of the circle and a small rectangle towards the west, the majority of the area in front of the barracks was shaded gray which represented the cobblestone which served as the parade and training grounds.
Gallaylas sighed as eleven out of twenty-two failed to grasp the order. They turned left, right and even raised their hands for help.
“You’ll learn to value that order in the manual when there is enemy cavalry on your behind.” He quickly muttered under his breath and then pointed to the centre of the line, where the failures happened.
“About face, turn to face your back by order ‘Right Face’, executive command is ‘face’.” He quickly spurted out of his mouth, he went quicker than he would expect. Gallaylas then turned around when he heard the ominous yet familiar sound of boots upon cobblestone.
“Zalevsky, just in time.” He sighed in dismay. Zalevsky chuckled quickly and then retained his smile.
“Like drunkards pulled out of the inn at Goldshire?” Zalevsky rested his hands on his girdle as he looked at the recruits talking and chatting freely without the permission of ‘At ease, FIELD.’ This was a denotation for you to rest your stance and talk freely.
“Even worse, they’re majority from Old Town in Stormwind City, not just drinking; the problem is, for a lot of them also like to whore late until the early next-morning.” Gallaylas dug his head in his hands, with apparent disappointment and dismay. He scooped up his head and then set on his tolerance mode.
“Right you lads!” He said sharply, gave a few paces forward and then drew his dull-looking bastard-sword, the sound of steel rattling and slithering on the inside iron of his scabbard was even more ominous and imitating when he pulled it out slowly, to the dismay of the recruits.
“See this? It’s a fairly fresh trophy granted by King Varian himself when I knocked some orcs around in Ashenvale Forest, far west to Kalimdor.” He brandished it with upmost pride, flickering it around with noticeable wrist movements. It made little flash and gleam in the broad sunlight compared to knightly swords used by Sirs and Lords.
Zalevsky moved silently next to Gallaylas, giving a cough. “He will use the flat bit of the blade to discipline you if you fail to grasp drill again.” He coughed out and cleared his throat. Gallaylas nodded slowly.
“You’re not in Goldshire or Stormwind City anymore, not in any place in fact, but you’re in the Stormwind Army.” He addressed loud and clear to the troop of misfits in front of him.
Suddenly, a civilian cook dressed in plain white garbs stepped from the barracks holding a bell and spatula. “Lunch, come on quickly!” he beat the spatula on the bell, making a vague ringing noise, more disrupting than anything else and stepped back in.
Gallaylas sheathed his sword quickly, knotted his hands and then placed them firmly behind his waist. “Frontal, FACE!”
“Troop, RIGHT FACE!”
“Dismissed!”
When the troops marched off finally in order and broke ranks when out of the Sergeant’s earshot, Gallaylas clutched his head and bent over. “Bloody hell, they are good headache givers!” And the troops filing past him to get to the mess hall were contributing more to it.
Gallaylas slowly skewered a piece of pork on his plate and then lifted the fork up. At about a hand’s height above the table he placed the fork down quickly, obviously discontent with the ‘exotic’ pork and potatoes, accompanied by a small pint of Elwynn-Apple juice which was vaguely brown in the dark cup. Alongside the meals, instead of his service on the frontlines, he received instructor work back in the most boring and dull, yet safe outpost in the whole entire kingdom. His main troubles was the lack of adventure, his weapons weren’t stained with blood and his armour un-muddied, his clean as ever. The atmosphere and environment didn’t suit him as well. A cheery and lively hall, with wood supports holding a large roof and clean cobblestone at its base, he was rather used to the shoddy and dodgy looking canvas tent, trustworthy due to the warmth compared to the open night, with sentry duty another turn to have a conversation with Zale. He leant sideways to the right, Zale already stuffing his face with food amongst the other hundred or so soldiers within the mess hall.
“Where would you like to be deployed?” Gallaylas gave a slight nudge before asking, trying to grab his attention from his plate. Zalevsky turned his head gingerly, careful not to spill any food from the corner of his lips. He held up his finger for a second, before swallowing and then opened his mouth.
“Ashenvale.” He answered briefly, before taking a sip from his mug and placing it down.
Gallaylas only nodded. “Away from here, eh?”
