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  2. Razz

    The House

    The House is an RP event that will take place entirely in Discord. All Horde and Alliance roleplayers on TN/RH are welcome. There will be contestants and audience. There will be chances for the audience to participate and help guide the challenges for the contestants. The main goal of this event is to put your character into a setting with other characters they might not normally interact with, for some fun RP! More information about the house, including screenshots and descriptions of each room are on the Discord server. Applications are due by midnight on Sunday, June 3, and may be submitted on the Discord server in the Applications channel. Discord link: https://discord.gg/RuDVFSG THE HOUSE RULES 1. This event is open to all Horde and Alliance RPers on Twisting Nether/Ravenholdt. 2. This event will take place entirely in the Discord server, Razz’s House. However, any gold prizes earned will be sent through in-game mail. 3. You may apply on as many characters as you want. Please list your main to ensure only ONE of your characters is selected. There is a non-refundable application fee of 1000g per character. This money will ALL go in the prize pot, along with enough of my own gold to make 100,000g, to be distributed to the winners at the end of the game. 4. Most of the “game” will be freeform RP in the House. The main goal of this event is to give people a chance to RP together whose characters would normally not interact with each other. 5. There will be occasional IC challenges. The day and time of the challenges will vary, to give opportunity for everyone to participate. The challenges will take place in Discord, but will start and complete within set time frame, so participants will be expected to be able to be active and attentive during it. Winners of the challenges may be determined by dice rolls, contestant votes, audience votes, or possibly other means. Winners will receive points and/or some other meaningful award. 6. IC, applications have been left in all major taverns, along with anonymous nominations. If you want to participate, but your character wouldn’t apply to something like this, you can say someone nominated him anonymously. 7. The contestants will NOT be all from one race or one guild. Such balancing will be kept in mind as contestants are selected to ensure variety in the household population. 8. Each contestant will earn points through various challenges, voting opportunities in the House, voting opportunities by the audience, and whenever Razz feels like giving out points. 9. Hobgoblins/mooks will be employed to keep the peace within the House and grounds. While they won’t interfere with scuffles and small fights, anyone fighting with deadly intent will be thrown in the dungeon. Please respect their authority in the House, and if your character does get violent, play along with getting arrested. Your character may remain locked up for a couple days, lose some points, or receive some other punishment agreed upon OOC. Repeated offenses may get them banned from the House. 10. If you are interested in participating in The House, please see the #applications channel. 11. All House RP rooms are "open" meaning anyone in the house can enter and join in the RP there at any time. Bedrooms might be an exception depending on the RP. (Please do NOT RP any NSFW content in this server.) ------------------------------------------------------------------ AUDIENCE Anyone who does not have a character in the House can participate in special Audience events. These may include voting on winners of events and other issues, being a special guest star in the House for a short period of time. Suggestions for events, and even running an event may also be options for audience members. Audience members may also RP as mooks if they choose. (See below.) Anyone in the Discord server who is not a contestant will be given the Audience role. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- MOOKS ANYONE may play a mook at any time if one is needed to break up a fight, except the people involved in that particular fight. The mooks will only break up fights that look deadly in nature. They may lock the offender(s) up in the cells. They are not very bright, but they are large and well armed with various weapons, nets, handcuffs, stunrays, etc. They may also step in if someone is trying to cause harm/theft to the House or to Razz, or other very serious infractions. Players are expected to play along with any mook attempting to restrain them. RPing resistance is allowed, as long as the player allows the mook to "win" in subduing the character.
  3. Last week
  4. Nikaa

    Wild Foraged Foods!

    You are so creative.
  5. “It seems you have a visitor, Captain.” A voice sneered in the darkness around Magister Frostwhisper, whom was clearly far beyond any shred of his element at current. “You know we don’t like the uninitiated poking their noses in our business.” Even in this dire of a situation, Vathelan struggled to recollect as to exactly how he got into this predicament. It had started with his search for the retired agent he had been eager to recruit. He couldn’t see anything. He had traveled into the Underbelly of Dalaran, looking for this bar his target was reported to frequent. Vath was forced into what felt to be a chair. The search proved to be fruitless, so he started asking around if anyone knew of this location. His back met the hard wood behind him. No one seemed to have wanted to give him a solid answer. “I’ll handle ‘im.” A second voice spoke, the accent was not one Vathelan was quite familiar with. It wasn’t Trollish… “‘e won’ be a problem. One way o’ ‘nother. Ain’t that right?” With the second voice claiming responsibility for the Magister, the first man seemed satisfied enough to remove the heavy sack from Frostwhisper’s head. He senses rushed back to him, and two things of note immediately caught his attention. The first was the wretched stench that reassured him he was still very much still within the sewer system of the Underbelly. The second was the man before him. Tanned skin, with short ebon hair. His right eye concealed by leather, his left was that of his own people; but without the glow of the proud magical heritage of the Sin’dorei. His build was too muscular for the average elf, but too lean and lithe to be considered entirely human either. This was further accentuated by the dark facial hair and the pointed ears that remained the size of a human’s. This had to be him as he stared impatiently for an answer. “Y-yes, Captain Vanderzee, sir.” “That’s just what I wanted ta hear.” The Half-elf smirked as he nodded to the man who brought the Elf in, who took the hint and faded