The ground shook with the thundering of battle as monstrous masses marched through the rotted woodlands of the Silverpine Forest, slithering and stalking beneath the bowed branches of the hollowed trees. Each beat in step brought old music to the forests ears as leather straps creaked, mail leggings clashed and enormous shields were beaten; the sounds of war once again rang throughout the dead lands of Lordaeron.
Withered flesh stretched over bone as knuckles were tightly clenched around the hilts of weapons, rage brewed beneath the putrid eyes of the weary Forsaken forces as the reality of war plagued their minds. The uncertainty of this night’s battle drifted throughout the air with an unparalleled tension; as each blackened boot hit the muddied ground the troop’s consciousness turned inwards with the unavoidable questions of the soul, were they marching to death and defeat?
The loss of both Tarren Mill and Ambermill left a foul taste in the mouth of the Horde and served as a reminder that not all borders can remain unbroken. The humiliating defeat at the hands of the Alliance crusaders caused this night’s victory to seem like nothing more than a far off dream lingering on the boundary of the horizon.
The headland of the Sepulcher had been reached and the caravan of soldiers gathered in the dimly lit square between the labyrinth of head stones; the divided Horde now banded together in response to the overwhelming threat the Alliance possessed.
“Sir, I have the enemy forces in sight,” a stranger’s voice on the comm-link rang out through the still camp, “they are on route to your location.” The ground shifted as each soldier took their weapon into steady hands and marched towards the front line of the battlefield. There was no grand speech, no motivating words of wisdom, only the promise of honor on the battlefield, live or die this was an assault that must be stopped. Unseen a Deathstalker Commander stalked the progress of the march of the Crusade.
“Battle is my calling, Death is my end,” a Forsaken priest began to speak, “I commend my blade to the Shadow of Faith. May I reap victory in It’s name, From the bodies of my enemies. May I offer the blood of my foe’s, to slake It’s endless thirst, May I die gloriously in the field, with It’s name on my lips.”
“Battle is my calling, Death is my end, May ascension be my reward.”
Citizens and soldiers of the Forsaken, on this eve we faced a battle with irreconcilable odds contrary to our favour, however, it is with great pride I am to report a victory for the Banshee Queen and the Horde.
It is in my belief that the Alliance crusaders who march under the banner of the false Queen wish to attack us at our weakest. We are divided within our allegiances but on this eve we must be grateful for the allies we do share within the Horde, for if it were not for their efforts upon the battle field we would surely be facing a more intimate threat at this present moment.
Despite this fortunate turn of events we must never forget the threat that surrounds us, let our losses at Tarren Mill be a reminder to us that our borders are not impenetrable, that as a force we are not unstoppable. Let this cold gripping reality be a reminder that we must grow stronger, as individuals, as an army, as a culture.
My brothers and sisters in Death, under the Shadow, the Alliance will not stop until they reclaim what they have ‘lost’.. But let us continue to remind them that these haunted woods and breathless lands belong to none other than the dead of Lordaeron, to the Forsaken. We will not fall under the will of the living; we will not crawl from our home in the wake of their armies! Let us show those of the living that the dead keep what is theirs.
For each one of their soldiers that fall we gain a new so let them come with their war machines and their armies. We will crush all who oppose us.
Glory to the Dark Lady and Glory to the Forsaken!