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  1. 2 points
    It's the recognition that there are more of us than I've seen evidence of in the past few months. Often, it seems like it's Syreena and I against the world. Not last night, though. Last night, we were the world, all of us, Syreena and her pet, and Vyalis, and the Grimtotem shadow, and the quiet wolf, and the knight with her broken mechanical voice accidentally screaming about horrible stereotypes. Even Malkaris, I suppose. He's worse in that skin. At least when he was more clearly falling apart, no one took him quite as seriously. Now, well, he keeps everyone entertained with his clown show, but I'm not sure we should have let him out of the guild hall. I don't think I ever want to see him and Nathandiel in the same room. But even those who weren't us weren't the usual, weren't the kind who push me to despair of any future for the Horde. There were the Luna I've worked with before, the sensible yet angry from across the spectrum, the smug and the smart. Even the one with the reputation for collecting boyfriends, who apparently has both the lizard man from last week and Our Lord Gustblade checked off her list, seemed practically an intellectual compared to the usual crowds. Even Kahlan gives me hope. There's something I like about her, and not just because she made the mistake of giving me a compliment once. Maybe it's her penchant for jumping immediately to violence. Maybe it's her utter dismissal of the continuous pathetic attempts to encroach on feelings she clearly doesn't have. Maybe it's her seemingly equal hatred of nearly everyone around her. She's not quite right in the head, being so defensive of the parents she was apparently avoiding, who I will ever doubt are actually related to her in any way, even through mere kindness. She doesn't seem to realize that everything she hates about men is all her father has to offer the world. He is the very pinnacle of what she detests most, and yet she leaps ferociously to his defense if anyone so much as sneezes in his direction. But if Kahlan were the worst the Horde had to offer, we would be well-equipped for whatever lies ahead. Unfortunately, there are those like her parents, and the monstrous rabbit who put up with Malkaris' lechery with nothing but blushes and yet ran off in a panic at the sight of that half-demon I know nothing about and want to know nothing about but who I know has enough propensity for violence to be on the side of hope. But last night, they were outnumbered in a way that felt incredibly satisfying. So yes, hope. Even at our meeting. It was small, yes, but not as small as it's been when the future has seemed darkest. We grow, slow but steady. The pendulum swings as it always does. I've been out of sync with the clock for too long to recognize its motions, but time tells its tales whether we want it to or not.
  2. 1 point
    Kexerian Tideriel Dalendala, Janissary of Sanctuary Male Blood Elf Monk, Aged 135 (Human Equivalent 29) Description: Kex'ti's grey hair is kept short, if styled. His beard is patchy, and somewhat ill-kept. His armor is crafted from the hide of a Magnaron, a gift from his commander, Julilee Liene. It is well fitting, and seethes with energy. He carries himself well, but has a notable reliance on a walking staff for a limp. His monk training was designed for stouter, rounded bodies, and has made him strong and somewhat bulky, albeit with a bit of a paunch. He smells medicinal. Residence: Sanctaury Garrison, Dalaran Family: Julilee Liene (Wife), Tesonii Inbetween (Friend), Rylie Tattersail (Apprentice) Affiliation: Sanctuary, Formerly Thunder-Pan mercenary company ('Derpan colloquially) Occupation: Combat medic and forward tactician. Faith: Holy Light, emphasis on Pandaren geomancy Known Languages: Orcish, Thalassian, Pandaren, Draenei phrases, learning Common Weapon of Choice: Sindassi mageblade, greatstaff, fists. Proficient in many weapons. History: Kex’ti was born to an innkeeper and a spellbreaker. A sickly child who showed little aptitude for martial skill nor magical prowess, Kex'ti spent most of his youth listening to stories in the corner and watching his siblings squabble over esoteric texts and wooden swords. He learned how to attend to people, and to make sure their linens were clean and meals warm. His siblings learned to hunt monsters. His family died in defense of the Sunwell, and Kex’ti inherited the inn. After the sin’dorei joined the Horde, Kex’ti was approached by a Forsaken apothecary named August Krown regarding a possible remedy for his illness. The pair fought in the Steamwheedle Cartel’s arena circuit. When bolstered by Krown’s concoctions, Kex’ti reveled in racial agility he’d never known before. His blossoming confidence allowed Kex'ti to adopt a showy combat style reinforced by dirty