into the shadows. “Yer gonna have ta tell me what a wizard such as yerself is doin’ in a place like this though.” “I...I don’t even know where this is. Is this the Cantrips and Crows bar? Why all the secrecy?” “Do yerself a favor, let me ask the questions.” The Captain pulled his revolver pistol and set it upon the table with one hand, his other motioning for one of the bartenders over. When he was sure he was seen, he turned to look back at his ‘guest’. “Let’s just say after Proudmoore’s tantrum, we all got a little bit o’ nervous so out in the open. Yer bein’ here is gonna put a few o’ these fellas on edge. Speakin’ o’… yeh still ain’t answer me question. What brings yeh down ‘ere?” “You, actually. We… I need your help.” The Magister’s throat was dry as he swallowed some air. “A… friend of mine is in danger. So I am looking to hire you.” “Couple o’ years too late there, mate.” Vanderzee stifled a chuckle. “I’m retired. Ain’t in tha killin’ business no more.” The bartender reached their table. “Another Mead, Dwarven.” His attention returned to the Fullblood in front of him. “Want anythin’? Me treat.” “No. I don’t drink.” Vathelan shook his head before struggling to take a deep breath, taking far too much of the chemical-ridden-body-refuse pugence that lingered in the air as he considered his next choice of words. Despite the smell of the location, the service was surprisingly quick. The goblin bartender returned with the Captain’s drink. “There is a war going on below us. And I assure you if the Legion wins, your drinking days will be over. That is, of course, assuming your funds don’t bleed dry first. The world needs you, my friend needs us. For her sake, I’m willing to foot the bill. So, please, name your price.” Vanderzee was content to nurse his drink, relatively ignoring the plea of the man in front of him. That was until the gender of the elf’s friend was mentioned. This caught his attention, he sat down the flagon. “Tell me ‘bout her.” “What?” “The girl yer doin’ this all fer. Wha’s she like?” The Captain leaned in slightly, a bit too interested in a discription for Vathelan’s liking. But if he wanted help, he suspected he would have to comply. An opening to negotiations was an opening afterall. “She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met. Brave and always with a smile, she--” “Yer borin’ me, kid. Come on, give me somethin’ ta work with.” Even as he spoke, a wolfish grin reached his lips. He was testing the Magister, and Vathelan knew it. “Try again, give me some feelin’, eh?” “...Where to begin? She’s not like most of our kind I’ve met, she’s certainly a cut above the rest. She is of heroic stature, her skin tanned from the warm embrace of the Sun.” The Captain went back to his drink, his boredom becoming even more prevalent. The Magister closed his eyes, trying to imagine her presence with him-- even in this horrible place. “...Her brilliant eyes, are like windows to her ever curious mind. When she smiles, the world lights up. And fortunately for the world, she smiles often. She is an endless supply of hope in a desperate world. She’s quick to see the silver lining of any given trouble, she always stands up for what she thinks is right… she has always been kind to me, she’s the first friend I’ve ever had. She sees so much in me, more than I can even fathom. And… I refuse to let her down.” “...Well, I’ll be damned.” The Captain spoke, setting his mug down. When Vathelan opened his eyes, he would see an approving smile on the half-elf’s face, much to his confusion. “What? I was young an’ dumb once too, an’ I know a lovebird when I see one. If yeh feel tha’ strongly ‘bout tha’ woman…” “Oh! Thank you Sir! I--” “Don’ thank me yet.” The Captain murmured as he took out a small booklet and wrote something on it. After sliding it over for the Magister, he then took out a small case and picked one of his Sultry Maiden cigarettes from it. “Jumpin’ tha gun ain’ gonna do yeh no good kid, we ain’t spoken ‘bout payment yet.” “Oh. Ofcourse.” The Magister gave a small smile before picking up the paper. His heart threatened to stop at the number listed. It was half his salary! His smile faltered, and the Captain picked up on it. “In gold pieces. I was one o’ tha best, which ain’ exactly cheap.” He set the cigarette in between his lips, lighting it. He took a puff and released before continuing. “An’ yeh’ll ‘ave ta pay ‘alf o’ tha’ a month as a retainer fee too, o’course.” He eyed the Magister who stared at the paper before giving a shrug. “Yeh did wanna bring me outta retirement.” “...If this what it takes to recruit you, then so be it.” Magister Frostwhisper accepted the terms with a conviction, that for a moment he thought he saw a look of surprise on the rogue’s face. “Welcome to the fight to save Azeroth, Captain Vanderzee.” He extended his hand. “Great.” But there was one more catch. If the Half-elf was shocked, that moment was gone. Instead the expression was replaced with that of amusement. “But it be customary fer me ta have a drink ta seal the deal with me new employer. Yeh don’t have any objections ta this, do yeh?” “If I must.” Emboldened by his resolve, he couldn’t afford to falter now. He reached for the mug to take a drink before the half-elf grabbed his wrist. The two men exchanged a glance for a moment, Vanderzee clearly had something else in mind as he motioned for the bartender to return. He whispered something in the goblin’s ear, who in turn nodded. What the Goblin returned with wasn’t something Vathelan would have expected. A single small stone container, the thing could not have held more than two ounces of liquid. However the liquid was on fire. The Magister looked at his new hire, who just gave him a smirk. This was his final test, it seemed. A trial by fire, he could almost her Dora say. He picked up the stone miniature cup with a smile at the imagined joke. He tried to blow the flames out. No avail. He tried again. The same result. He pondered this a moment before deciding there was no other option. He set the stone to his lips, he could feel the heat of the flames. He took in a breath of air, trying to prepare himself. Then he moved to down the shot of flaming liquor. To say it burned was an understatement. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not, the fire that traveled down his throat. He grunted, his hand gripping the table as he tried to brace himself as the recreational poison’s effects took hold. He could feel the heat travel from his stomach, up his chest, and throughout his body until they reached the tips of his extremities. Flames temporarily licked his form, and only when they stopped could he even manage to cough and gag. It was dreadful! How did people do this for recreation?! “Seems we have a deal.”
  6. Aruku

