Xavius/Greatly Blood-Soaked

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This is a silly article

This article is silly. Coming from a source other than the computer games, trading card game, novels, RPG, or manga, its content is not part of official Warcraft lore, but nevertheless has become part of the culture belonging to the World of Warcraft community.

Inspired by the Eye of Argon, here's my attempt on making a short sequence as long as possible.

The emerald green-skin hued brutally marauding but extremely proud of himself savage, barbaric brutal warrior of the Horde lifted his Mulgorian white kodo heavy leather-tightly bound viciously serrated, double-heavily goblin-forged and durably bladed Blackrock Spire-mined dark iron great orcish battleaxe high above his crude oval of a head, black braids held together by proud and hard grand Frostwolf clan dire wolf shoulderbone clasps and deep dark red and bloodbristling smallish circles that made up his maddened gazing organs of visual sight darkly glaring and ominously shining very unrelentingly before the brutal savage onslaught to come just a stiny moment later, and greatly powerfully swung it in a semi-low surely sky-arc of death and destruction down at his of this brutal assault at least mostly unsuspecting valiant but foolish fighting warrior enemy of the orcish race as whole, all while very loudly screaming from the core of his lungs yet barbarically and crudely somewhat singing in his own native language of Orcish in the original Blackrock dialect a dusky and grim yet very heroic valiant battle-chant unbrokenly passed down through his great homeclan, the brave Blackrock clan of ancient Draenor so shining and bright, now ravaged by the foolishness of the same orcs who thought they were doing all for good by pledging allegiance to vile eredar demons posing as ancestral spirits, for innumerable thousands and still countless thousands of stout generations of pure orcish barbarian fighters at the very least as extremely proud as he was now for the moment for his coming and unchangeable victory. As the darkened-iron gray, slightly bloodred-tinted great heavily weighted battleaxe’s powerful and severing warblade struck great destructively, the half-shining recently polished gold-lined by the edges iron three fourths-helmeted slightly elongated for a human at least head of the oh so poor very foolish but still brave at least in his own twisted mind human footman of Alliance private’s military rank from the grand maritime port city of Boralus by the very edge of the Great Sea that encompassed the world of Azeroth on the to the very rest of Azeroth much isolated but at least still Alliance of Lordaeron-aligned islandic warrior nation of great Kul Tiras who had without any second thoughts whatsoever left his poor family consisting of his golden-haired and fair-skinned wife and their two brave sons behind him and hastily followed his in his organs of visual sight undefeatable and uncorruptable lord masterthe Grand Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore the First of Kul Tiras, the overzealous and when the orcs are concerned, as they were at this moment, vicious overlord of the Alliance-dominated deep-blue seas and First Grand Lord Admiral of the massive great and unrelenting Alliance of Lordaeron Grand Naval Fleet, the great fear of unstoppable and brutal true death in it’s mostly round, sea-blue with a tinge of oceanic teal whole-watery glaring organs of visual sight, with the semi-rough bushy black-brown arced eyebrows raised in obvious shock of the attack and grim surprise of his imagined non-immortality, exceptionally violently and savagely flew away in an arc from the much-bloody and fleshy serrated sloping stump of the olive-skinned and armor-equipped human neck that it had always previously, only a tiny second ago, a brief moment ago, had been all so very steadily naturally attatched to, soaring away fast with haste and great speed through the semi-foggy dense heavy air of the desolate rock-lined brown-red Barrens of northern Kalimdor, to finally after the kind of short airflight land heavily with a low, dull thud sound of death on the brownish-red stony ground lined with pebbles and sand, khaki-crimson ground dust full of native minerals intermixed with the dark red vital life fluids, the much-spilled so needed blood of the so very recently and extremely horribly brutally deceased Alliance human marine soldier private from the grand capital city of shining Boralus on ocean-surrounded great nation of Kul Tiras whirling and blasting in blinding speeds upwards in the blood-tinged air and to the sides in an unnaturally and exceptionally violent sandcloud, mostly half-shadowing the soaring blood-soaked severed head of the poor Alliance footman hailing from Kul Tiras as it steadily yet irregularly bounced away a short, at least compared to the entire great battlefield, bit along the very dense ruby reddish-grey rocks to finally at last end up in a lengthy broad half-deep Alliance human-dug defensive purpose combat trench on the heavily blood-sprinkled grim and brutally unrelenting dark and blood-damp battlefield, along with a countless and more countless grand number of other grimly severed and greatly massacred both human and orcish body parts from the innumerable and more innumerable warfallen battle-dead demised brave warriors and soldier, shaman and magi, utterly and to the most doomed as they bravely but fuilely fought an utterly pointless and very much blood-drenched extremely ferocious grand battle on but a small part of the great expanse that is the great and grand western continent of Kalimdor, a pearl of the world that made up roughly a third or three eights of the human homeworld of Azeroth, created long ago by the eldritch godlike titans of old and fought for in a much more lengthy war with the insidious and vastly powerful Old Gods that were now imprisoned deep beneath the world’s earthly crust. The for the verymost moment greatly proudly utterly victorious Horde-loyal Blackrock clan savage orcish barbarian warrior took a real steady hold of his human-bloodied great battleweapon with his strong iron-gauntleted muscular hands and much strongly raised it as high as he could into the foggy sky with his great extreme muscular strength and power, and let out very deep from his unbelievably muscular deep emerald-skin hued body a great manspine-chilling deeply bellowing mix of grim final victorious sadistic laughter and great ferocious deadly warcry of both ice as cold as frozen Northrend and fire as hot as the magma of the burning Molten Core beneath Blackrock Spire itself. He had utterly defeated his in his bloodred grim organs of visual sight much weak enemy soldier fighter and quite easily been victorious to the end im this bloodfilled lethal war-duel of extreme brute savage muscular forcepower, but he knew deep deep down in the vast recesses of his savage but at the same time somewhat intelligent barbaric warlike mind containing mostly the essentials of warfare and unrelenting combat that he had to remain vigilant of his blood-tinged surroundings and stay greatly alert and pay much much-needed heed to any least sound carried through the ait and any little movement of any little entity in the order to not bloodily and grimly perish on the great red battlefield of the western theatre himself, as just another mangled bloodoaked greatly anonymous dead body among the many tens and tens of thousands brutally slaughtered dead that fateful summer day in the grand desolate red-brown Barrens of northern Kalimdor, the western pearl of Azeroth.

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