fighting he’d seen in his family’s Murder Row inn. The Arena certainly promised new challenges in the exotic remains of Outland, but seeing a cure to his people’s magic addiction (and perhaps his own illnesses) was what inevitably drove Kex’ti to Outland. When his journey to Shattrath revealed Kael’thas’s duplicity, he joined the Skyguard in hopes of protecting the city of light from the traitor’s fel magic. While the Skyguard did little to diminish his Horde patriotism, it nevertheless tempered his views towards the races of the Alliance. Alongside other Sha’tari factions, Kex’ti journeyed to Quel’danas. The draenei in particular fascinated Kex’ti, a curiosity only bolstered when the Prophet Velen awoke the Sunwell with the Light. Although his body was still in dire need of Krown’s philters, the coursing power of the light renewed his will, and Kex’ti promised to fight against the darkness of Azeroth however he could. The duelist-come-soldier traveled with the Hand of Vengeance to Northrend, and served as a scout among the crevasses and ravines of the Howling Fjord. His service was relatively low-key, and found the pull of the arena ever more tempting under cold stars. With the organization of the Argent Tournament, his experience allowed him to continue to serve the Horde and to slake his competitive spirit. To his misfortune, Arthas’s forces overwhelmed the tournament grounds. The forces of the Crusade rallied, but Kex’ti’s friends, who he’d fought and loved beside for so long, did not survive. Kex’ti left the Expedition, and attempted to return to civilian life as a cook in Ratchet. Without Krown’s alchemy or the thrill of combat, his illness began to consume him once again. Arthas, who’d taken from him so much, fell. Deathwing the Destroyer shattered the world, and too was slain. And throughout it all, Kex’ti cooked at a dockside tavern, and wasted away. It was summer when Wei Xo arrived in Ratchet, and over a meal, Kex’ti became his combat instructor. Pouring his experience into the young Pandaren’s sword arm, the promoter and his student traveled between the same arenas that Kex’ti had fought in, a decade past. The two grew together, and Xo and Kex’ti parted ways as the blood elf boarded Garrosh’s fleet to the Krasarang Wilds. Seeking healing from the mystics of Kun Lai, Kex’ti wandered to the Peak of Serenity. In the thin mountain air and steaming pools, Kex’ti, for the final time, started over. Over the year, he hid away from the war. He meditated, trained, and focused. He threw away his daggers and his poisons, and in their stead learned to use his own body and common herbs. While the path of the mistweaver was a new one, Kex’ti found that, after decades, he finally appreciated his siblings’ affinity for arcane magic. As the Dark Portal turned red, Kex’ti finally decided to leave Pandaria. Joining up with a mercenary company which had formed on the Isle of Thunder, Kex’ti joined Thrall and Khadgar’s assault through the portal. Now, in a new world steeped in his old memories, Kex’ti sought answers to questions he’d long since stopped asking. In the process, he made a great many new friends, and joined his current guild, Sanctuary. As a member of Sanctuary, he aided in the infiltration of Highmaul, a storied tour of duty in Ashran, and organized communal defense efforts in Tanaan Jungle, as well as final assaults on Hellfire Citadel to free captives. His valor has been tested time and time again. He fought viciously against the herald of Accalia, Vionora, and has recently joined the efforts to research and cure the mysterious Silver Sickness affecting spellcasters all over Azeroth. Against the terrorist Morinth, Kex'ti eagerly avenged damage done to his two closest friends, though he has struggled now for some time with his place in the Horde. After long battles both internally and externally, Kex'ti and Julilee researched numerous means to alleviate his worsening illness, eventually settling on a risky ritual to balance out their lifespans. Though not cured, he certainly has a longer life ahead of him. His exposure to the orphaned human, Rylie Tattersail, has only increased his ties to Sanctuary and his hopes to continue onward. Of late, he has organized Sanctuary's efforts in gathering and preserving relics of power and risk. Initially settling on hiding them away to keep out of the hands of all others, he has grudgingly accepted a more observational role. One with the implicit agreement to take such things out of the hands of those who would use them for ill purposes. After shadowy engagements with a mysterious faction called the Quorum, Kex'ti has resumed active duty in ousting the returned Legion from Azeroth. During the Legion conflict, Kex'ti spent most of his efforts aiding the refugees in Suramar, and exacted a personal vendetta for Remiaan on Argus.
