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A call from the Sergeant

"Alright, gather 'round, boys. Now I know most of you are aware what happened last week, but I also know none of you are aware of what we're going to do about it. Well... me neither. But, that's never stopped us before and it sure as shit ain't gonna do it now. So, the good Ghor'kosh wrote up a little summary for you few too thick to recall, or too slow on the uptake to figure it out. So, without further delay, here it goes."


The sergeant clears his throat, takes off his helmet to see better, and holds a small bit of torn parchment up in front of his face, squinting at it.


"'Kin of Ironworg! (Oh here we go again.) We have both acquired a new threat to our existence, and a new weapon with which to combat it! Despite losing a few good men in an ambush, we dealt an entire patrol of invading Alliance curs a devastating and decisive blow, as well as stole one of their precious steam tanks!




(New weapon? The tank? I thought we just bought it, that's way cooler.) Even as this is read, our best artists are hard at work stripping the horrid blues and whites off the metal frame to be replaced with our own heraldry! (What's a heraldry?) (Our clan symbol, numbnuts.) (Ohhh... why not just say that?) From this day forward, the Jaw of Iron (Niiiiice.) will be the pride of our war party, and a rolling iron banner of our supremacy here in Ashenvale! Prepare yourselves, for in one day's time we shall set forth to investigate the claims that the forest itself rises against us (Oh come on, again?!), and must be put back in its place.



A Keeper of the Grove, one of the sons of Cenarius, the demigod that the venerable Grom Hellscream gave his life putting down, has come to force us from our home. (No way! Maybe it met him... or he killed it too...) Perhaps some lingering void taint in its mind, or simply the fickle mood of nature itself, the reason is moot. We will not move, we shall not be uprooted again! Steel yourselves, kin, for we prove once again why we rule this forest!'"

The sergeant sighs and waves his hand dismissively. He folds the note up and puts it in the neck of his armor, and slips his helmet back on. "'With blood and honor we fight, blood and thunder sons and daughters of Ironworg yadda yadda yadda,' how he always ends this stuff. So, you heard him, get your shit polished and ready to kill because that's what we're doing. Rul'do, make sure we have clean water in the tank for the fighting (You got it.) and Zem you know what you're doing with that sheet metal, yeah? (Yessir, nearly all of it's on the sides and up top.) Alright, good man. Alright, dismissed people, get crackin' and look busy for the higher ups!"



Above: Sergeant Mal'okko reading the news.

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