Boris wiped of his face from the mixture of blood, sweat and mudd that had formed a layer all over him, looking with a grin at the three flags standing at the Silverwing flagroom in the Warsong Gulsch. Out there the alarm of the battle slowly had faded away and it was now silent again. But just a moment ago when a flagcarrier had rushed into the room with the flag as a couple of forsaken had tried to take the Alliance flag the room had been filled with sound of screaming, shouting and the sounds of weapons. But now both the forsaken undead layed dead on the floor and Boris along with a dwarf took the work to throw out the corpses. The three flags of the horde, the mark for a victory in the gulsch. The battle had been long and brute and some of the brave fighters who had set out would not come back to their homes. But these flags meant really nothing, since they was just a mark of a temporary victory in this fight, not the war. The warsong clan and the Silverwing sentinels would still fight over this piece of forrest. He took one last look of the flags then left the room with his axe resting on his shoulder. There would be more work to be done, but not yet, not yet.