  3. 1 point
    "Jenny?" Justica said with a smile. "She's brave, and strong, and determined... She's the best part of Night Vanguard. She makes everyone happy when she's around, and she can fit in with the common soldiers or with the officers and lords with ease. I..." Justica blushed, "Oh, I could go on for hours about Jenny, but the best way to know her is to meet her. Just remember, she's off the market."
  4. 1 point
    The night was cold. All around Thunder Bluff, folks were still active. They gathered, some for early revelry, some for the warmth of friendships. They clustered and they drew together around flickering flames. Like moths. Amietia kept on. One hoof in front of the other. They knew the way on their own. The pattern of rounded paving stones fell away beyond her steps homeward bound. Her mind was free to focus on other things besides the empty tent awaiting her. The Longwalker had disturbed her, of course. She had spent so much time on her own, isolated and cocooned within the solitude of the passing moons that she had forgotten the cold cruelty of the world. It was a bad habit, she supposed. She still felt, niggling at the roots of her mane, guilt at having so abruptly abandoned her duties to her people. It had been her job to be so optimistic. It had been her calling to look through the uncertain mists and know that beyond them somewhere was Light. She was the Seer. A snort exploded from her nose, half composed of impotent fury and dark humor. The Seer who could no longer See. How useless was she? That still did not excuse that young bull for his infuriatingly close-minded ignorance! Purple monkeys indeed! Where was the place for such prejudices anymore? How could such people still cling to their hatreds when the very world in which they lived was so threatened? Was there not enough evil to contend with that they could let go of their own? As always when on this path of thought, the imagery of a cracked skull, bloody and malicious, entered her mind. Grim, it was, and the multifaceted meaning of the word she also found ire in, as had her sister. Silly words. Familiar, the hem of her house crept into view of the ground. Amietia reached for the flap. Hesitated. She could not simply hide forever. This is what her old friend Bombina had been saying so repetitively. Amietia was not hiding. Her hand dropped. She swiveled to one side, taking pleasure in the way her hooves dug divots into the soil right in front of her home, marring the ground. Bombina did not understand. How could the old shaman comprehend? Even Amietia was not sure why she felt so broken. Despite her best attempts to cultivate a relationship with the woman she supposedly once shared a womb with, it was never as if she could pretend they were real sisters. Real twins. That Kerala was gone... why did it matter? What made this time any different than the others? Amietia trailed her fingers along the faded lines of dye decorating the exterior of her abode. Even were it not night, even if An'she shone brightly blazing in direct rays to light up the surface, she had lost the ability to distinguish color. The patterns appeared to her in varying shades of one hue. Gray. The world became gray for her the same day the visions ceased to change. Now there were only two. The colors had leeched, too, from these dreams. In her visions she watched the great tree burn white now, while the dark shapes of familiar people huddled around roots and the flickering light turned darkness at the edge of vision into seething shadowy evils. She looked upon a white stretch of land and down at the pair of gray stone doors. The once-pretty vines were black now, like veins in a dead landscape. And the doors always swung shut. Gray, even in her dreams. She missed rainbows, so. It made Amietia's chosen surname, Greydawn, so entirely funny, didn't it? What was not funny was the certainty that Amietia had seen her sister for the very last time. She felt bereft. Gutted. Something vital was missing, and she didn't know how to cope with the loss. Bombina had been sympathetic at first. Kerala had been absent a suspiciously long time this time. Then when that troll had appeared in Thunder Bluff with Kerala's stick... well all the Skytotem girls had gone to extra lengths in the search for their elusive friend. All of the people represented by the voodoo dolls had turned out to be perfectly fine and unharmed. Except for the staff, Amietia had no reason to connect the troll with her sister, but the coincidence was just too suspicious. As the months passed and no word came from the druid, Amietia became further and further depressed, and her friends no longer argued when she voiced the belief that her sister must be dead. It was hard enough to get up, get dressed, and go outside the quiet confines of her tent, and then when she does and meets one her own shu'halo brothers, that Oenn, who makes her question why she bothered...? Amietia sighed. She followed the pattern, tracing the paintwork and stitches around the tent wall to the backside and the open edge of the bluff. Black night air yawned cold and vast before her, a great void of nothingness that beckoned invitingly.