Gallaylas actually pondered on the sentence that escaped freely from his mouth. What, ten or seven years in armed service? And all that time, only minor wounds were presented. From the grassy moors of Lordaeron to the exotic and mystical deserts and forests of Kalimdor and the civil unrest of the Eastern Kingdoms, he virtually had marched, sweated and killed on (nearly) every continent.
Gallaylas then shook his head, trying to free his head to finish his meal when he found his table flooded with familiar liquids from his cup.
“Sorry sir!” a squeaky voice popped seemingly out of nowhere behind him, and Gallaylas exhaled deeply.
The sound of a door knock was heard throughout the hallway of the NCOs’ quarters in the early morning. Early mornings for Gallaylas meant paperwork that he was entitled to when he was transferred to Westbrook. He was in the middle of scribbling a document when someone knocked on his door. He raised an eyebrow at the door and then dropped his pen indistinctively, rose up slowly and then shambled to his door.
He placed his hand on the door knob, the brass and wood knob was a familiar object in the room to him, sporting a cool surface and shiny finish, a simple ‘W.B Garrison’ was engraved onto the knob, clear enough for the unobservant to read.
“Stormwind Guard, Private Thomas, Elwynn Forest.” The man at the door stood at attention, his posture straight and proper. He was dressed immaculately in the simple campaign uniform of Stormwind. A steel helmet with distinguishable blue horse hair at the roof, slits well forged enough for one to see yet have protection at the same time and the traditional blue trim at the outlines of the helmet. The pauldrons were almost simple as the helmet. A rounded steel sheet with a blue trim, two of them were provided to wear on each of the shoulders. His breastplate well defined, with polish at every glance and blue linings again, its undercoat of mail was not excluded as it had the same shine as its other steel sheeted cousins. He also featured less-cared-for gauntlets, leg guards and steel boots, all with the blue lining but it was fading off, it was countered for with a slight polish. His tabard was also partly ripped, like it travelled through a forest of thorns, though the yellow lion on the blue background was clearly identifiable. His shield was strapped to his back, with a narrow strip of leather entrusted to hold the shield’s place. His arming sword was sheathed and placed close enough to his girdle for a quick draw. His face was young and tanned, no doubt that he was experienced although.
“Sergeant Major Gallaylas. No need to salute so early in the morning.” He calmed the soldier down who was clearly in the middle of presenting a salute to an officer.
Thomas nodded and produced a document from one of his pouches on his girdle. It was rolled flawlessly with a scarlet patch securing it, which engraved ‘S.A.S’. It was the Stormwind Armed Seal, meant for documents containing orders and the other related topics.
“Immediate orders from Lord Maxen of Westridge, the First Regiment, Elwynn Brigade.” Thomas smartly said, the documents sliding from his hands as Gallaylas, with his free arm, reached to draw a letter-opener. Thomas stamped his feet, about turned and the marched away briskly, not without closing the door behind him with a firm slam. Gallaylas plucked the red seal open and then discarded the blade with a toss to the table and then unrolled the note.
“Lord Maxen of Westridge – Elwynn Brigade
Sergeant Major Gallaylas, your exploits have been unnoticed since the past weeks when you were put on instructor duty at Westbrook. It grieves to me that your skill at arms and knowledge is wasted on simple drilling and basic training, instead of being used on the front. Our scouts have reported a large floating ‘ship’ coming from the Great Sea going to Stormwind. We believe this is an unknown force, and would like your mind to investigate the matter.
Your friend from Lordaeron, Zalevsky has also proved himself before, his skill at arms surpasses the best cavaliers of Westridge, although not in the mind. You and Zalevsky are to come to Stormwind Harbour, Marines’ Quarter and report to one of the quartermasters there. You shall ride at a fast speed, only breaking from the saddle to have a quick meal, time is quickly running out. You are to bring your full campaign uniform with you and other ‘trinkets’ you wish to carry along.
First Regiment – Lord Maxen of Westridge
Long live Stormwind!”
