Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?

Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.

Chapter 1: The beginning. (Prologue)

Hirpus stood to the side of the great oak table that divided the tent nearly in half, writing down with his stylus a personal recounting of the previous week.

"And within the ides, they had surrendered. I had an arrow lodged in my left shoulder, it was all I earned in that damned war. Zorzal thus 'ended' the rabbit war, but not without my men, who sacrificed themselves dutifully, though vainfully. And of the captives, killed women by women, boy by boy, the rabbit barrens burned, and nothing for my men to bring home, no great spoils, Zorzal having claimed the victory, took all the spoils." The master recounted to his son.

"Ten-thousand curses on him..." His son replied.

"Go, watch from the walls my hour of triumph." His master replied, dismissing his son from his tent. The teenager broke off a piece of the bread he was eating and offered it to the patera before standing. He turned and put his hand to Hirpus's right ear, scratching him as one does a dog, before leaving.

"Hirpus, my armour."

Hirpus, his ears slanting in that distinctively Volralden way of his, slotted the stylus to the side and closed the diptych on which he had been writing and approached his master, who was donned only in his calligae and his padded woolen thorocomachus. Beneath this he wore his tunica, but it could not be seen.

It had been two weeks since Hirpus, his master and his master's army had arrived through the gate. A week ago, a centuria of men under his standard had been ambushed, and thus his master was inclined, through insult of his pride as viri, and insult to that of his whole army… if he did not strike down those who attacked the centuria, and avenge fallen pride and men by the enslavement of the enemy and the devastation of their army. Hirpus didn't know how to feel about this eventuality.

Grabbing the bronze musculata by his paws, Hirpus adjusted the halves to fit over his master's frame before buckling the two halves tight. To this, Hirpus placed the balteus about his master's hip, there was no need for the cingulum militare, as his master's thorocomachus had two levels of thick, embroidered, felted tassels on the bottom and shoulders, with the tassels being a pattern of one red-dyed paired next to a woad-dyed tassel and so on and so forth.

As Hirpus went to gather his master's cloak and fibulae, His master opened the wax diptych and began to read what was written, a faint smile forming on his face. As quickly as it came, it was gone, back to the face of stern stoicism as usual.

Hirpus returned soon after and settled the cloak down over his master's head and pierced the woolen fabric through with the fibulae before locking it.

His master rose at that moment. He walked twelve paces, and arriving at the end of his stitched rawhide tent, created a canopy from the tent flaps.

"Hirpus, follow me. Gather your stylus and wax. You are to write for me in the coming months, should you prove yourself worthy."

Hirpus beamed with happiness and pride.

The air was cold, the horizon was dark. Campfires blazed from the fortified castrum that had been erected from the night previous, built by the legions from cut planks, her walls filled by loose sand which made the dry-moat which surrounded the castrum, seventeen-feet wide by five-feet deep. And so the castrum occupied many Iugera in space, with bucellatum stored to last two months in the supply tents, perhaps three if rationed out, and enough vinegar to last for perhaps a month when turned into posca.

Doctors were stationed, their tools prepped. Immunes waited in their tents or otherwise watched on, exempt as they were from the battle to come… with the exception of the siege engineers, who by choice of service were expected to be endangered by the arrows, slingstones and crossbow bolts of all the enemy, that they may operate the ballistae and scorpions in the field that they might aid the empire in all her victories.

At the campfires, near the burning embers lay balls of clay, as hot as the fire that heated it.

From the walls lay a host of manuballista, near twenty pointed forth towards the horizon in a northerly direction, angled high, such that their bolts might fall down like thunder from above. Outside of the castrum, nearly two stadions to the left and placed on a high hill lay the remaining number of manuballista and scorpions, pointed also to the opposing bramble-bush fortress. To guard these engines, the five-thousand strong Legio XIII Fidelis Victrix (Of Bellhnago) was placed there. Upon the commencement of the battle, they were to be the first spear, the vanguard, and thus the first to assault the walls.

'Bruuuuuuuuum, Bruuuuuuuuuuummmm bruuuuum'

"Slingers... loose!" Was the order that was shouted through the castrum, as the orders were interpreted from the sound of the Buccina, and thus relayed to those who interpreted the signal into an oral format.

Decimus waited and watched as the auxiliary slingers, a motley collection of human men of the Romalia mountains and orcs from the southernmost region of the range of snow and ice, men selected from locations where a shepherding tradition remained strong, and thus the shepherds there were well accustomed therein to the use of the sling. They selected their longest slings and waited for a slave or assistant to fetch one of the red-hot slingstones from the fires. And when the stone was seated in the water-soaked leather pouches from the iron tongs, the stones were slung in quick procession.

Cracks descended through the castrum, as the sound of the slingers as they slipped the release cord from their grips was much like that of the whip. High the red-hot stones went, streaking in the night air before they began to descend downward in an arc.