  5. 1 point
    Phase one The war of the Shifting sands: Nocthelerus was born to Moonjade Riverdawn a huntress from before the sundering who lost her husband and first son in the war. Nocthelerus Riverdawn was actually an accident. She was having fun with other night elves and got pregant with him.It was during the war of the shifting sands. Moonjade being an experienced huntress was called to war. Her Son was young and bright and though she was going through the motions with him he was very attached to her to begin with. She set him with a cousin of hers so she could go to war. He didn't understand death yet at that point but didn't want to be away from mother. So under the cover of night he snuck on the ship. It wasn't until three days out that the nightelves caught the stow away they couldn't turn the ship around at that point and Moonjade gave him a good scolding for his efforts. She seemed rather aloof. Stating she wanted him to go back as soon as possible. They nightelves could not turn back the Captian promised he would go back with the first wounded. The first battle was on the shore it was brutal against the insects. The little boy was told to hide on the ship. That he did. But instead of just hiding he started doing what he could to roll amunition to the Cannons so they were ready. He did what he could to bring wounded back in the ship and got them water and supplies. He was a brave young boy but already he was learning medicine even though the night elves didn't approve of him helping they didn't turn the hand away. Nocthelerus worked through the night and in the morning the first ship of wounded soldiers were ready to go. He was set on that ship. He was crying though Moonjade looked at him with aloof measure looking back to the shore to cover their escape. The cover wasn't 100 percent a day out the insects attacked the ship. He was told to hide again. He hid within the ship as he heard the screams of the nightelves who were cut down my the scythes. The insects looked for warmth but his little hidey hole was shielded. He cowered in there for days not having food or more than a skin of water with him. On the fith day the ship hit the shore. He still didn't come out. Phase Two Shore of the Great Turtles's First days: Pandarens explored the ship taking the bodies of the insects and the nightelves and burning them giving them a proper ulogy. Finally Nocthelerus smelled food and he snuck out to take some. The crafty little child was eventually found by the Pandaren.They thought he might be a monster like the mantid and he hid. A young Pandaren inkeeper stopped them and told them he was just a kid. And she would take him in and raise him. Mao Snowpaw was her name and she raised him until he was 20. By that time he grew to full hieght. He kept helping her as she grew with the cooking and making of beds watching monks and warriors that came by he practiced in the night. Though the young child blocked out the trauma from the Sythid. He seemed intent on not letting anything like that happen to him again.He seemed to grow along with the Pandaren however he seemed to take longer to grow fully. He was a bright child and by the time he was 20 years old he was performing mimics of monk maneuvers. His dexterity was evident. To their surprise he started to use mists to heal. Phase three Reaching Pandaria: The Great turtle made harbor at Pandaria around that time. Since he was fully grown he wanted to explore more do more for pandaria. So with his buddies he got off the ship and headed inland to try and see what they could learn at monestaries. At first they trained at the Golden dawn.The way Noc Han dissappeared and reappeared he seemed like a rogue. The Shado pan watched him for a good 20 years at the monestary as he perfected every technique there. Brewmastery, windwalking and Mistweaving. A shado pan finally approached him giving him an invite into a specialized monestary. It was rather secret and he found great honor in it accepting the invitation. Soon he would travel to Kun Lai Summit.He took a good six months to get up that mountain being patient meeting the people around there with patience and respecting territory of Youngol.Eventually he made it up to the mountain where Xuen judged him worthy to be in the monestary. The head of the monestary seemed curious. Xuen saw through the young child and saw his great strengths. He went through years of training to become a Shado Pan. Working hard on minmal food in colder climates he learned well and adapted. Rarely getting sick. Using his cooking skills to the best he could manage to keep others going. He would tell stories and song he heard from the Great turtle during downtime. (because I am open to background ties I tend not to name buddies or others he had ties with) They soon had the last test to become Shado Pan. It was a gaunlet with carrying a torch up a hill with Windy Tornados trying to blow it out. In order to succeed you had to keep the torch lit until you reach the top defeating every foe or knocking them off the bridge. Noc Han had trained for this his entire life and it showed his athletic form kept the fire away from the wind and foes. And he managed to defeat most foes only taking a slash here and there He had a long slash from his chest down to his opposite hip from one of the assailants. Lighting the top of the Mountain ablaze he emerged victorious. Impressed the Shado pan started training him in the finer arts. Then a call came, the swarm was hitting the wall and they needed reinforcements. Noc Han volunteered for one of the more secluded ones. For years he was on the wall defeating the mantid. Rarely did a pandaran releive him. It came to be that the Shado Pan started to assume that