Maxen. The name sounded familiar to him along with the First Regiment. Gallaylas rolled up the letter and then placed it clumsily on the table. The First Regiment was the most prestigious and elite regiment in the whole entire army, only offset by the 7th Legion, but they too complement The First Regiment, for their skill at arms surpasses the ordinary and the mind is filled only with the heroic and courageous thoughts of riding and marching for the Alliance. However, it wouldn’t have existed if Maxen wasn’t born. He was one of the most spectacular men in the army, a natural born leader, fighter and tactician of Westridge. Although his love life was rocky and his body aging quickly, he made his title fairly and kept it close to his heart. One particular feature of him was an eye patch; he lost an eye campaigning in… Well, Maxen himself couldn’t remember after the long years under his belt.
Gallaylas nodded to himself. Finally! A gateway out of the dull idyllic life of an instructor at Westbrook! He laughed quietly with himself at the thought of it.
The stable hand lifted an eyebrow at the two approaching figures. One was immensely tall and towered his moderate companion.
He was in the middle of saddling up a horse for an appointment for two men. As he squinted at the figures in the distance, he noticed that they were the men that he was looking for and then picked up his pace on saddling the horse.
“I trust the horses are ready.” a cold sharp voice rung out from behind the stable hand, almost jumping at him.
“Yes sir.” The more like stable boy simply squeaked out, he wasn’t quivering in fear, but he was gripped firmly by the commanding and disciplined aura of the Sergeant-Major, even though he had no eye contact with him.
Zalevsky stepped up and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the grip wasn’t like the coldness of the Sergeant-Major, but it was warm, soft and calming. “No need to startle him, Gallaylas.” He simply chuckled; the Sergeant-Major just gave a roll of his eyes and grunted.
The boy nodded eagerly and thrust a hand out to Zalevsky, his eyes blue, face freckled and sun touched with a small yet noticeable smile on his face. “My name is William, milord.” He spoke with a green accent, almost asymmetrical towards Gallaylas’ low sharp tone.
“William, Pleasure to meet you!” Zalevsky quickly took William’s hand, shaking it firm and quick before placing his hands on his girdle.
“Please, we need to act quicker.” Gallaylas sighed as he mounted a saddled Courser; he struggled to get on at first, almost missing the stirrup with his right foot and stumbling on the way up. The horse was coloured a bright brown, common in Stormwind but still prized for the courage in death’s face, just like other five-hundred or so colours bred for war. William frowned as he was being rushed without any formal greeting from the more ‘serious’ man and finished saddling a horse. “Your horse, Zalevsky.” He said as the horse whinnied and bowed in the presence of the Knight-Sergeant, a beautiful pale stallion, with the polished saddle adding even more to the show-off. Zalevsky (in the Sergeant-Major’s eyes) leapt upon the horse with the perfect movements and found him sitting comfortably on the saddle with the reins in his gauntlets.
“Bloody Cavalier, showing off.” He muttered as he quickly took lead by setting his horse in a slow gait out into the courtyard. Zalevsky quickly followed along, giving a two fingered salute to his new found friend William.
The well-placed cobblestone road was an easy trip for the horses and the duo. It wasn’t as trippy and adventurous as Ashenvale where you would expect to run along bear-footed or hard and blister-inducing as the now-razed Stratholme, but rather a mix in-between, with soft boots being enough for long periods of walking. Although the road was good enough for travelling upon, the scenery of it literally wasn’t enough for any tastes. The Elwynn Forest itself placated this. Beautiful as it ever will be, already peaking and like a young princess little in the years. Little in the years is such a lie the Elwynn cannot tolerated. Ever since the Titans shaped the earth, it was always alive from the start of the world.
While Zale looked around with eyebrows lifted and astonishment, Gallaylas simply kept his eyes ahead on the road. He’d much rather prefer a company forming a square formation in such perfectness and timely order than looking at a field of green. His tastes weren’t exactly blunt but it was rather unsharpened. Gallaylas’ ears pricked up when he heard a desperate noise from the blue. He saw a figure moving towards him, but was blurred by the distance. He was waving some sort of a tool, a scythe or hammer; he would have deciphered it if he was closer. Gallaylas instantly kicked his horse into a gallop to the man. Zale shook his head shortly before expertly catching up to Gallaylas with his horsemanship.
