Chapter Six - Alteric Valley Blues
Part I
Jorifen sat against a bank of snow, his brother, Drevias leaning against the tree nearby. Tightening the string to his bow slowly, pulling at the twine every now and then just to test the tension. Dwarven patrols passing by every now and then, along with a few Kaldorei, human, gnomes, and other dwarves doned in battle armor. Ready for the invasion to start up only to once again be a stalemate despite the losses. Jorifen wore the highest grade of Dragonhide leathers, dyed purple and decorated with gems. Sheilding his face from the brisk wind, and leaving just enough room for his golden eyes to look at his brother. Not a word was said, but a simple nod as he pushed himself to his feet. Grabbing the staff from the snow. A staff which looked like nothing but a piece of driftwood dipped in green dye at both ends. Drevias simply pulled several arrows from the quiver on his back and held them close to the bow as they slowly walked their way down the hill. A few rushing humans in plate armor bumping their shoulders as they jetted past. Fancy military grade swords on their backs, and panic on their faces. Only a young Kaldorei female stomps to a halt besides the two male Night Elves.
"What the hell are you two doing! The Horde managed to push forward past the Field of Strife! We need to get there and lend support!" her voice was annoying, young, and caused the youngest of the two brothers to flinch.
"We'll get there eventually. Keep you panties on." the taller of the two cackles, nudging his brother, who simply mumbles, 'She doesn't wear any." smirking behind the leather mask on his face, brushing snow from his chain mail armor. The woman sighed, running from them and to the lines of war with the grace only an elf could have.
"Should be entertaining if they managed to break through the front lines." Jorifen comments, dragging the ragged staff along in the snow.
"I do hope you enjoy trying to reattach arms and legs. In that case." the other fires back, the slight tinge of grief in the back of his throat.
"Quiet down, you're starting to sound like a passive hunter who mourns those who managed to catch his arrows in their foreheads."
"There is a reason you carry that worthless stick. Remember that, Jorifen."
"And lets remember how I dislike your sarcasm, little brother. I'm the only link that saved your defenseless ass when that Troll decided to try and find your spine."
Drevias huffed, picking up his pace as they reached the hill to the first vantage point to the field. Where already injured soilders were being tended to by priests and warriors less injured, doing their best to stop the bleeding with torn bandages. At least twenty men injured, and the dead missing from being left upon the field of battle. The unspoken news, and just the appearance of the first guard towers post caused Drevias to burst into a sprint as Jorifen ran over to help tend to the wounded.
Drevias joined a small group of Kaldorei and Dwarven archers on a hill overlooking the Field of Strife. Each wielding a different weapon in hand. The field was just as grim as he'd thought it would be. Bodies of every being littered the field, small rivers of crimson trickling into shallow ponds. A few men dragging their lifeless bodies along the cold ground as they savored their last moments. Or prayed to the light for the pain to end. Atop those bodies, standing warriors clashing blades, casting spells, and demonic slaves flanking the menders on the field. If there was a place worse, it had not yet been discovered. The other archers took shots from a distance, most missing, fortunately when they struck their mark it was usually a killing shot. Drevias took the several arrows still in hand and fired each one at once with enough accuracy to pin a few spell weavers, and split a few enemy warriors skulls.
"Aye that's a nice shot, it is!" a Dwarven archer commented. Drevias remained quiet as he continued to pull back on the twine, and release another arrow with deadly accuracy. The dwarf attempting to mimic the Kaldorei with little success. However even with the archers, the Horde managed to continue pushing the warriors back, leaving more corpses for the Frostwolves, and leaving the Fields name to live up to its reputation. It was only a matter of time.
Jorifen continued to make an attempt to each wounded solider, walking up to a warrior so badly beaten his armor looked like a thin sheet of metal which was used as target practice on a firing range. Blood trickled from his cheek where it appeared the hilt of a blade had struck him, and his crushed armor labored his breathing.
"Think... T-think I'll make it..." The warrior groaned in pain, coughing a bit before looking up at the Druid with blood shot, close to death eyes.
Jorifen only looked at the man before placing a hand to his chest. Sending a surge of nature into his lungs before stepping up to his feet. Walking to the single pathway leading up to where the wounded soldiers we being kept. Sliding down the path on the soles of his leather boots as he pulls a heavy looking bag full of what looked from the outside like oranges. Holding it clenched in his hand before he came to where the Frontline was being pushed back. One Warrior, another elf, looked back before paying attention to the forsaken attempting to stab him by knocking his blade back his his maul.
"FALL BACK!" he yelled, and several gnomes took their place beside the druid. The front lines pulling away before attempting to push back the enemy, a few getting caught and quickly cut down.
"Ready for the fireworks?" one of the little men asked another. Who nodded with a wide grin, his thin mustache twitching as he pulled out a fist sized thorium grenade.
"What do you think!" he yelled out. Jorifen looked down at them before heaving the bag over his shoulder and dropping it to the floor. Each gnome digging in like it was a bag full of presents.
"Enjoy." was all he said as he wandered back to the wounded, looking up at Drevias, who looked back with a thumb held up.
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