Noc Han was a pandaren. Most were highly surprised the blue skinned devil with white hair was in fact not pandaren. Near the end of his time in Pandaria he met Mia Snowpaw, Apparently distantly related to Mao Snowpaw. She was beautiful smart and she knew how to fight. This was one of the first times Noc Han fell in love so deeply. Sure he courted some Panda's before but he was told strictly Pandaren weren't his kind.They had long nights on the wall when the swarm was small he would share many poems with her It wasn't too long that she reciprocated his love. One bad Mantid swarm came during the the summer months and they barely held the line. Not able to call out because they were surounded it took all his and Mia's prowess to hold it back. Once the dust had cleared from the battle he discovered his lover was fatally wounded by the mantid. Though he tried his best to mend her eventually her paw grabbed his hand. She told him "Walk in peace". As much as he tried He figured there would never be an end to the mantid never be an end to the war. He had to stop it once and for all so those like Mia wouldn't perish. Little did he know that from the fight in the Mantid he was possessed by a small sha of hatred. Indeed that fire in his breast drove him it wasn't the first time he lost close family to insects. He took The vengance path stating his post was unguarded and he was trying to save a pandaren he went down the road destroying every mantid he could luckily the Pandaren weren't far behind in covering his post. He went on a warpath down towards the Empress herself. Reaching the gate he killed as many insects as he could. Before he could enter her chambers he was found by a flier.. It stabbed him from behind he bled out and went unconcious. Phase Four The Journey outside Pandaria: Noc Han was thrown out to sea in a bloody mess with other bodies. Through the storm should have killed him he ended up on shore. Waking up a small mammal looking at him like he was food. Using some of the mists to rejuvinate himself enough to get up. Then he started to look around. Finding dinosaurs trying to kill him he started hiding out surviving on the island only long enough to make a Boat of Bamboo then he headed off to try and get to Pandaria again. The mists hid his way. And he went wild off course. He started having to boil water and fish to eat. It took a good month before he reached Kalimdor. He landed on shore in Kalimdor, The only thing there was a band of trolls who wanted to use him as a sacrifice to the gods. He fought them off and started living off the lands heading to Ungoro crater. It was a rough land but there was a high mountain he could sit and meditate. Withdrawing from the world. The Sha had left him since he left that island and he wanted to take some time to earn his inner peace again. He lived some 80 years on his own. Only talking to the occassional Night elf to barter for goods.He dissappeared soon after not wanting any ties to the people. Eventually his long meditation was interrupted by a stray Qiraji Coming into Ungoro crater. He slew it and knew this would just be one of many. He picked up his items the few he had and headed towards where the insect came from. From there he reunited with the nightelves. Fighting against the Qiraji he seemed to have a surprising amount of experience for being an uknown person to the nightelves. He lead a couple of groups to get succinct victories in the conflict. The Clash of the world came together. The Alliance was made and Noc Hand came to know other denizens, Humans Gnomes and Dwarves. Phase Five the introduction to the Illidari He ended up in the eastern kingdoms when the dark portal opened. Knowing this new threat could destroy the world he wanted the challenge and to defend Pandaria through this means. He went with others into the dark portal and fought off the legion with fist and staff. Going into the shadows he tried to find the true cause of this threat.Fighting foe after foe, demon after demon in one town that was being besiged by the legion in shadowmoon valley he found Illidari fighting side by side with him. He was about to fall from the foe. When one destroyed his foe absorbed the power from the demon and kept fighting. Waking up in the Illidari camp he used the limited healing ability he had left to mend himself. Getting up he started to listen to the story of these demon hunters. He loved hearing the stories. And they sacrificed just like him. Everything to see their home safe. Eventually fighting along side the Illidari he requested to join them. They wanted his resolve. He stated he would give anything to defeat the legion to save his home. AFter a few tests to see his will they oversaw the ritual to infuse him with Fel and grant him the sight.They found the Monk had great control over himself and his mental faculties. Impressed with this they were able to do more with his tattoos only giving him a binding tattoo at the back of the neck and down his spine. He was able to push more fel than normal through his form without relenting to the demon he was becoming. His demon form was different as well. It was black like the night with white highlights. Spikes and sometimes wings depending on what he needed to do to destroy the legion. After helping retrieve the Keystone to the demon worlds he was sealed with the other Illidari waiting for the Wardens to release him. In the end he didn't fault the Wardens they had the same idea as him. Save azeroth from the Legion. When he was free and re-empowered himself he got the first thing he missed during all his time in stasis. Some perfectly brewed tea. Now he is working to improve the reputation of the Illidari, through strong mind and proper dipomatic words.