    Wild Foraged Foods!

    It's been a long time but another food experiment has happened! This time with wild-gathered Black Locust tree blossoms. While visiting Syreena, we found and decided to try these tasty little flowers from her property. Much thanks to SySy for being adventurous and allowing use of her kitchen. <3 We used this recipe (with some substitutions for the evil, evil dairy): http://southernforager.blogspot.com/2013/05/black-locust-blossom-fritters-yummmmm.html The results were quite tasty, like eating funnel cake! Next time, I believe I will go lighter on the dredging of the flowers in the batter, so the flowers can be tasted. <.< >.> Flowers being dredged: Frying the Flowers: Finished Black Locust flower funnel cake: All of them got eaten by the three adults, flower fritters defeated! These trees are flowering all over the place right now, or are soon about to in more northern areas. They're a native, plentiful tree so if you watch for them to bloom, you'll be swimming in tasty treats! Mmmmm.
  7. Earlier
  8. Kerala

    Nath Published a Book

    YAY!
  9. Xaraphyne

    The Clickening 2: Shadows of DLC

    Here's a handy dandy template! (Number of bullet points is just a suggestion)
  10. Hello everyone! It has been a while since I posted one of these kinds of threads. In the first of its line I asked for your thoughts on if your character was placed as a hero unit in a MoBA or RTS style game, what would they say upon selection and being clicked too much. http://wow-tng.org/forums/topic/23295-the-clickening/ But if there's one thing that any MOBA likes to do, it's go straight for your wallet by making new skins and outfits to put the hero in. Some are as simple as a color swap, others change the outfit completely, and others go so far as to change the visuals of their abilities, their voicelines, or even the backstory. With infinite possibilities for change or creativity i'm interested in what alternate reality your character could come from, or just what you might enjoy seeing them wear in a battle. Old Tahzani: Based on the character Tahzani Tallfisher Grand battles had raged across Azeroth for Millenia, but one uncaring soul with a button put an end to it all in a matter of hours. Tahzani was still young when the first weapon detonated. As Azeroth grew even less inhabitable, the people of Azeroth devolved into primitive, nomadic groups in constant search of the increasingly rare resources needed to survive. Tahzani has survived in the wasteland for decades, his sight taken by the blast and his mind fractured by all he has lost. He now serves as a reminder of the mistakes that lead to the world's end and dispenses wisdom hidden among his inane ramblings. Appearance: Tahzani's form is shriveled and much smaller now. He is hunched over and walks with the aid of a gnarled walking stick. His robes are all-encompassing, tattered and boring with a hood that leaves his eyes covered in shadows. He wears a hefty travel pack with many odds and ends strapped to the bottom and the sides. Game start: Oh what a lovely day... Click: Whodat? Aye? Ah see... Don'touchme! De shadows welcome jah... *Surprised snort* Ah been waitin' fah jah Excessive clicking: Stand still so ah can swat jah! Dis land was beautiful.... Befoah idiots like you! Ah don' have de liquor! Wait who are jah? Deah Loa ah hope jah ain't mah kid... Speak up, jah voice be muffled witcha head so fah up jah ass. Wah... Wah nevah changes Ordered to move: I'll get dere, in time Mah bones... Do ah have to? Is it outta de sun? Yes...YES! Wait, No... *Unintelligible muttering* Loa willin' Ordered to attack: WITNESS! If ah gotta kill jah, say heah please! Lemme show jah how it's done Swing at me!...Bones be powdah anyway TAZDINGO! It be necessary Taunt: Tahzani stands up straight and blows an errant strand of hair away from his face before waving dismissively. " Jah be de hand me downs from a REAL threat." " Ah can heah jah heart beat... An' ah know how ta make dat stop." " Rebuild an' reconcile or die, somehow dat simple idea be above jah." Jokes: Tahzani plants his walking staff into the ground before leaping into a handstand and spinning his legs like a helicopter before falling flat on his back. " Ah still got it! *Oof* Nope..." " Wisdom comes through experience... An' failure." " Does dis still look cool? Not dat paht!" Death: Tahzani falls to his knees and then onto his face. His soul looks down upon his own corpse and makes to strike at his opponent before several others clasp his shoulders and arm. With a resigned sigh, he wanders off with the group and disappears. Respawn: " Not yet errybody. Dey ain't learned." " Makin' me dead? Simple. Makin' me stay dat way? Heh." " Ah remembah...." Upon activating ultimate ability: " TAKE DEY LIGHT!" " Dis be a mercy dat de Loa grant." " You. WILL. SEE!"
  11. Another day, another cup of coffee. Magister Vathelan Frostwhisper treaded the same commute, the same path. He had the same conversation with the guards of Sanctuary’s Guildhall, placating them with the same empty promises while he awaited the same abuse from the management that was passed down from the Commander herself. It filled him with endless frustration, knowing what was going on upon the Isles below and beyond. He sorted through the same paperwork sent to him, dreading the death toll and injury reports he would have to read as he eagerly awaited a response from his last set of letters-- a chance to do some real good, a chance to reduce the casualty rate. He ached for an advantage to exploit to help turn the tides. To his initial disappointment, he found only one of the two letters he eagerly awaited. That from Lady Dora Arath’dorei, not that from the leader of Borrowed Time. He frowned, yet he eagerly opened his consolation prize. To Vathelan Hope runs in short supply, but it exists. What you say is very true; we all face different threats of increasing magnitude with the passing years. Not a day goes by where I'm not reminded of the effects of the Legion or how it's opened doors for those of similar talents to reach out to each other despite race or faction. But right now my focus is on my people; that is, the people that comprise my company. We're looking into the mouth of a beast like I've never seen before. Every available hand is either digging a trench, delivering supplies, or making plans for an encounter scheduled to happen in five days time. We're woefully shorthand over here. If you have anyone you would recommend who knows anything about commanding an airfleet, direct them to me at your soonest convenience. Stay safe, my friend. I hope my next letter contains happier contents. Dora Arath'dorei, acting leader of Borrowed Time To those interested parties: The request comes at an unexpectedly difficult time for our company. We take the matter of your concerns with equaled concern. The threat of the Legion extends to every corner of Azeroth and beyond; as beings capable to fight against that power, we bear the responsibility of doing whatever measures required to defeat it. That said, we face a danger that requires our attention. Upon our success, we will revisit the request to join in your organization's efforts. With warm regards, Dora Arath'dorei, acting leader of Borrowed Time To say its contents were not quite what Magister Frostwhisper was expecting was an understatement, for it felt as if his blood would freeze within his veins in any given moment. His eyes raced across the page as he tried to process all the details within. His first and dearest friend was in a dire situation; she was the key. She was requesting aid; this was his opening. He had to help; this would give him quite the bargaining chip. His mind raced as he considered this gambit, his day’s priorities shifted as he abandoned the other stack of documentations of the ongoings down below. Vathelan’s fingers jumped upon the satchel he carried with him everywhere, rummaging through it. This window of opportunity was time sensitive, he only had five days to exploit it. He pulled out the pane of enchanted glass, it was about the size of the cover of a tome. After setting it upon his desk, his fingers grasped at one of his cuff-links. He removed what looked to be a golden coin with a twin headed phoenix upon it, leaving the cufflink bare of its usual iconography. He placed the quarter-sized emblem upon the bottom right corner of the pane of glass. The ‘Glass Scroll’ came alive with a brilliant light within the tiny room. He grabbed a writing instrument designed for the peculiar Scryer device and drew the command rune to search the Scryer Archives that his security clearance allowed him. Search: Scryer Agent Personnel. The Glass Scroll began to compile a list of all the Scryer Agents. He drew the Command Rune once again. Search: Air Command. The list rapidly shortened as per the new parameters. But Vathelan wasn’t finished, he drew the Command Rune a third time. Search: Unassigned. One result remained. He tapped upon the name: Raphael Vanderzee; Retired. The Magister’s eyes ran through the man’s bio and career history: Half-elf. Former Pirate. Infiltrated Alliance Military; Served as a Mechanic and Pilot on an Alliance Gunship. Lead Gyrocopter teams during the Panderia campaign. Retired after Lord-General Visca died. He seemed promising. Frostwhisper looked up his last known location, the Scryers were likely to keep an eye on someone so decorated in their service. He seemed to frequent the Underbelly bar here in Dalaran. Vathelan paused as he looked over all the paperwork he had as he weighed his options. If he could help turn the tides of war, he could save so many more lives than he could just sitting here as he had been; trying to make the strikes as efficient as possible in hopes to reduce casualties. ...But would the Half-elf really be there at such an early time of day? He looked back at the Glass Scroll, the Agent in question seemed to frequent the bar around the clock. He could finish his paperwork when he returned, could he not? He stood up from his desk. Worse case scenario, he could find a lead as to when he would be back, or where the man stayed. The world needed all the heroes they could get right now, to have such a decorated war veteran sitting out of the conflict was nothing more than a waste. The Magister folded the letter away on his person, smoothing the cloth as he departed from his office. He had a world to save. And with long and swift strides, he would head towards what he would have considered one of the most unlikely of places: The underbelly of Dalaran, a hive of scum and villainy; but potentially even more ludicrous, a bar.
  12. Nathandiel

    Nath Published a Book

    Hello TNG, After many years of work, I have finally published my first book. If you enjoyed Copper Kisses in Nether Legends or First, Do No Harm, you might enjoy Claim Sanctuary. Unlike my TNG threads, the book was actually edited. It is available on all Amazon Kindle marketplaces in digital form (US$3.98), and also in Paperback (with complimentary e-copy) on selected marketplaces (US$15.99). I have always valued the input of the community here, and while this work is not related to World of Warcraft, I would be very gracious to have anyone read Claim Sanctuary and provide a review on Amazon--even if you hate it! if you are interested, I can provide you with a PDF copy of the book at no charge. If you would like to participate, please email me at danegreenbooks@gmail.com or talk to @Nathandiel on the TNG discord. My very best regards, Nathandiel
  13. Qabian

