The Reckoning - Gurubashi in Icecrown - Prologue!

by **Shrogan** Thu Sep 23, 2010 11:54 am

Yet again, another one of the Mock-Tales made by the Psychopathic Productions team. Ladies and gentlemen, tremble and shudder as the Gurubashi storm Icecrown Citadel itself. 'Cause if you want a job well done, you gotta do it as a Troll would.

Prologue

Icecrown Citadel, our ages' source of nightmares, stood cold and defiant above the sieges of the Argent Crusade, Horde and Alliance alike. Terrifying shrieks still echoed from within its walls, wails of the many tormented souls the Lich King imprisoned and tortured still can be heard, should one penetrate the Frozen Halls of the Citadel.
But no, they weren't that far in yet. In fact, they weren't inside at all. The battering ram still collided, clashing against the frozen gates again and again. And Tirion observed the efforts of his Crusade with a pleasant smile on his face. No doubt he'd be sooner than later facing the Lich King himself and oh, how he had played that moment in his head so many times. Him, and Arthas alone, locked in their epic struggle against one another.
"Uhm... Sir?" A man called, tugging at his shoulderpad. Tirion, who was by then biting his underlip and rolling his eyes, looked back at the man who shuddered and backed away. "Uhm... nevermind Sir. Please uhm... do er... continue?" And so he did.

Mograine wasn't too far off from the scene as well. He paced back and forth, on occasion grabbing his swords. When would the fighting take place?! He hungered for it! Frostmourne hung---Actually, it probably did too, but he didn't have it. And that saddened him. The things he could accomplish with Frostmourne he thought... perhaps then, he'd not be denied what he desired most. Children.
The Death Knights of the Ebon blade, those who were not manning the Battering Ram, were instead littering the pavement with Ghouls which on occasion they would manage to snatch away from the Lich King's sway. And then, gladiatorial combat was had and bets were made. It ain't easy passing the time when you're in the middle of a siege.

Saurfang was still rather uneasy. The Citadel was yet to crumble before the power of his cleave and the door was not all that too impressed either. This was a troubling sign. What manner of horrors lie ahead, if the door itself did not budge before the might of his axe?
Thus he meditated. As the Horde's forces continued to storm down the gates.

Muradin? Well, the name Bronzebeard comes down from a great lineage of bronze-bearded Dwarves. And to keep such a beard clean and shiny well, one must take great care of it. The great Dwarf leader stayed in the back, calmly combing his beard, grooming it to be ever so soft from his chin down to his knees. And it radiated beauty and the splendor of the Alliance shone in him... that and the rather obvious lack of desire of going into the Citadel without a beer. A man cannae die without chugging atleast a cold one aye? And cold's all around us, so if not for a cold one, a man might at least warm himself up... with alcohol... and women... hmmm... Deffinatly, Muradin out of them was the one having the most fun in the middle of it all.

Atop the Citadel, he gazed down with a smirk lingering on his lips. "Look at them, Frostmourne... look at them struggle and eager to rush to their Deaths..." And he cackled lowly, looking at the blade who well... remained a blade. He looked back to the assembled armies and shivered in anticipation of the conflict. None of them were a match for him and he knew it.
He mumbled something unintelligible again to the sword which did not mumble back for it was a sword, but loneliness does that to you on occasion.
"Soon, my dear, you shall be fed the souls of the Champions of the Living... I know you hunger." And then he turned to the fields below himself. "COME! ALL OF YOU! FROSTMOURNE HUNGERS!" And as the cackling echo of his voice faded in the distance, the Blade's insidious whispers began... "OMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOM".
Everybody cringed.

As the day threatened to pass once more without any result on furthering of the efforts of the Living, finally the resound thunder of a crumbling structure was heard. Although not from within the citadel, not from the Walls, but from one of the Temples around it. Much screaming then ensued, as several Cultists attempted to run out, followed closely and some even following their undead masters.
The effort proved futile as all manners of magic, rarely seen before, as well as spears and axes and many other things showered from within those walls.
"BLOOD! FIRE! DEATH!" They shrieked and chanted as they marched away from the falling building, carrying the newly collected heads as trophies.

The glamour of chains and swords, the drums of war resounding around them, the army of Trolls marched forth. In front of them, carried on a golden throne, a tall figure, with cruel and void-black eyes stood. He pointed towards the gates of the Citadel and they marched, stomping whatever opposition had been left from previous onslaughts. The Emperor himself led the charge.
The battle-crier spoke aloud, announcing their arrival, as if the destruction of the temple hadn't been enough.
"WE ARRIVE, UNDER THE COMMAND OF THE GOD-EMPEROR OF THE GURUBASHI, TO SLAY HE WHO DISTURBS THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD!" Snarls, hisses and growls were heard as the bloodthirsty waves of Trolls advanced under the Emperor's order.

The sight was beautiful, yet terrifying. The lines of the Trolls marched up to the Citadel, to meet the forces already stationed there.
Tirion was the first to arrive to greet the reinforcements. "Ah, I am glad you decided to come..."
Shro'gan, the God Emperor, eyed him up and down, remembering Tirion all too well. "Yes... we've come... hopefully not in the same way you have." He spoke as Tirion's eyes fluttered for a moment, his underlip again, between his teeth. Strike, one of the Oath Bearers of the Emperor, translated. "The Emperor says he is pleased with your work and that we have come to assist your forces."
"Those are... definitely great news." Tirion smiled pleasantly attempting to place his hands on Strike's shoulder. The Trolls shuddered in unison as he attempted to shuffle away.

Saurfang and the Blood Drinker met first. Each flexed in turn, before bending due to sheer age. "My back!" But with a manly, no, the manliest of groans, each resumed posture before agreeing to a temporary tie.

Mograine and Muradin were not as fond of the Trolls, seeing as how they were well-known child slaughterers and beard-trimmers. With spears and axes, but regardless, it was still rather an unpleasant an experience.

The leaders gather in front of the Emperor, wishing to relay the progress so far, which was quickly summed up into. "How is the situation here?" The Emperor spoke. Strike translated.
"It isn't." The others replied. The Trolls sighed.
Mograine stepped forth, nigh-infuriated "How is it possible that you have arrived so quickly, when it took us months to plow through the snow, the ice and undead as we have?!" Was there something which he might've missed?
"Bobsleds." Strike replied.
"Wat?"
Three Trolls waved, remarkably happy. "We be Trolls mon, we be 'avin' bobsled teams!"
"Well, that explains the crash we heard..."
"Got us 'ere hasn't it?"
"Can't argue with results..."

Shro'gan snickered as Tirion approached. The Blood Drinker in turn shuffled closer to his Emperor, to protect him should the need arise. "I was led to believe, if I may be as bold, that the business with the North was not of the concern of the Empire of the South. What has led you to change your mind?"
The Emperor yet again speaks his gibberish and tongues, which Strike proceeds to translate.
"'Dat be simple... If ya' be wantin' somethin' done right it's gotta be done by a Troll!" He cackled as the others reached for their black shaded goggles, putting them on.
"Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"We be begginin' in the morrow." [b]