  6. 1 point
    "Do you remember? When we were free, when the Earthmother ran her fingers through our manes with each gust?" Full name: Ankoba Earthwhisper (Fr. Warhoof.) Age: 33 Race: Tauren Gender: Male Hair: Brown Skin color: Lightbrown/white mottled. Eyes: Blue Height: 8'0 Weight: 550 Place of Residence: Wandering, at the behest of the Earthmother Birthplace: Somewhere in Mulgore, prior to the settling of Thunder Bluff Languages: Orcish, Taur'ahe Occupation: Shaman (fr. Brave) Likes: Fishing, the wilds, spice bread Dislikes: Goblins, large cities, a disrespect of nature Hobbies: Swimming, hiking, the occasional plant tending Special abilities: Survivalist- a keen nature of what the Earthmother offers for natural healing. Physical description: A kind face and sweeping horns, for a shaman, his hide bares many a divot and scar that suggest he may have been quite the fighter at one time. History: Born to a pair of Braves while the Tauren were still nomadic, his parents swore themselves- And a young Ankoba- to the security of Cairne Bloodhoof and Thunder Bluff. A rambunctious calf, Ankoba excelled at his training. A promising young Brave, sent to Taurajo in his teen years to shadow older guards and learn the way. All things, all good things, come to an end, however. Not even the Tauren were immune to the horrors of the war between the Horde and Alliance. Returning from a hunting trip, they were stopped in the flickering lights of the blaze that ate away at Taurajo. A heated battle, screaming civilians. Something struck his head, and he was left to burn. But something spoke to him, cradled him. "Come back to us, Ankoba. There is so much yet to be done. So much to be tended to." Ankoba awoke with a startle. This was not Taurajo. He had been dragged to safety, taken back to Thunder Bluff. He would no longer be fighting, not with his injuries. He relayed what he had heard to the medicineman that tended after him, and was soon set upon by a shaman's circle, asked if he might want to join, learn the ways of the elements, how to harness and commune. It came naturally to the bull, and he found his calling. He left his former name there in the mud and blood with Taurajo. Earthwhisper. His anger, however, would still best him. In Stonetalon, with a group of equally upset young shaman, they came together, they wailed at the destruction, called upon the elements, the storms and rain, driving winds- They called a deluge of rain to wash away the logging camps, those that might disturb the Earthmother's peace. Fugitives from Garrosh's Horde, logging disrupted, Orcs and Goblins washed away, drowned and crushed under their equipment. Ankoba Earthwhisper, Speaker of the Great Rain Dance. His whereabouts, though debatable, trace him to a tribe clinging to life in the Thousand Needles.