A farmer, Gallaylas thought, shoddy white shirt with blue overalls, a young face about twenty-six which was pale, eyes darting from here to there now and again, quick short breathing, bent posture, noticeable sweat even from a considerable distance and shaking of his hands, which half heartedly wielded a common short sword and near-useless round shield.
“Help!” he screamed out, despite being close enough to the Sergeant. Zale quickly came up and dismount, to the quiet sigh of relief from the Sergeant-Major.
“Your name?” he spoke softly and lifted off his helmet, a young handsome tanned face, blue eyes which glinted a little, a few small ‘battle’ scars and a slight beard. He whipped his greasy black hair when a strand landed in front of his eye, now in a rough place leading to behind his neck.
“Yorkyr.” His breathing became slower and milder in the soothing and friendlier manner of Zale.
“Zalevsky, but they call me Zale, although.” He laid a gauntlet on his shoulder, a cold and slightly heavy feeling.
Yorkyr raised his posture a little, his waterfalls of sweat began relieving itself and his shaking evolved into controlled hands by the side and nodded.
“Defias… They snuck into my farm and thought me play.” He shook his head in disgrace. The Defias, originally a group of stonemasons apart of the effort to rebuild Stormwind City who demanded their just pay which was thrown away by the corrupt Lady Prestor in Varian’s absence, now an honourless organisation of bandits and footpads who mercilessly ravage through poverty-stricken Westfall with nothing more but a blade and mask instead of a cause. ‘Bloody light-damned-hell.’ Gallaylas complained in his mind.
“I was lucky to throw down my scythe and get my equipment, but my wife…” he sighed and clenched his hands almost like in revenge, all sorts of anxiety gone from the past few seconds.
“I would have gotten a fighting chance if they didn’t press a blade against her throat. . .” he frowned as he loosened his hands. Zale nodded and slapped on his helmet, returning to his mount.
“Will you please help me? You do bear the uniform of Stormwind.” He pleaded.
Before the Sergeant could introduce himself and ultimately deny his request, Zale, always like a fool and a ‘hero’, quickly pounded his right arm onto his heart.
“We shall do our best in glory of your partner and Stormwind.” He exclaimed and quickly took up his reins, flicking his head to the road for Yorkyr to lead.
Gallaylas inched in closer to his friend. “May I remind you of our task in hand?” he whispered, almost showing an inch of anger and frustration.
“Yes, but we are also staunch followers of the Alliance and her ways; valour, honour and justice.” He quickly retorted back.
“And we’re ‘soldiers’, footmen of the Stormwind Lion. On paper we sound like that but in reality about half of us fight for a roof or three square meals everyday or some coins to fill their pocket. And probably about the rest of the forty-nine-point-nine percent fight because they had a choice from the Stockade or were an orphan.” He said in dead-lock seriousness.
“But in the end, they fight like lions, for king and kingdom, whenever they won’t have a pocket full of gold or not.” Zale softly replied as Yorkyr raised an eyebrow at the two.
Gallaylas retracted himself from his friend’s ear and stood in his saddle upright. “You’re right.” He said and sighed. “Sergeant-Major Gallaylas of Lordaeron, two continents I’ve marched in and the thickest action I’ve seen before.” He said in a proper manner, his head fully turned to Yorkyr. He received a nod in return and a slight voice just audible saying ‘Yorkyr’. Zale clapped his hands. “Lead the way Yorkyr.” And they began setting off to combat a threat.
Jack grinned as he ran his left hand slickly down his captive’s throat. “My husband will rip you apart, I swear it!” she barely made out, her voice showing fatigue from the previous events of abuse and beatings.
Jack chuckled. “What a lovely man you have Miss Ashley,” He said in a teasing tone before snapping back to a more serious and frightening one. “I would wager that he would pay a lot for you!” his voice filled the dark cold barn, the chattering and degradation of his companions silenced instantly. Jack, in a flash held a knife close to Ashley’s throat, the blade pricking on her warm flesh. Ashley could do nothing but whimper and mewl, with a few tears ‘trickling down her pale cheeks.