    Time Shattered

    Mmhmhmhm... Ahahahahahaha! I win. Oh, how I win. Nothing I can take back to the Grim, of course, but mine is a dangerous ego to stroke, hm? Taunt me with something you think I can't do that I know I can. 'Oh, no,' I'll admit. 'I could never do that. I'm simply no good at it. It's just not me.' A little vulnerability, not even mock vulnerability, very real, but a wager in a bet I cannot lose, a little honesty, and just enough arrogance that who I am is never forgotten so I cannot be blamed for any deception. And fuck you. I win. Truth and lies, truth and lies. That's what chaos is made of, yes? And what am I if not chaos? Is it true? Of course it is. Was it lies? Of course it was. Reality is never either or. It's always both. Little human with broken eyes he needs to hide thinks he's being generous, offering me a chance to put him in his place. You don't need to make the offer, boy. You're already there. Why would you admit that secret of all secrets in front of me? And I'm sure my secret only made you feel worse, hm? You're not special. You're not even different. You're just a broken, defiled version of the real people all around you. Enjoy your misery. I certainly enjoyed giving it to you. What an odd defect in me to harp on when it was caused by someone you claim as a friend. When what I have done with what I have lost is something greater than I could have done had I kept what I had, am I really even defective? Or have I improved? That's what we're all here for, to get better. I've gotten better. Have you? When you will never feel equal to the people around you because you never can be their equal? You can steal their faces, their friendship, their power as much as you want, but you will always be a pretender, and you will always have to hide your shame, because the day you accept yourself and live as you are is the day you'll die for it. I have no shame. I wonder how long I can play the lost bet excuse. We certainly gamble, but even though my win rate is expectedly even with my losses, what I ask for is always for my own greed. What she asks for is always my debasement, not enough to spark my anger or make me second guess, but enough to keep her laughing. I should have caught on to this sooner, especially after her little gift to Syreena. I think I did? And decided the price was worth it, and even a little entertaining for myself. The masochistic tendencies extending beyond physical pain, perhaps. I like it when she laughs, even if it's at my expense, and it's almost always at my expense. Explains too much. I shouldn't think about it too hard. The wolf's advice is good. I'm always uncertain about plans that require biding, infiltration, masks of sweetness. I can do them to a point. I have my networks and systems that I use to pull on threads hoping they'll bring down the tapestries. But such things are distasteful when chaos will suffice. Yes, I understand the idea behind a little order serving to bring a lot of chaos, but such games are difficult to play and rarely end well. When they do end well, they end very, very well, but the risk tends to be on our side, not on theirs. Still, leading them patiently to their own failure is clearly our best option in the present, regardless of whether the pendulum swings in the way they seem so certain it will. The violet commander's marital issues have caused a strange sea change. I, for one, don't think that little shift is enough to warrant the sudden acceptance of things as they are. They aren't different enough. I've only met the little warboss once? But I certainly have no faith that she's any sweeter. I blame the turning of the winds with the defeat of the Legion. Everything looks just slightly different, even when it isn't really. Old hurts have been fogged over just enough by time to be put aside long enough for coffee and brunch. And I'm able to hear things I should never hear, share things that should never have been mine to share. I can sit quietly and let them berate me as much as they wish, speaking only when spoken to, offering only the gentlest of contributions, and still come across as cruel and strange. It's quite enjoyable, really. I've had far too much enjoyment lately. It's going to my head. But given what led me to be so entertained in the first place, I'll take it.
  14. It seemed impossible, how the nights had rapidly filled void of time between the rebel cell of the Ebonfeathers and the tragedy of the Massacre at the Waning Crescent. The blow to morale had been significant, between the deaths of civilians and the murder of one of their own. And yet, it seemed, it had proven a dark boon for the Insurrection as it gained an undeniable amount of traction within the passing week. Word had spread of this, among other atrocities, across the city and beyond. And with that, deserters from Elisande’s loyalists began swelling within the amount of recruits the Dusklilly rebellion pulled from. But this was not all, for outside the city of Suramar the allied forces of the three Elven Armies and the Kirin Tor pooled as they planned their invasion of the Nighthold. These factors had proven enough, at the behest of the Former Arcanist herself, for the Danteurs and the Ebonfeathers at their command to step out of the shadows and take upon a mantle of military authority. After they had introduced themselves to the familiar face of Kadgar, the cell-turned-military settled their own place within the camp. Manuelle opened a portal to allow more recruits passage, Maurice ran drills for their archers. Isabaele was sent on a scouting mission, leaving the Danteur brothers to organize the rest of their resources and personnel-- including the Withered that had been sent as infantrymen. A task that would quickly be left to Kal’une, as his brother found himself entertaining a guest upon their grounds. As they set up camp, Sin’soiel found himself hailed by one of the great Generals of this upcoming joint-military invasion. That of the Silvermoon Military specifically, “Lady Laidrin, you honor us as you grace us with your presence.” “I’m curious to see what Thalyssra has managed, I meant every word of concern I expressed at our meeting.” The Blood Knight spoke as they began their traverse of the Ebonfeather camp. “Your concern is both noted and heeded, My Lady.” Sin’soiel reassured her. “I heartens me to see all of our Bloodlines working for a common cause, could you imagine what we would be capable if this alliance of yours were to remain solidified after this conflict?” “If only the Light were so merciful.” Laidrin spoke, her voice cool. “Your isolation has left you unaware of the events for millennia, I don’t think a single joint military operation would be enough to undo the transgressions of each represented here. Nor do they seek out an understanding, Vereesa being the worst offender.” “A shame then, that we could not prove the catalyst for such an understanding then.” Sin’s blue face scrunched into a frown before shaking his head, presenting the first of their forces. “Many of our latest recruits are deserters after all the sins Elisande has committed against her own, the gentleman leading them is Maurice. A sharpshooter whom has been under our employ when we were performing much more covert operations. Not only is his aim impeccable, his knowledge of the ins and outs of this city should provide us quite the boon if things go awry.” “What your Grand Magistrix has done is horrible, we are no strangers to the pain of such betrayal from one’s leader.” “Is that so?” The white brow raised as he gave a nod to Maurice, whom called for the attention of the archers for a demonstration. With a quiver of ten arrows, he started at one end of the training field, and began his shooting each target one after another. When the one before him was finished, he would sidestep to the next. Not taking a break for careful aim. “Our own Prince sought to sell out the world to the Legion for some unknown purpose… likely Madness. It is our duty to help your people through this, there is no reason to make you suffer alone in your struggles against tyranny and the Burning Legion.” They watched as Maurice shot bullseye after bullseye. “He is quite talented.” “We are quite proud of him.” Sin’soiel smiled before ushering her to the next place of note when the demonstration was over. The archers behind them seemed just as impressed. “This is our Telemancy Specialist, while he has a lot to learn before he can rival the Chief Telemancer, he has shown a great deal of promise-- allowing our strike team to transport, hit our target, and get out before we are even noticed. With the influx of recruits, the deserters I had mentioned previously, our personnel have been swelling in regular intervals. It is thanks to ‘M’ here, that we are able to prepare for the assault in such a rapid fashion.” Manuelle was too busy with his task at hand, he did not spare the moments required for formalities for the Blood Knight Matriarch. “...He seems too busy in his duties to entertain us, however, shall we continue?” At the Blood Knight’s bid, as per marked by her nod, they continued towards where their Withered troops were stationed. She blinked, her attention remaining upon them. “...How did you manage to enlist their aide?” “The First Arcanist is a clever woman.” Sin’soiel seemed to comment little on as to the process. “She assures us that they are ready for our oncoming battle, though when I was running strategic strikes on key targets, we did so with more mindful personnel.” “The Ebonfeather Assassinations? Where you would stick a blade in your intended targets… I believe the last one was a Lord Belarneau?” The Paladin looked up at the man with a raised brow, before smirking. “Oh come, Lord Danteur… did you not think we had our own scouts within the city? We were never planning on charging in blind. Though, your tactics remind me of someone I once knew…” “Truely? Was this person successful in their pursuits?” It took a measure of control to not show his unease at the potential discovery. “For a time. He warned us about our Prince Sunstrider’s betrayal, we did not believe him until we saw it with our own eyes…” She frowned as she looked back at the Withered. “He too would have liked to have seen this alliance form, before his passing.” With his arms behind his back, Sin’soiel Danteur crossed his fingers for his brother to see. She was getting too close for his comfort on this subject matter. “Perhaps this man saw things we cannot. Or perhaps he was a fool, a shame that this man you speak of is not with us on this occasion then.” “At times, you even sound like him.” She commented, the Nightborne continued to try to keep his cool. “Be careful not to lose sight of your vision for your people, Lord Danteur.” She spoke before marching off back to her own camp, leaving the disguised Shattered Son to guess how much she truly knew from their conversation. It left him far too uncomfortable to have an unknown variable such as this within the camp, but he would have to endure and tread carefully in the passing days.
  15. Syreena

