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Challenge of the Week CXXXI
The Last Time. Perhaps it was the final time you ever did something. Or perhaps it was just the most recent time you did it. Perhaps still, it will be the last time. Either way, it is the last time... Fiction or non-fiction, poetry or Prose.
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Stormrage

Vengeance’s Folly

“Today is the day

we take the fight

to the Horde.

Today is the day

we topple their towers

and fell their fortress.

Today is the day

we shatter their pride

and ravage their happiness.

Today is the day

we thrust our spears

through their hearts and hope.

Brothers and sisters

of the Alliance,

today is the day ‒

It must be the day

we claim vengeance

for Theramore!”

Thus was my speech

to fifty-nine

other souls.

For the first time,

we all gathered on

World of Warcraft.

A dozen yards away

from the open gate

of Orgrimmar.

Wooden spires atop

the wall, adorned

with the heads of our kin.

Perched upon steeds

with blue and gold

armor plating, we charged

headlong, with swords,

maces, daggers,

staves, and wands.

Fireballs and lightning bolts

hurled over us

by our back line.

Arrows and cannons

responded in kind,

dismounting some.

We trampled over

the dead and dying,

charred and smoldering.

Some corpses

still twitched

from the electricity.

We stampeded through

the capital city, as

bakers and blacksmiths,

artisans and auctioneers,

and citizens of the like,

stepped aside.

We razed homes and

cut down stray soldiers

en route to the throne.

Yet once we arrived

to the seat of the warchief,

it was unguarded.

Confusion spread through

our ranks, until a horn blew,

and the Earth trembled.

Drums of war and

shrieks of berserkers

drew closer.

Orcs carried by wolves

and trolls saddled on raptors

flanked us.

Imps and succubi,

summoned by warlocks,

lead their advance.

Caught between the Horde

and the throne room,

we entered the building.

As the adversary funneled

through the single opening,

we realized our mistake.

The Warchief ‒

A hulking orc ‒

rose from his seat.

With axe in hand,

he launched himself

into the fray.

Our shamans died

first. He thrashed around,

decimating our backline.

And then our front broke,

and they flooded in

to join their leader

in the merry bloodshed.

Limbs and organs

scattered about.

And so, vengeance

was not claimed:

we lost. That was

the last time

we’d raid Orgrimmar

on such rash impulse.

With only sixty people.