Sometimes, if you listened closely enough, you could hear the sound of a rock as it struck against timber, sounding faintly like thunder, though with the distance between the legionary fort and the opposing bramble-bush fortress it was hard to hear.

The bramble-fortress on the other side appeared as though it were blessed by the goddess of fertility. The bramble-bushes were thick and wide… and it would take some time for them to burn down.

"Manuballista, loose!" Came the shrill sound of one of the chief centurions.

Decimus saw the commotion, as a sortie of pigmen made to attack the castrum… in vain. How could fifty pigmen, or perhaps a little more, unaccustomed by armour and bare of clothing, armed with flails and javelins… hope to have any impact? How, when of 12,000 men, 7,000 were safely ensconced by wooden walls?

How rapidly they were repulsed by arrows loosed and glandes slung, how woeful it was brought to them, so quickly that their ugly hides were embeded with the shafts of arrows or had the sharpened ends of glandes sticking into the flesh, leaving a fair number of their companions fallen in the dirt, dead or dying within a span of a moment, their calling out in some pig language that was their own.

Decimus mused to himself, though it was little more than a whisper. "And so, the pig-faced porcupines have donned themselves with arrow-quills."

It was imbecilic, even barbarians and orcs had a better grasp of stratagem, than to run forth as a few against thousands… unless you were gifted by the gods themselves. And without shields to bar the progress of bolts, arrows and glandes, let alone armour, they died quickly.

Soon, warps of column-like smoke rose from the horizon, as streaking red-hot clay slingstones and manuballista bolts formed the weft, slowly rising, slowly descending in arcs. It seems that houses, likely with thatched roofs… were the cause of this smoke.

And, Decimus hoped, should the wind find his favour… the thatched roofs might burn with such an intensity as to engulf the place with tumultuous flame.

Watching the scene before their eyes, you could feel the eagerness for combat with the quaking of mens calligae as they tapped their feet anxiously. And when the commotion became far-too-much to be contained, individual men resorted to singing… until almost all began to sing.

"We are the mules of Italica,

We trample your fields and fuck your wives,

We are the mules of Italica,

We piss on your graves, (Weep whores weep)

We are the mules of Italica,

We are the Virtus of the viri,

Weep wives weep!

We are the mules of Italica."

Hirpus's ears slanted slightly downwards in vexation. Decimus saw this and patted him on the head as one would pet a dog. He stopped after a moment.

"Master?" Hirpus mused quietly, to which Decimus replied "Yes."

"Isn't that language rude and vulgar?"

Decimus thought to himself for a moment, contemplating on what he could say to the young slave. "So it is, Hirpus. I have cursed you with Innocence, by giving you a good home and a good life. This is how commoners spe.."

When the men of the legion had quieted down, the orcish voices rung out louder, disturbing Decimus's speech.

"Citizens beware, watch your noble wives,

The brown-haired one, the real 'fucker' of the Hares,

Is leading us today,

So we can fuck your women green!"

Came the tune from the cohorts miliaria of the orc auxiliary. Decimus could not help but grin internally. How the usage of the word 'fucker', implied that he was the real man responsible for 'fucking over' the Hares. Zorzal, however, was really a fucker of Hares in the literal sense, as many tongues voiced rumors of his predilection for non-human women.

If only Lex scantinia, the law rumoured to have existed in ancient days, were still in effect... because then Zorzal could be tried. Rumours spoke of the way in which his eyes once winked to a male centaur delegate, which suggested something altogether... 'scandalous'. Zorzal quashed those rumours... which only lead them further credence.

Decimus was there during the Rabbit war, he had been the man who raised the orcish auxiliaries, for as he was a governor of the province to the south of the range of snow and ice, It was his right and privilege to do so. And so Decimus, following orders, had lead Legio XII Firmus through ruin and through glory, alongside his orcish auxiliary cohorts. Zorzal… a repulsive man, lead the battle. He was the cause of much death… incompetent as a leader and woefully lacking virtus, he got too many men killed and the majority of legions secretly hated him, except for a few. And now, Zorzal feared him, feared that Decimus, being that he sought the creation of a new 'Demi-citizenship' status for retired non-human Auxiliaries rather than a monetary sum payment... thus Zorzal was afraid, and so was the Senate, of Decimus's rise in popularity.

Hence the words "Fuck your women green." For it was commonly held that if Decimus had his way, he would grant them 'Ius Connubii'. Decimus did not focus very much on that matter as he was focused more on the more mundane things, such as setting out the workings for the provision of some form of grain-dole for Demi-citizens, or of the rights of trading and other such matters, and to provide them with benefits and bonuses that would provide positives that would cause other 'Peregrine' non-humans to seek to become 'Demi-citizens'.