    A Rogue's Diary

    05.02.18 I used to say Sanctuary had tea parties with the Alliance. Yesterday, I had coffee with one of the purple people. That short-eared elf, who is half human and a mage and Sanctuary—everything I hate—so why didn’t I feel the urge to stab him repeatedly? Maybe because he didn’t act like any of those things. I learned that the leadership has changed among the purple people. Julilee, Kex’ti, and Shokkra are all gone from there now. Just Cerryan left, and though I hate him for what he did to me, what his actions turned me into, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same in his position. Maybe it’s time for my war with them to end for good. The Grim and Sanctuary worked alongside each other once, a long time ago, when Vilmah was in charge. Maybe that is an option again if we are in need of more bodies for an assault someday. I doubt Vilmah would talk with me though. I could send a Supplicant if necessary, or better yet, maybe I’ll just stay in contact with the short-eared elf. He’s easy to talk to. I wonder if there’s something with mixing elf blood with another bad blood, that makes the two bads cancel each other out. Baal has demon blood in him, thanks to the Grim warlocks, and he’s nice. And Mard has human in him, and he seems nice….so far. There’s no question that demons, humans, and elves are all vile and cruel, but maybe mixing two bad races together somehow makes something good. I also learned that Shaelie has joined Sanctuary. I wasn’t planning to attack her. I really wasn’t. We used to pick on the purple people together in Warspear, we tortured that human Ambassador lady together. Shaelie always had my back. For a long time, I thought she was a decent person….for an elf….a friend even. But when I saw her in the Wyvern’s Tail yesterday, she didn’t seem to care about any of that. She actually said she thought it was totally justified that they attacked us at Aerie Peak, and Grim should stay in their own yard and not bother Alliance. I don’t know what the fel happened to the Shaelie I knew, but this one is a traitor to the Horde, as far as I’m concerned. But she is human after all, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
  16. When his artisan crafted coffee finished brewing, Magister Vathelan Frostwhisper began his usual early morning commute from his apartment in the Lower City region of Shattrath in Outland. With a teleportation spell, he traversed countless miles across the great beyond back to Dalaran that floated above the warzones of the Broken Isles in Azeroth. From the Kirin Tor designated magical transportation zone, it was a quick stride in the sunrise into Sanctuary’s guildhall proper. On the way inside, as per routine, he checked for any physical letters within the mailbox awaiting him before approaching the foyer’s security checkpoint. As per usual, the checkpoint was guarded by two trolls from some tribe that the Warboss knew. This early in the morning, there was no line. The Magister with a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of letters in the other found himself having the same conversation with the guards he did every morning. “‘Ey Mon, how be da talks goin’?” Ever since they were hired on and told that the Scryers were seeking to provide extra security, they had shown interest in Frostwhisper’s progress in the negotiations. Every day he had the same answer. “I’m hoping to be able to give you a solid answer soon.” “Tha’ be what ju said last time, Mon.” The answer rarely satisfied them. “We are still in negotiations, my apologies.” The Magister gave the same practiced smile, the same tone. The truth was, Vathelan was more frustrated than he could afford to let on. He wanted to help Sanctuary, he wanted to provide aide, but Commander Liene refused to trust him and the organization he represented-- at best. Truth was, those whom had personal grudges against the Scryers and Frostwhisper himself had her ear. He had even been attacked within these halls before, by an orcess who had seemed to make it her life mission to make his life a living hell for no discernable reason. But still, the salvation of Azeroth was not something he took lightly. He would persevere. He had to. He gave a slight bow to the guards, “have a nice day, gentlemen.” After excusing himself from treading more of the all too repetitive conversation he was forced to endure, regardless of which set of guards were scheduled for this shift in their rotation at the checkpoint, he had little more than a simple trek through the housing section before approaching his office. The smallest of all of them, not only of those leading the organization of Sanctuary, but of those Emissaries granted the same accommodations as he. The square footage being little more than that of a supply closet. Another not so subtle snub from the Commander, given the friends she kept. Another insult he endured for the sake of the fate of Azeroth. The Magister set his satchel that draped over his shoulder beside his small desk, that comically almost consumed the entirety of his work-space before setting his mug of coffee down as well. “Another day, another standstill…” The Magister spoke to himself as he gave a brief stretch before he tried to shake off the sense of hopelessness he felt within his office. He sighed as he started to sort through the stack of letters, placing each within a stack depending on a myriad of factors to determine order of priority. Some came from the Kirin Tor, some from the Sunreavers, others from Silvermoon and the Reliquary. However, there was one that forced him to pause: Dora Arath’dorei. He eyed the other stacks, his hand even going so far to pick up the one he hypothesized was the most important of the bunch before pausing again. His eyes were once more drawn to the letter from Her. He sat down, his eyes locked upon the letter before finally convincing himself there was no harm in checking it first. Inside it read: Vathelan, I'm sorry it took so long to respond to your letter. It's been mission after mission here and we're all struggling to keep our heads above water (because we live in a port, you see!) but I'm hoping to see a change in our favor soon. It seems like the world is constantly in flux. Do you ever think that? Just when the foundations settle, something changes to throw the world into chaos. I suppose that's a very vague sentiment, but I've learned to appreciate stability where I can find it. I hope I never take what I have for granted. I think about my friends who I lost, and the timeline from which I've been exiled. I think about the new friends I've made here and how their involvement in my life has changed me. Even if everything changes, I can at least count on the bonds people make with each other, how they can be used as a source of power in troubling times. Late season's blessings. I hope to hear from you again soon. Dora Arath'dorei When finished reading the letter, the Magister read it again. He tried to absorb every bit of detail he could from the parchment as a small smile formed upon his lips before he tried to formulate a response. He grasped for his pen and paper. My Dearest Dora, As a scholar for an organization dedicated to the defense and preservation of our species, I can relate to the feeling you described. The battles seem ever reaching: In recent history we have the collapse of our nation, its rebirth, a civil war, the campaign in Northrend, the return of Neltharion, the escalation of conflicts that lead to a rebellion, an attack from an alternate universe and now the return of the Legion in the likes we haven’t seen since the days of legend before the Sundering. The world is always in need of its heroes, especially those who do not forget to smile—to take in the little things that make life worth living. Those beacons of hope prove to be the greatest boons in the darkest of nights. And you are one of the greatest sources of hope, Lady Arath’dorei. And you never need to go it alone. I may not be one of the world’s champions; a warrior of light, a soldier of justice, a paragon of hope—but I will do everything within my power to aide and watch over your back, all you need to do is ask. Magister Vathelan Frostwhisper. When he finished his pen hovered over the page, his eyes tracing every curve of every letter as his mind fretted over every sentence. What if he came off too strong? What if he made it sound he didn’t care at all? His mind raced and fretted over every potential implication-- only to be interrupted as the gathered ink that bled to the bladed point of the pen dripped into a single blot aimed directly for the page. He had to act quickly, tossing the pen out of harm’s reach of the letter before using a controlled frostbolt to freeze and knock away the ink from his ernest account of his feelings. His gaze raced to inspect for any damage… before breathing a sigh that no harm came to the parchment. That was enough of a waking call for him to carefully fold it and set it into an envelope with the official markings of position. He would sent it with the first wave of paperwork. Paperwork that would prove taxing on the morale of the young Magister, for while he may not be a physical combatant within the war below Dalaran, he read a great many of their stories and pleas. Death counts, requests both for reinforcements and supplies, accounts of scouting missions… from this small desk in a tiny office in a building belonging to an organization that scorned he and the Scryers on a daily basis, he could not help but question why he remained here? If Commander Liene wished to be petty, if she was willing to pay the deaths of so many down below to feed her arrogance… why was he here? It's been mission after mission here and we're all struggling to keep our heads above water. Hundreds dead, trying to secure strategic positions across the map. People that could use a well placed Assault Class Golem to help even the odds even if in the slightest… but I'm hoping to see a change in our favor soon. Perhaps he was in the wrong place. I can at least count on the bonds people make with each other, if Sanctuary was unable or unwilling to apply Scryer Technology and Resources… how they can be used as a source of power in troubling times. Maybe it was the mercenary organization that was the best path for Azeroth’s salvation? He looked at the envelope in the corner of his desk, a wave of inspiration struck him as he grabbed for his pen once more. He would do whatever it took to save the world, even if it meant disappointing his heroes. All life on Azeroth was at stake, if Sanctuary would not cooperate… it was time for other avenues. Dear Boss of Borrowed Time: The war against the Burning Legion is upon us. Over the last five months the Alliance and the Horde, among other less prominent forces, have been running their own costly campaigns in dire hopes of turning the tide against the biggest threat known to Azeroth since before the formation of the Great Sea. This is a threat to all, and we would like to help with the war effort. I will repeat, for emphasis: This is a threat to all of us. No matter what race, creed or affiliation you have; The Burning Legion seeks to end all life here on Azeroth. This includes the Sin’dorei, of which my organization has founded itself on protecting and preserving. We have both experience in repelling the Legion threat in the past, and the foresight to prepare for their inevitable return. Preparations, we are willing to share with you in order to ensure the salvation of all. While admittedly small in number with the passing years, we have retained some of the most brilliant minds our people have to offer—and we have the research, the technology we have developed and resources gathered from that benefit. If such interests you, I have the pleasure to inform you that you have been preselected as a candidate for our outreach program. Simply contact me and I will be more than happy to schedule a meeting to address any of your concerns and/or begin talks of a negation that will give us a much needed edge against the unyielding threat of the Legion. Just remember, with their return, time is the utmost essence. Magister Vathelan Frostwhisper Scryer Agent of Asset Protection and Acquisition
  17. Qabian