  7. 1 point
    Full Name: Draquesha Nicknames: Draq (uses Jenkins facetiously) Date of Birth: June 10 Age: 32 Race: Jungle Troll Gender: Female Hair: Green/teal anime hair Skin: Blue Eyes: Gold Height: 7'2"//2.18m Weight: 213lb//96.6kg Place of Residence: Sholazar Basin//Nagrand Place of Birth: Echo Islands Known Relatives: tbd Religion/Philosophy: Draq doesn't believe in a higher power and lives her life to the sound of her own tune, rolling with the punches as they come to her Occupation: Hunter and herbalist because she likes playing with animals and picking pretty flowers Group/Guild affiliation: tbd Guild Rank: tbd Enemies: None that I'm aware of Likes: The warmth; travel; nature Dislikes: Conflict; humans; the cold; crowds/cities/buildings Hobbies: fishing and foraging; cooking; geocashing (I'm joking, but she would totally do this) Favorite foods: soup (all the soup), but specifically ramen; licorice; grilled meats Favorite drinks: ayran (salty yogurt drink); on special occasions, she likes rakı (licorice flavored alcoholic beverage) Favorite colors: earth tones; wine red Weapons of Choice: Personalized crossbow with fun accesssories Physical features: Tall and lanky; resting bitch face Special abilities: tbd Positive personality traits: curious; free spirited Negative personality traits: conflict averse; sarcastic; disinterested Misc. Quirks: Boisterous; a bit prickly; tries to remain neutral on just about everything; reclusive, so the news is lost to her; likes dancing, has two left feet (rip) Theme Songs: A work in progress because I have an odd relationship with music Better Days -- Hedley Learn to Let Go -- Kesha Chandelier -- Sia
  8. 1 point
    In the interest of sharing, here are a few communities you may or may not have known about. Our own Ravenholdt+TwistingNether Discord server can be accessed on the home page here on TNG. Roleplayers Connect Discord server: invite link is https://discord.gg/ettfyHJ Roleplayer's Network Blizzard social group: invite link for our realms https://blizzard.com/invite/L9gE0FyR9 and global https://blizzard.com/invite/J9O7xh0AX Maelstrom+Lightninghoof+TheVentureCo's public realm Discord server: invite link is https://discord.gg/4nH5GUu
  9. 1 point
    The poster above is hung in Alliance cities and the Alliance quarter of Dalaran. Alliance friends, join the Twilight Empire for its annual Winter Veil celebration! Wear your holiday best (or your worst!), bring a wrapped gift for the gift exchange, and enjoy good food, warm drink, and merry company! Who: Alliance What: Winter Veil RP Celebration Where: Thunderbrew Distillery, Kharanos When: Saturday, December 30th, 7:30PM ST Contact Aryänna-Ravenholdt (alt code ALT+0228) or Ketani-Ravenholdt with questions!
  10. 1 point
    Syreena watched Symorick as he showed some signs of life, or at least animation. Would it work? He had been a Paladin in life, and she had always thought that Paladins had some protection from things like this. Malkaris did mention that it would make this more difficult. But the Paladin had also been infested with fel, so the Light had failed him at least one point. Maybe the fel had left him corrupted enough that this would work. She studied him, waiting for him to wake up with an equal mixture of anticipation and concern. If this worked, would it be as planned? Would Symorick be docile and obedient as promised, or would he be as dangerous to her in undeath as he was in life? Or maybe he’d be completely mad after being dead for so long, his mind twisted beyond functioning. She could only wait and see, and hope that Malkaris’s skill in necromancy was as good as he claimed. She had no reason to doubt him, really. Although the Grim warlocks were notoriously untrustworthy and self-serving, most of them were also quite skilled at their job. Finally, Symorick suddenly let out a hacking cough and tried to move, fighting to get his joints to work. “And here I was thinking whatever it was wouldn’t work,” Qabian said with a smirk as his attention was drawn to the stirring corpse. “Then I would have had to kill Malkaris,” Syreena answered mildly, without taking her gaze from Symorick. “Necromancy, while not my favorite bag of toys to play with, is the one I’m most proficient in,” Malkaris argued. The ritual had obviously taken its toll on the warlock though. He seemed a bit wobbly on his feet, and his skin was a much paler shade of elf. “If you ever need a new dog, Qabian….” The mage shuddered. “I had one. Once was enough.” Symorick groaned, trying to open his eyes. “What…what is going on?” Syreena crouched over him, urging him to wake up and making sure her patchwork stitched face filled his field of vision before he managed to get his eyes open. “Do you remember me?” “How could I forget your gorgeous face,” he coughed, recognizing her unmistakable visage even through the changes it had undergone since he’d last seen her. Qabian glanced between Syreena and Symorick with a look of confusion. “You broke it,” he stage-whispered to Malkaris, who was confused as well, but also intrigued. “I’m not that out of practice….I think.” Malkaris used his