Ebon Thundermoon, a tough-ass tauren lady, is something of a Horde champion. Her player, Sean, runs an RP/PvP guild comprised of battle-ready Thundermoon tribe adoptees of all races who defend Horde resources and holdings from the evil, evil Alliance (moo-hahahaha).
Sean's been raiding with me for quite some time and I can tell you two things for certain: the man makes the most awful groan-inducing puns I've ever... herd (!), and he is dirrrty. He loves his cow ladies, but he ain't exclusive. He likes ALL the ladies, and some of the men. Hot?
A side effect of Sean's lady-love? Ebonthunder has big ol' boobies and wouldn't you know it, they feature prominently (hee) in this udderly awesome holiday fic. (His fault! I never made puns before I met Ebon! You can't prove anything!)
Author: Ebonthunder
Word count: 593
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Pawe Mistrunner loved the Midsummer Fire Festival. A fortnight out of the year where something interesting actually occurred on the otherwise tedious Spirit Rise, where visitors of all the various races of Azeroth, whether invited or uninvited, would arrive and bring her momentary amusement. The greatest joy she could have however, was explaining the festival customs of the various Tauren tribes to the “haloyakee”. Tourists.
A young orc, obviously attending the festival for his first time, stood speechless and gawking at something that Pawe couldn’t help but grin. “You are a part of the Warsong Offensive, are you not?” Pawe remarked, drawing his attention. The orc glanced her way and then down at himself, the emblazoned sigil of the Warsong stitched into his tabard giving him away. He gave a faint nod, obviously wanting to return his attention to the festivities.
“You must know miss Thundermoon from the battlefield, I imagine.”
Another nod. This time, however, he found his voice. “I’ve never seen her out of her armor, but … dancing?” He seemed to have difficulty wrapping his tongue around that last word, let alone his mind. “And in … that?”
Pawe drifted her gaze towards the maypole, the center of the festivities. There, weaving about and around the wooden pillar with a long and streamer-entwined baton in each hand, was Ebon Thundermoon. A Champion of the Horde, veteran of countless battles, leader of dozens of brutal and bloody assaults against the Alliance, and there she was, garbed in nothing but an earthen colored kilt whilst prancing about a festival maypole. Pawe wagered it was certainly a shock to the orc’s system, even considering the initial hormonal jumpstart from staring at Ebon’s fully exposed chest as it bobbed and bounced before him in fluid harmony to the music in the air.
Suppressing her laughter for a moment, Pawe stepped to the orc’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder, hopefully keeping his attention. “You’ve seen her on the battlefield plenty of times,” she noted, eliciting another silent nod from him. “I want you to imagine her as you see her now, but instead of those colorful batons she holds,” Pawe paused a moment, letting the orc prepare his imagination, “I want you to imagine her wielding her weapons.”
Blinking in momentary surprise, the orc glanced sideways at Pawe, who gave an encouraging smile and nod in Ebon’s direction. As he focused on the Thundermoon warrior, he recalled the massive weapons she would haul into battle, wielding them with nonchalant ease as she cut through opponent after opponent. As he remembered, he could picture her movements – she did not so much cut and slice through her enemies, but rather twirl and sweep those monstrous blades about her with every step, as if she was …
As if she was dancing. Eyes wide and jaw hung slightly agape, the orc could picture it clearly as the Thundermoon twirled about the maypole for another pass. Instead of those festive batons in her hands, a monstrous sword or battle axe; instead of the colorful streamers fluttering about the ends of those batons, sprays of blood, freshly hewn from the unfortunate souls caught in the path of her carnage; instead of a harmless, joyous dance of festivity and reverence, a whirling Taureness of indescribable violence.
A young orc, obviously attending the festival for his first time, stood speechless and gawking at something that Pawe couldn’t help but grin. “You are a part of the Warsong Offensive, are you not?” Pawe remarked, drawing his attention. The orc glanced her way and then down at himself, the emblazoned sigil of the Warsong stitched into his tabard giving him away. He gave a faint nod, obviously wanting to return his attention to the festivities.
“You must know miss Thundermoon from the battlefield, I imagine.”
Another nod. This time, however, he found his voice. “I’ve never seen her out of her armor, but … dancing?” He seemed to have difficulty wrapping his tongue around that last word, let alone his mind. “And in … that?”
Pawe drifted her gaze towards the maypole, the center of the festivities. There, weaving about and around the wooden pillar with a long and streamer-entwined baton in each hand, was Ebon Thundermoon. A Champion of the Horde, veteran of countless battles, leader of dozens of brutal and bloody assaults against the Alliance, and there she was, garbed in nothing but an earthen colored kilt whilst prancing about a festival maypole. Pawe wagered it was certainly a shock to the orc’s system, even considering the initial hormonal jumpstart from staring at Ebon’s fully exposed chest as it bobbed and bounced before him in fluid harmony to the music in the air.
Suppressing her laughter for a moment, Pawe stepped to the orc’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder, hopefully keeping his attention. “You’ve seen her on the battlefield plenty of times,” she noted, eliciting another silent nod from him. “I want you to imagine her as you see her now, but instead of those colorful batons she holds,” Pawe paused a moment, letting the orc prepare his imagination, “I want you to imagine her wielding her weapons.”
Blinking in momentary surprise, the orc glanced sideways at Pawe, who gave an encouraging smile and nod in Ebon’s direction. As he focused on the Thundermoon warrior, he recalled the massive weapons she would haul into battle, wielding them with nonchalant ease as she cut through opponent after opponent. As he remembered, he could picture her movements – she did not so much cut and slice through her enemies, but rather twirl and sweep those monstrous blades about her with every step, as if she was …
As if she was dancing. Eyes wide and jaw hung slightly agape, the orc could picture it clearly as the Thundermoon twirled about the maypole for another pass. Instead of those festive batons in her hands, a monstrous sword or battle axe; instead of the colorful streamers fluttering about the ends of those batons, sprays of blood, freshly hewn from the unfortunate souls caught in the path of her carnage; instead of a harmless, joyous dance of festivity and reverence, a whirling Taureness of indescribable violence.
Pawe smiled again, figuring that the orc come to the proper conclusion in his imagination. Giving his shoulder a light pat, she chuckled softly, “Be careful, if you ever ask a Tauren to dance.”
Oh, how Pawe loved the Midsummer Festival.
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