    Time Shattered

    The wolf is right. Being Grim requires caring intensely. I didn't like that description initially, but there is core truth to it. It doesn't require caring intensely about others, but it does require a fanatical dedication to the goal. I'm not sure the girl has that. All she has is the sense of a debt owed. Paying debts is not all there is, and it's certainly not enough to make one Grim. Is there a test that can force her to care? And her sense of Peace... I see the pattern, though I'm loath to admit it to others. If I'm choosing alcohol, it's because my own failure has been too fierce to set aside. That's what I'm not going to spill. I'm not going to admit something is my fault without considerable duress. I've failed again if she doesn't have the sense to keep that version of Peace to herself. Let's hope she shares that definition of peace with Awatu. He'll be impressed, I'm sure. Accept the Peace that those among us who believe in it desire. Accept it for what it is. And while they travel the endless road to their dream, enjoy the annihilation along the way. But you still need to accept and praise appropriately the Peace in public, or the entire structure falls apart. It's better that Syreena doesn't trust me. I was uncomfortable enough that she trusted me with what she gave me. If there's anyone who should know better, she should. And yet? All evidence seemed to point to the contrary. It's odd then, that while I got what I wanted, something seems off about the entire debacle. Does she even acknowledge what else I could have done with the power I had? Does she even care that it was less an outright lie and more a bending of the truth? She was absolutely responsible for the death of a Grim. It was just a brief death of a priest with priestly connections who never would have let her soul drift away for something as pathetic as an overly enthusiastic beatdown. There was just enough truth in my lie that I could have played it for a very long time. I could likely have played it long enough to end her if that had ever been my goal, but it was not. My goal was confession. I got my confession. That game is over. I respect her incentives, despite how misguided they were, but she thought they were worth following for the same reasons that she is willing to take on puppets where I am not. She had a right to be angry at my lies, whether they were based in truth or not, but it's not like she never lied to me. We lie to each other, all day every day. It keeps us going. The truth is inherently boring when not being manipulated to interesting ends. But her anger should have been tempered by how little I asked of her, how little I toyed with her. Was it? Would she have done worse if I hadn't kept the truth in the fiction to myself? I could have killed her with that weapon. That was never my intent, and she should see that. She should know that now, that her death, her punishment is not something I will ever aim for, because if I wanted it, I could have had it with ease. She should understand that now. But something tells me she doesn't. All she holds against me now is my falsehoods, not my reasons for telling them. Why do I even care? I don't. It's better when none of them trust me. They'll treat me as they should when I'm untrustworthy. I don't like the expectations that come with trust. Tradire has... no idea what she's doing. I still don't believe I can give her what she wants. As much as she lies about what that is, I think she believes her own lies. But I do think she wants more than a shield. She wants conversation and there she takes advantage of the words that are my weakness. She wants knowledge, and though I do believe her when she says that desire is limited, I don't think it's quite as muted as she would insist. I also think she wants knowledge I cannot give her, or that my version of it is twisted and broken, and to share it with her would only cause harm. What she wants she should really be getting from someone else, someone... softer in the ways she is, someone sheltered enough to still believe in possibilities that have long since been erased from me. I've at least made it clear what lines I will not cross. And I haven't decided what I will or will not admit to in honor of her game, which makes most conversations where she becomes the subject incredibly awkward, but at least said game seems to be succeeding where it concerns my accepting my role.
  18. Tahzani

    Ill Will (Mature content)

    A taste of what the Loa's gift could do spoke volumes for the effect it would have on its intended target. It refused to be treated, even showing a tenacity that hinted at intelligence as it would strike as one disease, retreat, and return in a new form. His fever ran high for hours, sheeting his form in sweat and chilling him to the bone. Then, the pain left him as if the sickness had simply given up its struggle, leaving him stunned with sheer relief. It gave him just enough time to nurture a brief hope that it was over, only to crush it within an hour. It returned in a new form and plagued his body and mind with a new kind of torture. Night and day lost meaning as he cycled through a list of symptoms seemingly at random. Tormented reality gave way to fever dreams when his body, taxed to its limits and in desperate need of recovery, succumbed to exhaustion. He stood before a river of sludge with a stench that was thick enough to taste. It had an odor that clung to his saliva and made him gag and heave for all the good it did. It reminded him of Venture company operations, but even they had not managed to produce such disgusting runoff. Lengths of cloth stuck to the top of the putrid river but he could not make out the details of them as his eyes swung hazily in and out of focus. When the world resolved itself, he was able to make out the gold and purple thread of one tabard and the matching designs on the others that stuck to the surface of the thick river behind it. The foul river slowly pushed itself along the earth, carrying over a dozen of the Phoenix marked tabards. He felt a moment of Grim pleasure that was quickly chased away by confusion as he saw the growing number of tabards stuck to the disease-ridden sludge. It would have helped him sleep at night to see the head of the self-important group of traitors along with several other vile hypocrites who followed her. But the number of discarded tabards wa far too high for his plan. In each of the tabards he caught a glimpse of their owner. A shudder of rage turned into a quiver of sadistic satisfaction as the first two passed him. Julilee had lectured him about the importance of preserving life, something she accused Lilliana of having no sense of after her betrayal. When he had dismissed her words and told her that she had attacked a pregnant woman, he had not detected a hint of remorse, in fact, he had seen annoyance that he was still pursuing the conversation. The effect her actions had on him were unimportant, she did not care. He bore his teeth in an unkind grin as she was sucked below the surface, buried in the same substance that she was filled with. She was followed by more of them. Syreena's now scarred tormentor smirked cruelly and looked down his nose at him before being swallowed by the river. Shokkra sneered and screamed soundlessly in pointless rage as she was sucked down and drowned. A feeling of grim vindication grew as he saw more of them disappear. The faces kept coming. Vilmah's embarrassed smile was smothered, Mardallius laughed quietly before being covered, Kexti's arrogant smirk was slowly saturated before being coated completely, Siane's warm smile went cold, and the sad expression of the one-eyed troll disappeared quietly beneath the surface. More people passed by him, faces he associated with the tabard but had never spoken to, people he bore no ill will towards save for their association. All were consumed by the muck and disease. The last of the articles to disappear was not a tabard, but a pair of manacles and a stained apron. His own face stared back at him as the manacles clasped around his wrists and the chain leading him began tugging downwards. " It'll fix errytin'." He assured himself as the odious sludge reached up to his chest. He had no reply for his own deluded statement. " She'll love us again!" The imprisoned man cried out at him as it reached up to his neck, desperate to justify his own actions, just like the ones he would be joining. He wanted to scream at the fool of a bartender but could only manage another choked noise as he sank below the muck. The river soon became choked with more discarded items. Shoes, shirts, dresses, trade equipment, swords and more bunched together so thickly he could barely make out the sludge that transported them until they disappeared beneath its surface. Once again, he saw faces, yet they were indistinct and unfocused. There were hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands. Countless faces flickered in front of him as the crowd of plague-ridden people passed by and disappeared. This had been his agreement. A virulent disease to consume his enemy in the worst way possible, but it could not be controlled once released. How many in Sanctuary would be killed in his hope to slay a handful? The price of it left a frozen lump in his stomach, he wanted one person dead, but he could not control the spread once it was released. The reward for this indiscriminate death dealing clasped him on the shoulder and gave him a warm, yet false smile. The Farraki was pleased with him, excited even at the blow dealt to a hated enemy. With one hand she grasped his and gave him an insistent tug to turn his back on the foul carnage wrought, with the other she held a bloody blob of disfigured fat and flesh that defied identification; a mutated freak even in the eyes of parasites and maggots. She spoke words of love and approval that spilled out as a black, oily sludge between her teeth and dribbled down her chin over her body and their son. The letter of her message he had longed to hear, but the soul of it was absent. He doubled over as an overpowering sense of nausea and joy forced its way through him. His veins bulged and threatened to burst as the sickness of body and mind invaded him. He enjoyed it, he was sick and twisted mess of a pretty troll, and he loved it. He toppled forward and sank into the cold, slimy mud by the foul river. The earth consumed the last ray of light and all sense of self disappeared with it.
  19. Syreena

