The Wrathgate Cinematic come in at four minutes, thirty seconds. Our Wrathgate project took months to finish. This huge difference in time is due, in part, to imaging that there was more action just off camera. We also gave a lot of time between italic (guide) posts to make sure everyone got a chance to participate. A lot of the action is simultaneous. One Rider may be holding the line, while another is at the front, healing the wounded. Our goal was to give everyone access to this particular storyline.
For reference, we are fourty-five seconds into the cinematic.
Today, while the Alliance weathers the counter-attack, we have stories. Aleros, druid of the Cenarion circle puts on his healing hat at the Wrathgate. Corspilla, of Noxilite, makes a reappearance to burn the Lich King’s soldiers. Finally, Dravir is still in the thick of the fighting–but he gets help from a bunny loving orc named Snaga.
There was a time for claws. This may have been one of those times, but Aleros chose not to put himself into the heat of battle. Ever since Bolvar had taken up position at the base of the Wrathgate and ordered all able bodied members of the alliance who were not currently stationed elsewhere, he’d realized just how wrong this place felt. Even the condors kept their distance. Another reason he was glad the Rider Outpost was far enough away.
Go on, infect them. Protect your world, protect your child.
Skin changed to bark, arms to branches, feet to mobile roots. “Not today, today I bring much needed healing.” There were paladins and priests all about, but the light could only heal so much so fast. There wasn’t any soil here, only snow. He couldn’t draw his energies from the earth, he would expend himself and then have to rest. The injuries began coming in. Sometimes the paladins would get to the victims first, sometimes he would. They perfected healing off of each other’s work. Where one may have missed a poison, the other leeched it from the body.
Druid healing looked rather peculiar, taking the living leaves and transferring their life energy into the subject. They control the flow of life magics through the leaves into those with injuries. To an outsider, it might look rather silly. A druid throwing leaves onto their subject. One might recognize the presence of a healing druid by dead leaves in spots on the ground. The leaves however do not last more than an hour, and quickly turn into dust as all life energy is drained from them.
The injuries kept coming in, some dire, some scratches that could possibly be infected with plague.
Put some in them, let me root and spread…
“No, you get to stay in me and not spread.” He muttered a bit too loud and the soldier he was treating looked back at him. “Ah nothing, I should have this wound closed in no time.” He concentrated on the gash in the soldier’s back.
“No Fair! No fair! No fair!” Pill turned to the priestess, still flinging shadows. “Did you see that? Purple elfy took my kill!” She screamed back down at the battlefield. “That was my bad guy! MINE!” She danced angrily from one foot to the other.
Thoughts of Davien and protection all were forgotten as the mage rolled up her fancy had and stuck in her robes. She pulled an hideous looking cowl over her head, muttering under her breath about elfs and stealing.
“RIGHT! That tears it. Things are going to burn!” She’d been playing all the time. They didn’t really need her help. She was here for Davien. How dare that elf get in her way of her kill! Bony fingers twitched anxiously.
She burned, so did the anything that belonged to Him that she could see
[no image of Dravir yet.]
The last of the shambling undead fell, cut down by the strange rescuers in green and black. Their banner was raised high, an onyx dragon rampant on a field of crimson. Odurd remained in his trance, oblivous to his comrade scattered wounded on the ground. Dravir accepted a hand up, staring into a cheerful face with a huge shining grin framed with a shock of bright red hair. “Weel now lad, ye look none worse fer wear. Ye did good, standin’ ere we got ta fightin. Makes ye a member o’ the clan, spillin blood an’ guts wit me bonny lads an’ lasses! Good on ye, lad!”
Grunts and curses echoed behind him, as the minor wounds were tended to, screams as the major ones were seared shut or sent, along with their owners, to the rear lines. Sugnar and Tavris pulled themselves out from under a pile of corpses, already arguing over kill tallies. The trolls and Snaga were nowhere to be seen… in fact, he could not recall seeing the tower of an orc before the start of the battle either. Belatedly, he realized the strange redhead was still speaking. “… an’ me names O’Rylee, if ye ken. These’n m’boys an’ girlies,last of tha house o’ Jenkins, aye?”
The abominations roar broke the brief reprieve, a horde of lesser undead and cultists between them and it. The strange man, O’Rylee, pounded Dravir on the pauldon, laughing at the sight of it. “Oi! Now thar be a great beastie ta slay! This day be fine fer a good amount o dyin’ and killin, nay? Come on, ye folk o’tha north! Let’s get ta it!”
The poor paladin was only able to stand and watch, as the fifty or so soldier charged in the direction of the beast, leaving the static line far behind. Their battlecry shook the nearby hills, as they hit the first line of cultists like a thunderclap. “FER HOUSE JENKINS!”
Belatedly, he remembered that there had been a plan. Charging madly into the enemy lines had not been it.
Oh well. Maybe they’ll kill a good fifty or something. That just leaves a few hundred for me.
With a sigh, he hefted his axe out of the dirt, and made ready to do some more killing.
Hoping beyond hope, he spared a glance back to the boss, who still sat amidst his runes and trinkets, the whorls of power still arcing through the air.
Not ready yet.
Snaga loved bunnies. They had nice beady black eyes, and hoppy feet, and twitchy noses and floppy ears. They weren’t afraid to come and let him pet them, or give them hugs. He didn’t understand why they liked carrots, since he didn’t, but they did, and Keva always had carrots that he could borrow. Bunnies were his best friends.
Something loud kept happening though, and he could only stare in shock and dismay as the bunnies fled back to their homes. He did not like things that scared the bunnies. Something great and massive was coming, glaring at him with horrible red eyes. He spread his feet and roared, and-
Awoke. The sounds of battle erupted as the second wave came on. Somewhere, a battery of ballistae cracked and thrummed. The air reeked foul of magic to his senses, great stirrings of power as the scattered magi prepared to make their presence known.
“Oops. Snaga not ‘sposed sleep in.”
He took up his axe with care, a scarred hand running lovingly over the massive blade, and strode to the tent right beside his. Odurd’s tent, where, as Odurd had told him many, many times the night before, lay the glistening vial of shimmering crystal. The vermillion liquid inside sparkled to his eyes, awakening a soul deep hunger that he had known ever since he was born. With exaggerated care, he lifted it to his lips, sipping the contents daintily. It burned it’s way down like a live flame, tasting of copper and ash and sulfur, spreading through his limbs, making his muscles twitch and quiver in anticipation. Slowly, it reached for his head, to paint the world a glorious red for him.
Before the fire took over, he looked out of the front of the tent, and saw the enemy for the first time. The funny little human friend was fighting. He wasn’t very good, by orcish standards. But Snaga liked him almost as much as his bunny friends. Maybe Snaga should give him a bunny.
Then the world was set aflame, and the orc marched forth to crush all that stood in his way.