“But of course, I wouldn’t take a life as beautiful as you.” He chuckled as he retracted the knife slowly with Ashley still whimpering, but instead delivered a sharp blow towards her right cheek, which knocked her instantly on the ground; her crying became more known as she held her tender cheek. Jack simply smiled and fled the barn, with his criminal companions following him, not before verbally mocking and fleering Ashley. In a few seconds, she was all alone in the barn.
Gallaylas relieved himself of the saddle quickly, he hated horseback and always preferred to travel on foot. Zale led the mounts to a nearby fence and secured them with a rope, only receiving a generic whinny.
“This is the place?” the Sergeant-Major pointed to a cobblestone path that led off the main road, most likely to his estate.
“Aye.” Yorkyr nodded as he looked blankly down the track. It was flanked by the huge trees of the Elwynn, bushes and shrubs, a great opportunity for an ambush.
Zale brought himself next to the Sergeant-Major, unsheathing his huge great sword from his back that he polished and decorated at every point of free time. At least the height of a short spear it was, with inscriptions in the fuller, the blade polished to perfection and the grip well intact without any foreign markings. The pommel was expertly shaped into a head of a lion with a jewel in the centre. Despite the ornate looks, it was a rather deadly blade, enough to rend flesh and make a huge mess.
Gallaylas nodded and unstrapped his shield. A heater shaped shield with metal linings coloured yellow, a blue background with a gold lion sitting in the centre. Countering the artwork was numerous marks and scars, obviously old by the fact that the paint was redone over it. He rapped his knuckle on his shield, producing a solid audible sound, shortly before drawing out his simple bastard sword.
“Let’s get going.” Yorkyr eyed his companion’s sword and turned to Zale, who grinned in return with a gleaming and imitating two handed sword and advanced cautiously with the duo following in the same manner as well. Down the edgy path, every sound that was heard by the trio was responded with a lifting of a weapon.
“Why won’t the buggers take us now?” Gallaylas quickened a pace forward to the cautious Yorkyr, making sure not to step on a twig to produce unwanted noise.
“The Defias aren’t particularly careful when they’ve just won.” Yorkyr barely said, showing a small scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, a twig of a stick was heard throughout the vicinity of the winding path. A sound of a sharp draw of a blade, and the trio immediately threw their guard up through the roof.
“I’d love if they had crossbows…” Yorkyr muttered to himself, his eyes darting around to his surroundings after the highly suspicious noise, just like his companions.
“So… Couple of more homicidal kings-men about their daily business?” an old voice growled from the rough bush, and in an instance, a dozen men jumped from the dense bushes around the path, all armed with a crude melee weapon. Their dress however didn’t catch up with the simplicity of their weapons. Rich clothing, albeit dusty and torn coupled with crimson face cloths tied to the back of their dirty heads.
Gallaylas’ eyes flew around at top speed. He took inconspicuous glances at their weapons. Rusted letter openers that were supposed to look like a dagger to the traveller’s eye, failed works of metal by blacksmiths, crude clubs fashioned from heavy branches, sharpened poles. He laughed in his mind at the thought of the Defias supplying their henchmen with anything viable towards proper soldiers. “I don’t think that Stormwind Command wants them alive.” Gallaylas edged slightly towards Zale and uttered quietly so that he could hear.
Ominous footsteps then virtually shook the ground. A taller bandit came from further down the track almost matching Zale, his head covered by a cowl and an even brighter facemask. His armour was nothing but a half of a rent breastplate with his stomach exposed and pants torn and ragged, on his feet he donned blackened mail chausses that seemed like high black boots and he expertly brandished a noble’s brand of arming sword.
“Come on! We can take ‘em!” Zale whispered back with excitement, almost loud enough to the footpads’ ears. Gallaylas simply shrugged. “I would like to hear what they have to say-”
“If they have anything to say.” Zale swung around with his two-hander with a wide grin on his face. A few eyebrows were raised quickly.
“Ah, the heroes are here.” The taller bandit beckoned with a sadistic tone in his voice and chuckled. “It grieves to you that a pretty young girl is being held in the barn with a knife to her throat.” He roughly placed a hand on his facemask and lowered it down quickly, revealing a scarred mouth which was deviously grinning.
