Muse by *JRinaldi on deviantART

If you have ever herded cats, you’ve run an RP event–and vice versa. One of our “corralling” methods was (It looks like Wrathgate has wrapped up all the posting, 13 pages later…) the Italics Post. These posts, written by Tarquin or our own Falconesse, provided guidance and context for the next round of Fic. In essence, Italic posts were our Muses, guiding, poking and making sure people posted.

So far, Wrathgate Wednesday has posted 22/129 posts. Given that rate, I think I’ll start posting more than one story per Wednesday. As always, you are more than welcome to post your own take on Wrathgate!

The sun was high in the sky when the horns split the air, crying courage and valor with a shivering of bronze. Spears and shields were raised, messengers spattered dirt as they galloped between regiments, banners snapped in the knife-cold breeze. The Highlord gave his last terse orders to his commanders, and they dispersed to the corners of the great gallant mass that advanced steadily on the towering black mouth that shuttered the edge of the sane world.

The Alliance was marching on Angrathar.

They were not alone; though no proper word had been given, it was common knowledge that the Horde rode out too, under the old Warsong banners, helmed by a daring and able young Warlord. And ranged in the hills about the Wrath Gate were the Irregulars – sellswords, criminals, would-be heroes, drawn by Varian Wrynn’s pardon, the glory of the great battle of their time, or simply the bitter knowledge that all the world was engaged in this war.

The icy mountains that loomed over Dragonlight were pocked with tunnels and passes, smaller tracks that opened onto the steppes and could disgorge the endless ranks of the Scourge’s great army like so many spurts of bile. It was here, for some miles on either side of Fordragon’s front, that the Irregulars made their lonely stands. A dozen, twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred, each group determined to hold their own ground for their own reasons. Spitting words of defiance against the Lich King, boasting of their prowesss, hiding any fear that might’ve soaked through their bones with the rest of the cold at the edge of the world…

On a hill half a mile from Angrathar, some fifty adventurers, chiefly humans and Kal’dorei but with a handful of others, arranged themselves from crown to slope. Two familiar banners stood at the top of the hill, in the center of a triangle of heavy ballistae generously donated by the Alliance in return for the coin of their blood and lives. They swapped jokes, exchanged furtive kisses, and watched the pass beneath them warily, sparing an occasional glance for the bronze-and-blue mass advancing on the saronite horror in the distance.

Under a hard pale sky, they waited for the dead to come.

Tags: , , , ,