(66) - Can You Stand?

Griffonclaw looked down into the lands around Wintergrasp Fortress from the rock outcrop. The Commander had left him with a detachment of Alliance Vanguard rifle recruits to cover his retreat, while he had taken a task force of Argent Exodus regulars down into the surrounding lands to pay their respects to the Horde siege engine workshops.

With RPGGs

"When you see us, don't be surprised if it looks like a mob is chasing us..." Craft had said with a grin. "We'll have unloaded on the workshops, so be a good lad and give us some cover on our way back to the walls?"

"Yessir, Commander", Griffonclaw had replied, saluting. Craft Ramsey was one of the few Alliance commanders Griffonclaw saluted without hesitation. Craft winced as he turned to take his men to the assault.

Griffonclaw turned to his half-dozen men, clad in leather armor and iron caps; they were fresh from the Borean Tundra training fields, untested in battle. "Alright lads, gather 'round for a moment..." he said. "In a minute or two, I want you to find a good rock to hide behind until we see Commander Craft and his troop returning, but before then, I want to say something about what we're about to do here."

He looked each recruit in the eye for a moment, making sure he had their attention. "When they come into sight, I will be running forward; the slowest of them will be slow because they've taken wounds, and I'll do my best to help with that. You troops will be here, giving them what help you can by blowing the Hordies to hell."

He paused for a second as their cheers died down. "Light damn... they're so young... was I ever that young?" he thought for a moment before continuing.

"Let me tell you about Wintergrasp - you don't see a battle. You *hear* it. Black powder blasting by the ton on all sides. Black smoke blinding you and choking you and making you vomit. Then the Horde come out of the smoke, and they charge towards our thin line, yammering like hell and maybe a standard floating overhead. They run fast, but it takes them a long time to reach you, and you can't see them in smoke. But you can hear the yelling, the battle-calls, and the screams of the dying on both sides. They'll run out of the smoke of their own machines and gunfire and grenades, and you fire a volley. Some of their front rank will fall, and the next rank steps over them, screaming, and then their line will smash our line like Magni's own hammer breaking glass... and Thrall's boys will have won another battle.

But if you don't run - if you stand until you can smell their sweat and fear, and the rot of the Forsaken, and fire volley after volley, three rounds a minute - then they slow down. They stop. And then they run away, and the Commander and his troop will make it back. All you've got to do is stand, and fire three rounds a minute. Now, you and I know you can fire three rounds a minute..."

He paused into the silence.

"... But can you stand?"

Griffonclaw put on a fake smile, sick to his stomach, as his little squad quietly cheered, or grimly nodded. He'd given that speech before, and he knew it was a good one. None of them would want to disappoint the paladin, every one of them had a carefully-nourished hatred of the Horde, and all of them wanted to guard the backs of the Commander who distributed the finest ale in the camp.

* * *

"They did well, Griff..." commented the Commander later. The Wintergrasp Fortess had been defended, not the least of which because the Argent Exodus has paid the blood-price in the destruction of the Horde workshops; when they'd come into view, Griffonclaw had ran out to heal the hindmost as the Horde pursued them with bloody intent.

Griffonclaw's fire team had sent ragged volley after volley into the attackers, and had waited for Griffonclaw faithfully... until a Sin'dorei warlock had brought down a rain of Felfire that had ignited the riflemans' powder. The shockwave itself had almost killed the paladin, knocking him flat. Commander Craft had turned to wait for the last of his men, and had run forward to retrieve Griffonclaw from where he lay.

There had not been enough of the Griffonclaw's men to bury.

Objectively, Griffonclaw knew that the least of the Argent Exodus had much more tactical value than a half-dozen recruits. He knew that his men had died bravely, and that without them more of the Argent Exodus would have been lost. He knew that they had performed their duty, and he was proud that they had stood.

It helped.

A little.