| abstract | - He sighs, sucking in air through the holes in his chest caused by the rotting process and blowing it out of his mouth again. A small explosion goes off in the distance and screams of the elderly fill the area around it.He takes his time moving towards it.An elderly couple of Tauren lay injured beside a smoldering cart.Without letting them say a word he pulls the trigger on his blunderbuss and a rain of pellets shower through their faces.It has become silent and he searches through the wreckage for anything useful.A bunch of potions, he doesn't know what they are but the former Apothecary members will know what to do with it so he bags them.He finds some medical supplies and ammunition as well. That's the first of the day, the sick cart should be a few miles from here soon.I know they have very useful ingredients so I'll have to take them out without explosives. Bang! Bang! The weary and young line up in resistance, knowing they are awaiting their last sleep. Friends, family and lovers die together, why would anyone shun this? This is what they want, to be together forever, and someone is nice enough to let them have that luxury he didn't. A wrecked caravan is all that is in front of the man, they had been shown no remorse, but for what? Some gold here and there, a headless doll to nail up to a tree, perfect loot for a day like this. A small town, not many citizens live there, maybe 50 at best. Two hooded men stand on it's outskirts, beyond a wooden fence glancing up a tall building made out of stone and wood. Using a flare gun one of them lights a rag which is sticking halfway out of a bottle. {C}He lobs it at the building and they immediately run away, around the town to the other side whilst under the cover of darkness. The bottle crashes into the wooden part of the building and fire spreads rapidly. It takes a few moments before anyone notices but as soon as someone does all alarms go off and the citizens are screaming. The door of the local gunsmith swings open, it's a young and strong Orc and he of course runs to the orphanage to help. The two hooded Forsaken rush into the gunsmith. To their surprise they find an old and sick orc, it must be the grandfather of the gunsmith. They don't allow him to scream. Montague Manners pulls out his flintlock and fires it in the face of the old man. The gun makes a noise but the screams of the local townsfolk drown it out. The two men carry as much as they can of guns, ammunition and gunpowder. On their way out they kick over a lantern. After running for a long time Montague asks: At least it's not as bad as the time we burned down the cart full of them. Their horseman was an important alchemist and his potions made a big difference to our supplies, as did the excess horses. Montague Manners and Josephus Darkwood reach Feralas, the journey was long but it will be worth it. This plan, like the ones they had before was made to be impossible to fail. They've lured a group into an open area in the woods using a hostage and a recording gem. There's time before the group can reach the spot so they set up a plethora of traps from instant death pits to merely capturing nets. Now it's just a waiting game. Up in the tree tops they ready their riffles and get in position to severely damage or destroy any party that would dare oppose them like this. Nothing can go wrong. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. The group arrives, it's far bigger than anticipated. He glances down at his ammo pouch; It should be enough. The moment the group comes in range two fall by gunfire and the group scatters behind remains of stone buildings and natural cover. Their riffles take long to reload but the group takes long to make the first move. When the first one does move he triggers the first trap and a beehive drops near him, a swarm angry bees fly for him. He runs and for a moment he was an easy target, but both were still reloading. Before too long the group is running around scattered. A Troll triggers another trap and a tree branch with sharp extending sticks covered in poison swings at him and sinks deep into his skin. He cries out loudly for help and three people come to his aid. Two Blood elves and an Orc. Their emotion makes them not notice the time it has been between shots and how open the field is the Troll is standing in. Both Elves die before they reach him. The Orc yells out and taunts the two snipers. They're easily agitated and yell back. Darkwood yells: You cockroaches want to play rough?! Manners yells: Okay, we're reloaded! They both fire but neither shots are lethal and the Orc continues to taunt. By the time they finally kill him the rest of the group is nearing the building. By the time the group reaches the old hideout, the remains of an old stone house. Over half the group has died either by gunfire or traps. Sadly at was at this point he saw Manners fall from the trees and land in front of the group. Darkwood cries out for his fallen brother in arms but it's futile. His own survival instincts kick in and instead of hanging around he immediately runs away. He won't risk his own unlife, not even for a fellow member. The lights flickered as the man struggled to get more words onto the piece of parchment, the quill standing still with the tip of it just waiting to move further to complete this piece, meant to be forwarded to someone dear for him. The hand slowly moved again, putting down every word with great thought and care. The quill withdrew, being dipped into the small glass container of ink followed with it returning to its rightful place, the letter in progress. The man's fist slammed into the table in a sign of desperation, the tip of the quill dragging itself unintentionally along the parchment, creating an ugly line of ink with no intention to be there, except to show the reader that the writer sure was in anger, or something else. The gloved bony fingers reached over to the light to put it out quickly, leaving the man in darkness. Always been the coward, only attacking easy targets. Only going into fights I knew I would win. Running away at the glimpse of danger. But those days are over. He glances at the Festerjaw undead army as they are being primed to reorganization. Even if I would run, with this burnt face that wench elf gave me they would recognize me anywhere. Hiding is fine, just not when it's all you will ever do. So running isn't an option, that only leaves one. Making it impossible to lose. He finds some blue paper and a crayon like material. It takes him hours but eventually he draws up intricate schematics. This is my plan, I need you two to help me build it, this is why we'll win. I will build the hull, you focus on various weapons. Using the armor of the Rotface undead army he forges a hull, it's spherical shaped and about two meters wide in all directions. Once they all finish they mount the weapons onto it. Then using a system of pulleys, ropes and the natural environment they manage to mount the hull onto a nearly ready Flesh golem which was created out of the Festerjaw undead army. The final night has reached them, he sits inside the clavicle with the hatch open looking upon the plains of Mulgore with Thunder Bluff in the distance whilst the golem marches on. This is it, I succeed and get to be unlive another day or I fail and I'll join my brother in arms. He closes the hatch. The titan is welcomed by a group of heroes who fight with bravery despite the odds stacked against their favor. Why don't half these weapons work?! Either the aim is too far off it they jam completely! Was one of them a traitor? For a while the fight is going his way, despite the failing weaponry as the Titan manages to climb onto the Spirit Rise of Thunder Bluff. Part of the group instead begin to focus their attack on the dome but it's heavy plated armor keeps it steady for a while. At least until the combined effort of heat and cold wreck the plating apart. Oh no.. no no no no no! He swears nearly constantly and tries to find any weapons still able to be fired. It doesn't matter, the titan itself is slain and crashes into a nearby tent. No! He bangs on the hull of the Clavicle. Help me, somebody! The titan rolls towards the edge. The Titan falls. Josephus Darkwood falls.
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