Decimus sighed to himself. Most of the senators loved Zorzal, for they, unlike in ancient days, had long lost their propriety. Their virtus as men, if they could be called as such, was woefully lacking.

Now that there was some quiet, Decimus spoke again. "This is how commoners speak."

War,

War,

War!

Was the shouted cheer from Legion XIII Fidelis Victrix… however the alternate translation was "Beautiful, beautiful war!", depending on the usage of the word used.

Say whatever you would about XIII Fidelis Victrix, their shout might be simple, their arrogant bravado overbearing (For they constantly bragged about their supposed valour in the camp), but their lust for violence was always sound and so was their sense of loyalty. And, as the XIII Fidelis Victrix was accustomed to do, which began upon their founding as a unique tradition, was to have minotaur auxiliaries as part of their contubernium as auxiliaries. It was appropriately fitting, given that a goddess of hell was the patron of Bellnahgo.

Minotaurs, when lead well… were hell on the battlefield.

Being interrupted for a third time, Decimus waited before he could speak again. "They wish to be home, Hirpus, yet by the auspices of our emperor, we are charged to explore this strange and foreign land. And so we shall." Decimus pointed out towards the enemy. "They preemptively, and without provocation, ambushed a centuria of my men. I sent a lone envoy, bearing a small gift of silver… to allay any... unforeseen complications that might have arisen to cause such action against my men. He was returned back, headless. For this, there is no excuse. And so the ram has touched the wall, without the ram. No chances, no mercy."

Decimus thought back on the event. One of his centuria fought off an ambush, having been used to encountering surprise attacks from the rabbit war (For which much of his men were veterans of that war), they maintained cohesion, reformed into a square and fought off the opposition by the sword. four men were killed and twelve injured, for though the pig-men were few in number, they were ferocious. All assailants, five in all, where killed. These dead were brought back, such that Decimus and the men might know what they were facing and thus be better prepared.

On the second day, Decimus issued a centaur, from one of the men of the foederati, bearing a gift of one hundred denarii, with the order to find and provide the gift to any leader who presented themself among the pig-men. The pig-men threw his head in a ditch where the ambush first occurred and thus Decimus had casus belli. Lack of knowledge regarding the language and customs of this foreign land notwithstanding, Decimus had only one recourse.

And now, half a week later, he was here in a wooden castrum that bordered the enemy fortification.

Decimus turned to face one of the men on the wall. "Buccinator, signal attack."

'Bruuuuuuuuuuuuum Bruuuuuuuuuuumm brumm bruuum bruuuuuum'

Decimus then turned to face Hirpus. "And now, you will write. Begin with today's date, the nones of Augustus. Today, you write about victory, and stand with the victors to be."

"War War War!" Came the shouted cheer of Legion XIII, having heard their order.

One week later.

"He's been captured." Came the gruff voice of the centurion of the second centuria of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, Graccus of the Volurnii.

"Where is my son! He was last seen near you." Decimus shouted, his face pointed firmly on Graccus.

Hirpus cried out in response. "No!" Hirpus paused, before he pleaded to Decimus. "Please find him, master."

"Shut up!" Decimus shouted to his slave.

Graccus raised his voice. "He went to take a piss, so I sent Kraxuul... or whatever the fuck his minotaur name is, to watch over him. He's one of the auxiliaries over with the Decanus Fulvius, of the seventh contubernia. I can fetch him?"

To stop himself from being overcome by anger, Decimus walked over to a silvered urn and dipped his head in the cool water.

Having dipped his head in the cold water, Decimus reached for a document to his left, finding solace within the words.

"Decimus, my compatriot and loyal friend. I write to you, fearing for your personal safety. My son fears you, politically. He paints you in a bad light and vilifies your name. The senate fears change also, and might act swiftly. I hold all the power in the world, I have the power to stop the senate, but I cannot do the same for my son, and my son could attempt to depose me with the senate at his back, should I raise my voice. For your safety, I am sending you on an expedition, a place for where no harm may befall you, where the knives of traitors and the poison of assassins shall never touch you. Raise your legions and whatever foederati you can summon, and take your family with you. By the Ides, my next message shall hopefully arrive with further instructions. Your friend and Emperor, who thinks most highly of you."

Having been calmed, Decimus offered his reply, and an apology. "Do not cry, Hirpus, for the fate of my son." Decimus then turned to face Graccus. "Captured or not, he is my son. He will return. I will not offer punishment to you, or any of your men."

Graccus replied in a manner completely in-line with the XIIIth. "Like hell. We will bring him back, or failing this I will fall upon my gladius."

Decimus frowned for a moment. "Then you may tell the men of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, that they are to find my son." Watching as Graccus's face formed up in relief, Decimus dismissed him. "You may leave."