    A Rogue's Diary

    04.27.18 Well, I did it. After many drafts burned in the fireplace, I finally had the letter he asked for. And I actually went and gave it to him. I still don’t know why. Maybe because I’m there more and more, playing games with his guards, and I should be on at least civil terms with the leader there? Maybe because The Grim is lacking numbers in certain areas, and it wouldn’t hurt to be on speaking terms with the leader of a bunch of mercs who might be able to fill in the gaps in our ranks? I think I’ll go with that reason. It’s certainly better than the thinking it might be because a short-eared elf put the crazy idea in my head that everyone’s redeemable, even me. What did I accomplish by doing this? I don’t know that either. So far, nothing. He made it clear we would never be friends again. I was surprised at my disappointment when he said that, but I guess I should have expected it. I wonder if things would have gotten this bad if I never got involved in the conflict between Konro and Breygrah. It was when I threatened her that he turned on me, I think. I can’t blame him for that. He was just protecting his own. It was no different than what I did, turning against Brey for threatening a Grim. Lotta good I did there. Konro still ended up dying by her hand anyway. That short-eared elf…. He’s still a curiosity to me. He reminds me of when I first met Aruku. I will have to investigate him some more. I probably shouldn’t though. He’s an elf, and he’s Sanctuary, and he’s a mage. There is only one thing worse than that. Still…curious.
  20. As the last vestiges of Lord Gladius Visca faded, the familiar face of the Illidari he knew as Kal’une took his place. The emerald fires that burned within his eyeless sockets gave no indication of where his attention was focused as his hands worked a cloth over a bloodied blade. It was not until Draco made his first motions of stirring within whatever strange bed he lay within that the Illidari finally addressed him in his all too usual dry tone. “You prove as indestructible as ever, I see.” The Shattered Son groaned as he tried to gain his bearings, his weight shifted as he forced himself to sit up. His eyes scanned his surroundings, they were certainly not within their usual hideout. The room was far too elegant, though the furnishings hinted that they were indeed still in Suramar. Suramar! The last thing he remembered was escorting his comrades from the Waning Crescent during the massacre spearheaded by demon and loyalist alike. But they were nowhere to be seen, “...What happened?” “You’ll have to be more specific,” The Illidari continued to clean the ebon blade, the crimson staining the cloth. “A lot has happened today.” Draco narrowed his eyes at the Illidari, whom either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Without his eyes it made him difficult to read. Rather than drive a further wedge between the two of them, Draco took a breath before recounting what he could. “Our mission had proved a success, we had a disagreement on our new recruit… we received a distress call from Manuelle, and we were able to locate them… And then…?” “You absorbed Demon Blood and went berserk. I had to intervene.” The Illidari moved as if to inspect the weapon in his hands. “...You tried to assassinate me.” Draco’s flat tone rivaled that of his comrade. “Admittedly it was a gamble on my part. While I have observed you, I couldn’t be entirely sure that your resilience would prove to be as absolute as I hoped.” Kal’une sheathed the dagger at his side, “I slipped the blade between your vertebrae when you threatened to jeopardize our team, and thereby the mission. We have always agreed the mission came first. I expect you to have done the same to me if the Demons within had taken full control.” The Sin’dorei remained sitting on the bed, his eyes staring into the burning sockets of his comrade-- the man who could have killed him, who showed no remorse over this prospect. His gaze was harsh, but the Illidari seemed unaware and unphased by such. Moments passed, and Draco realized the Kaldorei had a point. But something nagged at him. “...Demons?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Very well.” The Shattered Son loathed the notion of valuable intel was being kept from him, but he knew pushing it would get him nowhere. Kal’une spoke little of his personal life, of his history. Draco was lucky to know of his hated child and dead wife. “Where are we?”” “You don’t recognize it? We are located in the guest chambers of the Lunastre Estate, our honored host has been suspiciously silent since our mission and our beacon ran out of mana to allow us a way back to our Headquarters. It felt prudent to go where we were needed-- and the Elven armies are amassing right outside her property.” “And the team?” “Ollarin is dead, you wounded Maurice in your frenzy. While he is shaken, I believe we may be able to retain him for the cause… which leaves Manuelle, in good health, and your new recruit-- someone I assume we have little choice in training now.” The Illidari paused as he mused over this before continuing. “If she is strong enough to endure such, our regimen is designed to weed out the weak. Only the strongest survive, to be prepared for the war to come.” “I have seen the determination in her eyes, she will make it. You are not preparing to make her… one of Yours, are you?” Kal’une laughed, a strange sound from such a harsh and grim man. Even as bitter and wicked as it was. “Elune, no. We haven’t the time even if I was interested in such. But if she is to learn how to fight, how to kill without hesitation, we will need to break her. We will need to ensure that she will be an asset in the conflicts to come, not a liability. She will learn as I have. As you have.” When he was done speaking, the Night Elf began to walk towards the door. Draco was more relieved at the denial than he had expected, but he spoke nothing of it. Instead his brow quirked at the sudden movement of departure from his comrade. “I am sure that the Danteurs will prove invaluable for the invading forces, but where exactly are you going?” “Dalaran. If the girl is to join us, she needs to be properly equipped to carry out her duties. Our Shal’dorei comrades were unable to complete their acquisition of supplies given the events that unfolded-- which leaves it to me, the only one with access to the city of the magi. Figure out our next plan of action, get in contact with the forces amassing outside the city and find out what we can do to end this as quick and cleanly as possible. I will not be long.”
  21. Syreena

    A Rogue's Diary

    04.24.18 The Grim elf I thought I killed through the mercenary is alive and well. So Qabian is a liar. Surprise, surprise, another elf I can’t trust. That leaves one. Tahz finally handed over his troubles to me. I’m not sure yet what to do with it. I’ll have to wait, see how bad it gets. If it gets too bad, well, it’s been a while since I visited Eastvale. I’m still helping Megeda train the guards at Dragon’s Roost. It’s a fun game to go in there and stir up trouble for as long as I can before I get caught. And hopefully, it will improve things between me and some of them. I burned a lot of bridges over the past couple years. Maybe it’s time to try to rebuild some of them. Still, the price for this particular bridge is going to be a very bitter pill to swallow. I still remember the feel of that knee crunching under the weight of Baal’s hammer. Over and over again. I remember imagining it was Cobrak’s knee, and at the same time, I knew that hurting her would cause him more pain than if I’d managed to hurt him directly. Sure, she didn’t do anything to deserve it. But neither did I. That was all a long time ago though, just after I escaped from Stormwind. Maybe it’s time to let it go. Maybe…
  22. Nikaa

    Shaelie's Journal

    I got a chance to start reading the newspaper tonight. It's going to take me a really long time to get through everything, but I've been clipping out the articles about Jon Ableham as I go. I'm only on the 4th issue (out of 21) and already have 6 articles.. I already have dozens of questions, but this article in particular is huge.. I did NOT remember that Jon.. as in the Jon I considered my brother.. was somehow still present in Jon Ableham. I thought my brother died when I gave him that brain in the jar... I remember Jon Ableham being a general dick and orchestrating the worgen riots (though according to the articles, DeRossi was actually behind that and how the HELL did I let DeRossi slip off my radar during all of that?) Anyway. I remembered them being two complete different 'entities'. I don't remember Jon being present after the brain incident.. This changes some things. Maybe.. I still don't think the Jon Ableham I've been seeing in Orgimmar is the same Jon Ableham as in these articles. But I need to keep reading.
  23. Nikaa

