Member
Chronic
IzurichGilneas, Northern Headlands
It'd been ages since Genn heard the sound of tens of thousands of Gilnean soldiers on the march. Years, as far as he could recall -- even when Gilneas had abruptly rejoined the Alliance, its army had practically rushed out from the wall -- but now, with wounds healed and a new weapon in their arsenal, he felt they were truly ready for the war ahead.
Marching astride his army atop his ash-white steed, white fur bleeding into grey and black toward its extremities, he allowed himself a moment to survey the soldiers moving apace before him, past his steed's dark mane.
Toward the fore of the formation stood its most hardened, elite close combat troops, several handfuls' worth of worgen clad in light brigandine and flexible mail, clad in the navy-blue tabards of Gilneas replete with yellow-gold trim. Each one was a towering hulk in their own right, fur ranging from snow white akin to their gin to night-black coats, and everything in between. Unlike many of the other Gilnean soldiers, they carried no weapons -- only their wicked, dagger-like claws and crushing jaws were necessary. At their head stood none other than the towering form of Ivar bloodfang, each shoulder marked with the sword-and-shield icon of a Knight-Champion of the Alliance, so massive that he stood taller than every last person in his already physically outsized unit of shock troops. Every step the man took seemed to radiate cold, barely-contained fury, his rigid movements orchestrated as though his muscles were constantly at tension.
Next came the first units of standard close combat troops -- more worgen, like those who came ahead of them, though generally not nearly as large as the soldiers that followed the Knight-Champion. They all wore the royal livery of Gilneas, replete with sallet-style helms and extended visors, necks protected by reinforced, brassy-gold scale, the very same that covered their legs and arms in brigandine, those few pieces of solid steel visible on their helms, gauntlets, and shoulder a stark, bluish silver.
Perhaps the most archetypal feature of the Gilnean uniform, however, were the reinforced pieces of silvery steel over the nose, around the eyes, and all the way up to the rear of the helmet -- replete with sharp angles and a large spike toward the helmet's top, the design was made to both convey aggression and imitate the three-pronged Gilnean flaw, a band more of steel reach backward along the helmets toward the protruding spike.
"Your Majesty Greymane?"
The voice of his Grand Marshal -- Darius Crowley -- broke him from his reverie, and Genn shifted to face his once friend-turned enemy-turned friend, spending a quiet moment or two regarding the man's concerned expression, framed by his auburn hair and extended goatee.
"You aren't worried about the army, are you? They-"
Genn scoffed, cutting Darius off with an abrupt wave of his hand.
"Not in the least. Not the army." He said, gritting his teeth. "We have what damn well might be the strongest army of the living on Azeroth! Our artillery nearly rivals Khaz Modan in volume, we've enough hand-guns to equip ourselves for years ahead, we have the Worgen -- [i]ourselves[/i.] I'm not worried about the damned army, Crowley."
When he noticed that Darius, the very same man who was trying to depose him a handful of years ago, was still looking at him with that same expression of concern, he sighed in defeat. Whether for his King or for his people, Genn didn't know for certain -- but he had a few guesses.
"You were right. That's it. About the Alliance, about needing to intervene against the Scourge -- can you imagine what would have happened if we brought this to bear when it was asked for? When that disgusting traitor of a Prince left for Northrend, or when he murdered his father? If we'd never left the Alliance in the first place?"
"If you hadn't left the Alliance and dragged us with you, Your Majesty." Genn corrected him, his expression briefly shifting to one of sour hostility before flattening out again.
"But it is, as empty as this may sound, in the past. You're aware of your mistakes, no? That you won't make them again? Your people need you to lead them now, to make up for those mistakes. You know I won't forgive you for what you did. Plenty of people won't -- but all you can do now is do better. You have to."
The concern Darius'd shown was gone now, Genn noted. His features were mostly flat, expressionless -- except for a deep furrowing of his brow. Judging. Silent.
Genn found that reassuring, somehow, managing a sharp nod as he held out a hand, leaning toward Crowley as he pointed toward the looming silhouette of the Greymane Wall.
"We're nearing the gates," he said, clearing his throat.
"Make our presence known!" He shouted -- mere moments later, the sound of drums and brass joined the din of marching feet.
"Louder, louder -- and signal to have those damned gates opened!"
For Gilneas, he thought.