Yorkyr pounded his chest with his shield arm. “You’re nothing but a sick bastard!” he shouted, raising his posture to the fullest which dictated that he was dangerous. However, a few bandits weren’t convinced and moved a pace forward.
Before Gallaylas could open his mouth to control Yorkyr, his taller companion immediately raised his sword and screamed ‘Have at thee!’
“I know that this wish would be impossible, but light damn that foolish boy!” Gallaylas cursed heavily in his mind and quickly bashed his sword on his shield. “Remember Lordaeron!” he shouted stoically, and in a quick succession, they ran forwards at full sprint. Yorkyr screamed a barbaric cry and ran forwards as well, directly towards the taller bandit.
Two bandits sprinted head on towards the Sergeant, who had his shield raised. The Sergeant quickly deflected a blow with his shield from one of them and stabbed another while in mid strike. “Thrust always beat the cut.” He chuckled to himself. He turned the blade slowly, maiming the helpless footpad who cried out loud for redemption and then the Sergeant released his blade quickly in a swift motion, trying to block out his ears from the ruckus caused by the dying man.
Zale chuckled as three of the lawless twirled and twisted their weapons. “Easy meat.” He grimaced and swung his sword in a deadly sweeping horizontal manner. He dissected one from his legs and another caught his blade in the lower ribs. Blood rushed from the both of them. The third one raised his short sword and crudely brought it down in an unfashioned manner. Zale quickly lifted his left hand and beat aside the blade which jumped out of its owner’s grasp.
“Mine!” Gallaylas shouted and quickly sprinted up with his full speed, his blade extended. The unlucky victim could only cower in the failure of mathematics.
Blood violently splattered over Gallaylas’ blade which was at least half way into the man. The Sergeant simply kicked the dead man with a brutal wallop and soon enough the blade was free of its lust.
Yorkyr quickly parried a blow with his sword and in return, bashed the attacker out of the living day lights with his shield. He swore that he saw teeth flying. The last three excluding the taller bandit were deeply concerned about the failure of mathematics and simply took their heels and ran with cries of despair on themselves.
“I’d wager that Jack’s had a little fun with Ashley.” The tall bastard laughed a sickly one and coughed into the open air. Yorkyr tightened his grip on his equipment and his face grew a bright red with fury. He was quickly tailed by the veteran-like duo and they dispersed onto his flanks.
Ashley screamed at the top of her lungs as she was being chased by the mad man around the dimly lit barn. “Please…” she whispered hoarsely as Jack cornered her and circled her, with a terrifying grin and devious eyes.
“So Yorkyr hasn’t given you a full-blown belly yet? I’ll make sure it happens when the sun goes down…” he chuckled, his eyes laid on her pale quivering face.
“Please…” she mewed meekly, her arms beginning to creep over her eyes to censor herself from this evil-of-a-bandit. Jack could only let out a short burst of laughter and he stepped forward, twinkling a slender thrusting dagger through a window perched high up from the madness.
A second seemed like a minute towards Ashley with this deranged man. Her vision was quickly blurred by tears forming in her eyes, which promptly ran down her cheek like there was no tomorrow. The wretch took a slow firm pace forward, the mewling of Ashley became more apparent now. “Fear… So delicious.” He whispered softly with an enchanting tone and slowly pushed aside the girl’s arms without any resistance.
Now he was inches away and the girl looked straight into his face with fear so apparent that a blind man could see. “Why do you cry?” his tone was soft but malicious, this only caused the girl to whine more. Jack slowly ran a gauntleted hand through her blond locks, soft and smooth. Ashley felt something shoot up her spine in turn of the events.
She was scared.
Jack quickly threw off his left gauntlet, producing a soft dim ‘thump noise’ on the ground and then hovered it over Ashley’s cleavage.
Her heart was now ramming against her ribcage. What will this sick wretch do to her? She closed her eyes, ensured it shut and braced herself. “Light bless me.” She whispered in her mind.
And then Jack threw his hand down with force, almost producing a rip in her upper dress. He could only give out a sigh as he fondled her chest region wildly, feeling very curve, slope and shape. And in an instant, Jack threw down his dagger and forced her onto the ground.
-SUBJECT TO MORE COPY AND PASTES FROM MY WORD DOCUMENT-
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