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Durotar’s sun was hot as always; the bright afternoon star baking the orange soil beneath it to a degree that to the naked eye it would play tricks in the distance, shaking and distorting the path ahead like running water. A foreign entity to the natural world distorted one such area, barely size enough to fit a man’s shadow. The stillness of the air was ruined by a few hundred echoes of shifting armor and weapons, wheels grinding through the rough dirt of the roads. War cries of all languages erupting in unison amongst the cacophonous din and carried through the winding paths of Drygulch, mimicking the sorted calls of the harpies that once infested it. The same ones Cobrak used to hunt for pittance in the days of his younger years, freshly divorced from the one man he truly called Father. Today, there was a different prey to be had. The dam had finally broken, and from Razor Hill, a tide of blue and red clad figures burst forth to crash onto the gates of his peoples’ home. Figures of the enemy forever sworn, and those who were misguided into naive notions of peace and harmony. One figure had her head replaced with a spray of blue and grey matter, the heavy armor she bore offered no protection from a high impact bullet. Not even a last prayer to the Light before she was sent to it, her hooves upturned into the air from the force of her death. The rifle’s cylinder clacked as it slid the next round into place. Green and red intermixed, flesh and blood splaying onto the ground as a figure collapsed to the ground, clutching the ruined remnant of his calf muscle. An orcish cry of pain of fury, unable to press on with the rest of his wayward brothers. Click, goes the rifle. A ram ceased its charge when its rider’s Dwarvish cries ceased, the grips loosened upon its reins and letting meander freely. A heavy thud behind the beast was ignored, a corpse now kicking up a small cloud of dust from its impact. Click. Thalassian curses were shouted, the feminine wail came with a freshly-bloodied hole through a scarlet silk boot. The tabard of Silvermoon dusted brown from the dirt she was forced to crawl in to tend this new injury. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Many times did that sound mix in with the chorus of two armies on the march. Many times a figure in blue lay in bloodied heaps, a body lost among hundreds for the undertakers to once the chaos ceased. Many times did a figure in red cry their pain to the sky, nursing a fresh wound that would leave them without the honor of battle. Many times did Cobrak wish these idiots had focused on the enemy at hand, the one they now willingly ran alongside. How many times must they be taught this lesson? How many times will they continue to trust these slaver, king-making dogs? They had signed this death pact already with Teldrassil, and already they were backing out of a deal they had made, scared of the ramifications that would come with a world free from the Alliance. No one had found him yet, perched high upon the rocks that dotted the canyon’s peaks, his very being shrouded in the runic magics laid into his armor. He was as one would perceive a mirage, a distortion of air that would one associate to the high noon sun rather than a rifleman in wait. His good eye filled the scope once more, a shot rang out a moment later, a Nightborne let loose a surprised cry of anguish. He would no longer fight with that wound in his thigh, but he would live. Live to learn from his mistake. Another shot, another human lying in the dirt, red pooling under his crawling belly. Destined to bleed out there, never again able to kill a Horde soldier when his Boy-King inevitably decided to wage war on them again, to loose his dogs on them. The Kul Tiran bitch and his mutt of a broken king, if only he could see them in this throng of soldiers; put a bullet in them to spare another disaster like what befell Zuldazaar. A new victim filled his vision, an orcish woman that knelt beside his last victim, a hand on her axe. He watched silently, to see if she would come to her senses and end him, as any proud soldier of the Horde would. The axe was lifted, a sense of hope came over him that she had realized her mistake. Instead of the biting claw of a feral beast that tore into the wound, the axe instead laid a spell upon it as though a tender kiss. Cobrak could barely see through the rage as the human stood up, nodded his thanks and pressed on. Why. Why didn’t you kill him?! Why are you helping each other?! Are they so blind to the truth he knows?! That each of them would gladly clap their children in irons as he had?! "The more you believe in your own reality, the further you step towards becoming the same monster you think you are fighting. I bet you believe that there are only Alliance slavers out there, or that the Horde is innocent of equivalent atrocity.” Naivety as its finest! These were steps that had to be made! To ensure that another family wouldn’t be lost to these self-righteous crusaders! There were bad ones in the Horde, of course, but that doesn’t compare to a fraction of the evils the Alliance has wrought! Of course, there were some- “I’m not your enemy.” "Because this whole thing is bullshit. Every last piece of it. If I had an army at my back, I'd take care of it on my own, gladly, without you." No, there was an angle for her. Something was there for her to take, something always is with women like that. Shouldn’t have trusted her, the whole operation was compromised because of it; or was it helped? The scope pulls away from the scene, its glass beginning to fog for some unknown reason. He reached a hand to his head, pulling back a slickened surface of sweat upon his brow. The sun must be getting to him, that was it. “Chieftain, I know you speak from pain and rage. Something you have more than earned in this lifetime, but using it to color your outlook on everything will only lead to further suffering.” A scowl fitted his face, eye trailing from the rifle to the encroaching army underneath, to follow it upward to the horizon just beyond; what little air support remained on the loyalist side was beginning to withdraw, and that would mean he would be exposed soon enough. Cobrak muttered a curse under his breath, the camouflage he bore fading away with each step in retreat, heading for Orgrimmar; or more likely, a more reasonable spot to ambush those who opposed his ideal of the Horde.