    Shaelie's Journal

    It's been several days since I last wrote, but a lot has happened. I sent a letter to Sanctuary asking to meet with one of them. I was expecting to see Juli or Kexti, but it was actually Cerryan who agreed to meet with me. After thinking about it, I am glad it was him. He's seemed.. friendly, the times I've seen him. Or attempting to be. He was the one that tried to bid some crazy amount of gold on me at that date auction a few years ago. I still don't know why. Maybe I'll ask him someday, if I get the chance. Anyway, I'm afraid if Julilee had been the one to meet with me, she wouldn't believe me. And if it was Kex'ti, he probably wouldn't take me serious. But Cerryan listened, at least. I didn't plan out what I was going to say, because I wanted to speak from the heart in the moment. And that's what I did. I think he believes me.. but agrees that I have a long road ahead when it comes to getting others to ever trust me again. He said he'd speak to them about me, and to be patient. I haven't heard anything in several days. It 's hard to be patient, but I feel like it'll be worth it in the long run. Every day I check my mailbox, hoping to hear word. Someday.. In the meantime, I went ahead and left Borrowed Time. I tried to talk to Cobrak but he was busy, so end the end I just left them a note. I don't think any of them will really care- most of them probably don't even remember me since I was gone for a couple of years. If Sanctuary won't have me, I have no plan B. So this has to work.. I saw Jon Ableham again, only I'm not convinced it's really Jon. Things aren't adding up. I've been trying to remember all of those details, but tonight I had a great idea! I went to Dalaran and found a library to see if they had archives of old newspapers. Particularly, the Violet Eye. Turns out, they did. So I made copies of the whole collection. There were a lot more issues that I remembered. I recall there being a lot of things in there about Jon though, at some point. And a lot about myself. Some true, most false. But reading back over them might help me start putting some things together.
  24. Captain Draco Visca of the Silvermoon Guard stood at attention while his trusted friend, Voren’thal served as his second for the upcoming duel against Adonis Suncrest. A sizable crowd had come to witness the results of the inevitable escalation between two long time rivals here at the Stillwhisper Pond. He could not remember what had started this millennia long feud, not that it particularly mattered anymore. As his dear friend marched back over he gave a sigh and shake of his head. “He refuses to apologize, or retract his comments. Draco… are you certain you want to do this? Adonis is an ass, there is no shadow of doubt of that, but what do you think your father would say to this? For the heir to the Visca family to be fighting like a schoolboy over petty words?” “What my father thinks is his own business. Suncrest thinks himself immune, I plan on changing that. You heard what he said about my wife.” “And what will she think if Adonis does have some trick up his sleeve and wins?” The pale brow raised as the two men stared at each other for a moment as the words laid within the air. “...He will not.” Draco shook his head before reaching his hand out, “My blade.” Voren’thal sighed as he relented as the voice of reason, handing the single bladed sword to his dear friend. “Sunwell guide your strikes. Try not to kill him if you don’t have to?” The Captain made no indication he heard, much less acknowledged, the request as he marched forward to greet his opponent. The rising son glimmered upon the drawn blades, red as the blood that was soon to flow from the clash of two men that had hated each other longer than either could remember. Draco stretched his blade, “it did not need to come to this, Suncrest.” “Didn’t it?” Adonis smirked as his blade touched his rivals. “I look forward to making you bleed.” They alternated descending numbers, the challenger starting at ten; When Adonis spoke the final number the duel proper began. In terms of strength and size, Draco clearly had the advantage. He pressed his weight into the clashing of blades, forcing Adonis into immediate defense as he struggled to keep the giant of a man at bay. When he could no longer withstand the test of strength, he slid his blade away in a hasty retreat. With every two steps Adonis took backwards, Draco took one to match him and struck. Unable to match his foe’s strength, Adonis was forced to parry it and continue his retreat. Step, strike, parry, step, strike, parry. The pattern went on in five times of succession before Draco finally spoke up. “Come now, Suncrest… are we fighting or running? Stand, fight me like the man you claim to be; not the mere boy as the crowd sees you.” Flustered by the stir of chuckles from the crowd, Adonis hastily made his next move in retort. He came from the right, where he knew his rival usually had his shield-- only to be parried and then struck with the pommel. The force of the unexpected blow made him fall to the ground. “You will have to do better than that to best a Visca, Suncrest.” The tone of the larger elf was that of a knight to his squire on the training fields, further enraging the man on his knees. With blade pointed down at his opponent still, flush and crimson in the rising sun, he offered a chance of surrender. “Yield, apologize for your words to Lady Visca and let us put this past us.” Adonis, it seemed, had other ideas. With a quick enraged strike, he knocked the larger man’s blade away from it’s target before leaping in for the kill. At the last moment, Draco dodged the blow before checking the man in the cheek with his elbow. Suncrest recoiled, giving Draco another opening to knee the man in the chest-- sending the Magister upon his back with the tip of a blade once more in his face. “You have lost, Suncrest. Submit. Let us end this charade.” “Hardly.” Magister Suncrest smirked, igniting the air between the two men. As the fire expanded at an alarming rate, Adonis pushed it beyond his reach to consume his foe. As the area surrounding him erupted he started to chuckle, thinking he at last beat his lifelong opponent. The laugh grew into a full on cackle. The laughter would be short lived, however. For before even so much as a minute had passed-- the oversized boot of Captain Visca shot from the flames, shattering the nose of the Magister that still laid upon the ground. As the man fell back upon the floor, the imposing figure of Draco stepped out of the flames; furious. “I granted you multiple chances to end this with your life in tact.” Began the Spellbreaker as he grabbed the Magister by the collar of his dueling clothes, cloth just as was his rival’s. “I challenged you to honorable combat, man to man, a single sword each. No armor, no magic. And when you lose, what do you do?” The other hand of Visca still gripped his blade, pointing it at the man. “You cheat, like the coward you are. That you always have been. I should have known, I couldn’t hold you to your word. But I can promise you this: I will never make the same mistake again.” “Plea-sh! No!” Shouted the Magister in fear for his life, recoiling in his grip for the blade that would never come. As Draco positioned the blade to run through his rival, to end it once and for all, he would find an overwhelming amount of resistance. When he looked back to see why, a furious face of his father Lord Gladius Visca glared at him with his one remaining eye. “I leave you to your devices and you decide to go about murdering your fellow Quel’dorei? I thought you better than this. She thought you better than this.” Next to his father stood his wife, seven months pregnant with their first child. Before Draco could say anything in his defense, the world around him darkened-- only the face of his disapproving father seemed immune to the fading of the world into oblivion, but even it seemed to morph...
  25. Nikaa

    Shaelie Brightwing

    Shaelie stepped off the gangplank of the ship from Ratchet, and paused on the wooden pier of Booty Bay. it had been a long time since she had traveled here. Tonight, though, she had business. From her pocket, she pulled a folded piece of paper and studied it for a moment, then began walking again. Her eyes searched the buildings she passed, looking for the wooden sign advertising the tattoo parlor.. which should be just to the left of the tavern. Right about.. there! She spotted the weather beaten sign and pushed open the door to step inside. The goblin that greeted her spoke with her for a few minutes, as she showed him the sketch on paper that she had brought. She handed over the fairly large coin purse of gold that had been agreed upon in advance. And she wasn't surprised when he raised the price by another 45%.. the tattoo she wanted was a 'premium' design, as it turned out. And the cost of ink had increased due to shortage of supplies. And of course, overhead fees, and the like. Shaelie paid without protest. It was worth it. She settled in the chair as the goblin prepared the tattoo gun, all the while grumbling to himself that he hadn't gotten at least another 10% out of her. The needle stung, but Shaelie set her jaw and endured without protest. It was worth it. A couple of hours later, she was done. The hour had grown late, but she was ecstatic. The tattoo had come out even better than she had hoped. Turned out, the goblin was quite the artist, and worth every bit of gold, and then some. She left him with a rather generous tip. Stopping beneath a pool of light from one of the hanging lanterns overhead, she admired the piece once more. It now graced the inside of her forearm, spanning an area roughly the size of her hand. The tattoo was of a shield, leaning against a rock. The shield was gold, inlaid with deep blue filigree. The pattern was quite intricate, and if you looked closely enough, you could make out the letters M G set into the design. Propped against the shield was a large hammer that seemed to glow with a faint halo of gold light. Twisted around the handle of the hammer was a silver chain necklace, with a tiny silver hammer dangling from the end.
  26. Nikaa

    Shaelie Brightwing

    Updated most sections, biggest change being description.
  27. How do we find this again? *sigh*

  28. Kaiune

    In The News

    Kaiune waited until the guard moved on to the other end of the cell block before snatching the discarded newspaper through the bars. "HE DID WHAT?!" she exclaimed loudly after quickly reading the notice She crumbled the paper in her fist and flung it at the wall. It just wasn't possible. There is no way that Ruji would abandon the cause. "These are lies" she decided finally, mumbling angrily to herself. "Ruji would never turn the guild over to that pompus Dusk Watch shill"
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