"For Gilneas! For the Alliance!"
It'd been ages since Genn heard the sound of tens of thousands of Gilnean soldiers on the march. Years, as far as he could recall -- even when Gilneas had abruptly rejoined the Alliance, its army had practically rushed out from the wall -- but now, with wounds healed and a new weapon in their arsenal, he felt they were truly ready for the war ahead.
Marching astride his army atop his ash-white steed, white fur bleeding into grey and black toward its extremities, he allowed himself a moment to survey the soldiers moving apace before him, past his steed's dark mane.
Toward the fore of the formation stood its most hardened, elite close combat troops, several handfuls' worth of worgen clad in light brigandine and flexible mail, clad in the navy-blue tabards of Gilneas replete with yellow-gold trim. Each one was a towering hulk in their own right, fur ranging from snow white akin to their gin to night-black coats, and everything in between. Unlike many of the other Gilnean soldiers, they carried no weapons -- only their wicked, dagger-like claws and crushing jaws were necessary. At their head stood none other than the towering form of Ivar bloodfang, each shoulder marked with the sword-and-shield icon of a Knight-Champion of the Alliance, so massive that he stood taller than every last person in his already physically outsized unit of shock troops. Every step the man took seemed to radiate cold, barely-contained fury, his rigid movements orchestrated as though his muscles were constantly at tension.
Next came the first units of standard close combat troops -- more worgen, like those who came ahead of them, though generally not nearly as large as the soldiers that followed the Knight-Champion. They all wore the royal livery of Gilneas, replete with sallet-style helms and extended visors, necks protected by reinforced, brassy-gold scale, the very same that covered their legs and arms in brigandine, those few pieces of solid steel visible on their helms, gauntlets, and shoulder a stark, bluish silver.
Perhaps the most archetypal feature of the Gilnean uniform, however, were the reinforced pieces of silvery steel over the nose, around the eyes, and all the way up to the rear of the helmet -- replete with sharp angles and a large spike toward the helmet's top, the design was made to both convey aggression and imitate the three-pronged Gilnean flaw, a band more of steel reach backward along the helmets toward the protruding spike.
"Your Majesty Greymane?"
The voice of his Grand Marshal -- Darius Crowley -- broke him from his reverie, and Genn shifted to face his once friend-turned enemy-turned friend, spending a quiet moment or two regarding the man's concerned expression, framed by his auburn hair and extended goatee.
"You aren't worried about the army, are you? They-"
Genn scoffed, cutting Darius off with an abrupt wave of his hand.
"Not in the least. Not the army." He said, gritting his teeth. "We have what damn well might be the strongest army of the living on Azeroth! Our artillery nearly rivals Khaz Modan in volume, we've enough hand-guns to equip ourselves for years ahead, we have the Worgen -- [i]ourselves[/i.] I'm not worried about the damned army, Crowley."
When he noticed that Darius, the very same man who was trying to depose him a handful of years ago, was still looking at him with that same expression of concern, he sighed in defeat. Whether for his King or for his people, Genn didn't know for certain -- but he had a few guesses.
"You were right. That's it. About the Alliance, about needing to intervene against the Scourge -- can you imagine what would have happened if we brought this to bear when it was asked for? When that disgusting traitor of a Prince left for Northrend, or when he murdered his father? If we'd never left the Alliance in the first place?"
"If you hadn't left the Alliance and dragged us with you, Your Majesty." Genn corrected him, his expression briefly shifting to one of sour hostility before flattening out again.
"But it is, as empty as this may sound, in the past. You're aware of your mistakes, no? That you won't make them again? Your people need you to lead them now, to make up for those mistakes. You know I won't forgive you for what you did. Plenty of people won't -- but all you can do now is do better. You have to."
The concern Darius'd shown was gone now, Genn noted. His features were mostly flat, expressionless -- except for a deep furrowing of his brow. Judging. Silent.
Genn found that reassuring, somehow, managing a sharp nod as he held out a hand, leaning toward Crowley as he pointed toward the looming silhouette of the Greymane Wall.
"We're nearing the gates," he said, clearing his throat.
"Make our presence known!" He shouted -- mere moments later, the sound of drums and brass joined the din of marching feet.
"Louder, louder -- and signal to have those damned gates opened!"
For Gilneas, he thought.
"For Gilneas! For the Alliance!"
