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Report from Arathi Basin
Staggering through the flaps that comprise the entrance to the tent of base command, dragging his staff behind him, Quennin drew side long stares from the warleaders of Arathi Basin. Staring back at them through a mix of dried blood and sweat, he did not move, standing proudly in defiance of the night's horrifying memory. His chest heaved heavily, but puffed forward proudly, as no self-respecting Tauren would truly show that he was worse for the wear. This of course was only a facade, and one that the warleaders could see through cleanly. With dart and arrow shafts still protruding from his leather armor, fresh wounds barely stemmed from the flow of blood, and dirt heavy upon his hands and face, it was obvious that the strike had proved a failure.

"How goes it Quennin?" asked Deathmaster Dwire, her face mostly covered by a dark cowl. Her eyes slitted, glowing in undeath, revealed an intense sarcasm.

Quennin offered no response, but even a novice in the ways of politics would have realized that rage was stirring within him. The rest of the room comprised of three other warleaders, each shifting their position ever so slightly away from the path between Dwire and Quennin, ready for the explosive confrontation that was sure to come.

Only a week ago, it was Dwire that had been the only voice of resistance to the strike that Quennin was executing earlier this evening. She alone felt that this was not a matter for outsiders, even when offered the assistance of a group as strong and respected as The Ironsong Tribe.

Standing up from her seat, Dwire began to stroll toward Quennin. Without attempting to hide her chiding tone she spoke, "Was the Ironsong not up to the task dear?" The words stung the proud Taruen. Worse yet, her mouth and tongue decayed under her cowl and hanging awkwardly, the words were even more pointed, accentuated with a snakelike hiss sound.

Quennin stared on cooly, evenly. Not allowing this one to steal his dignity or spirit. "The Ironsong are many brave and heart filled souls, with a great deal to offer in this world and the next. You have not yet seen their strength."

Dwire began to speak again, but was cutoff by Quennin who put forth a hand and a look of impatience. "I have not yet finished witch."

The room fell to a new level of tension then, as the onlookers took yet another step back, waiting for Dwire to strike this Tauren down. But Dwire, dumbfounded by the statement, was caught completely flat-footed and had no immediate response. Before she could gather her thoughts, Quennin had reached into his great satchel with his other hand, and tossed two severed heads of undead to the ground. Their faces were contorted and grotesque, not from undeath, but from the ending of their undeath.

"Perhaps if you wish to have the force of the Ironsong Tribe at your side, you will learn to support our fight with troops worthy of the effort. These two and many others fell within mere seconds of the start of the battles, leaving our forces severely outnumbered." Quennin's eyes narrowed as he spoke, directly focused upon Dwire with a strength that rivaled the mightiest of warriors.

The accusations carried such weight, that they moved Dwire back a step. Gone was the swagger of this dark tongued mistress of the Forsaken. She looked weak, as her eyes moved from the severed heads to the other warleaders.

The others began to examine the severed heads. It was the Black Bride, battlemaster for Arathi Basin, that spoke, turning to Dwire with a confused and horrified look, “This young warrior.” She pointed to one of the severed heads. “He was in training not but a week ago. He was not ready for this fight.” Her face contorted to a simmering anger.

Dwire tried to put words together, but only stuttered in the face of it all. The words caught in her forever dry throat.

“There is no defense for your actions.” The Black Bride coldly continued. She was undead, but did not show a high level of decay, like the others. Turning her gaze to Quennin, the Bride’s face was able to convey a great deal of sympathy. “Please express our apology for this atrocity. I for one hope to continue to have the aid of the Ironsong.”

Quennin nodded, his mane unmoving, matted with is own blood. “I trust that you will handle this matter.” And with that, he turned and left the tent. Not smiling. Without any feelings of justice or triumph. Only mourning the unnecessary loss of life, and planning the next incursion.
[Image: 3183342eGUmH.png]
((Garhgal and I had a great time last night, even though we only proved victorious in 2 of 6 encounters. We were outmanned in a few, but mainly outdone by a better organized force of the Alliance.

I think this is a worthy event that with better attendance could be a very fun night for all. Even if you do not normally play battlegrounds, I think it is something you should tryout if you are willing! It is just like doing an instance in that you must work together, but with a common enemy that is a living soul who will do unexpected things and keep it fresh.

We will get together again next week. I think Tuesday at 8 is good, but since we had low attendance, perhaps another night. The time must remain the same for me to attend regularly. I would be most open for playing Monday or Tuesday, but might consider other days if we have enough interest.

For the Horde!))
[Image: 3183342eGUmH.png]
wasn't able to attend this week and won't be able to (most likely) next week due to finals and all around pooped outness, but starting the week after I should be able to attend regularly

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