reality ripping staff of destruction and mayhem as a leaning post, clearly tired from what he’d pulled off here. “Good. Because you are mine now,” Syreena informed Symorick. “And as you and your Professor once tried to make me kill my own people, so now you will hunt yours.” “As you wish,” the dead man responded automatically. A look of frustration grew on his face. He carefully examined his body. “What am I? What have you done to me?” “You’re dead, or I guess…undead. Just like a Forsaken.” “And I am to obey you?” “Without question,” Syreena confirmed. “If you resist, you’ll be filled with horrible pain.” She gave Malkaris a brief nod as he wearily took his leave. “And what if I were to try and kill you?” Symorick inquired. “You can’t. You missed your chance to torture and kill me years ago. You don’t get to do it now. You’re bound to me now.” Syreena grinned cruelly. “Now it’s my turn to torture you.” “You know nothing of torture,” Symorick stated. He actually laughed at her. “Then you will teach me,” she informed him. “Using yourself as the subject.” “I thought this was torture?” “Is it? How does it feel? A former Paladin, Scarlet…now you’re Forsaken.” “It…I feel like I lost something,” he admitted. “I can no longer hear the Light’s call.” “Good.” Syreena didn’t tell him she intended for him to be reacquainted with the Light again very soon. “You will hunt and kill Alliance every day. And once a day, you’ll report to the Grim guild hall to tell me how many you’ve killed.” Symorick nodded, but Syreena continued. “All Alliance. None are spared. Especially not the Aegis or the Empire, should you see any of them.” “That was easy,” Qabian said with a smirk at the new undead. Symorick looked at the elf, seeming to just notice him there. Syreena saw the look and issued further orders. “No hunting, hurting, or killing any Grim. Or any Horde, for that matter…except Sanctuary.” “I have lost everything twice in my life—friends family, and the Light," Symorick told her. "I need not a third chance, but I feel compelled…” “I don’t care what you lost,” Syreena hissed at him hatefully. “I nearly lost myself because of you and your friends.” “My ‘friends’ left me to die in the hands of demons. There is no love there any longer.” “Here’s a secret,” Qabian said with amusement. “There never was any.” “is that why you had so much fel in you…” Syreena mused. “I was possessed by some dreadlord, a passenger in my own body.” “I feel sorry for the dreadlord.” Syreena sneered. “I imagine he is dead, if I was buried, so I do too,” Symorick said. “A shame I had no hand in it.” “I’m glad it killed you.” Syreena thought a moment, then added, “Though I also regret it wasn’t me that killed you.” “Is that why you didn’t leave it in the ground?” Qabian asked. Syreena didn’t answer him, but thought sometimes the elf was too perceptive for his own good. “The Alliance heads will be yours, Syreena," Symorick promised. "Please do leave the method to me. I prefer to make it last. It has been quite a long time since I have tortured anyone.” “Do as you please with the Alliance. And with Sanctuary, if you catch any of them. Just save any elf ears for me.” “Of course,” Symorick said with a chuckle. “If this fails, and he leads some charge of filth to our doorstep, we kill Malkaris?” Qabian suggested to Syreena. The rogue considered and then nodded; the warlock would be a suitable scapegoat should this go badly. “How long have I been dead?” Symorick asked. Syreena pointed to the dates on the gravestone. “Geo is dead too, and I have the Shard.” Syreena briefly considered giving the Shard to Symorick, not even knowing that the girl once tried to use her influence to put Syreena herself into the former Inquisitor’s hands. “He was a fool, blind and careless,” Symorick said of Geo. “The others are smart and will be well hidden.” “That’s what they always think,” Qabian said. “If you ever find them, kill Morg quick if you want, but Marrus….. Make him suffer a slow and horrible death.” Bitterness laced her tone as she spoke of the professor. “Well, get to work. Unless Qabian has further business with you. I have work to do.” “Risky business, taking an enemy out of the ground. But I did it once, and she never did turn,” Qabian said to Syreena when she bid him goodnight. She made a mental note to ask him about that later. Then the mage turned to the undead man. “Go kill them all.” As Syreena took her leave, part of her was pleased to have a new tool for the Mandate that seemed to eager to kill her enemies. Another part of her felt cheated out of seeing him suffer. She'd expected him to hate his new self, or resist killing his former guildmates. Well, there were other ways to make him suffer, she assured herself.
  11. 1 point
    THUNK! Khorvis grunted as the shovel hit something solid through the wet dirt. It had started raining, a light drizzle but with the promise of heavier downfall to come. “Here do be your stiff, Shadowblade. Felmancer.” Malkaris, who had been planning out his ritual, peered into the hole and let out a small laugh. “Weeell then.” “What’s funny?” Syreena asked. Malkaris scratched his head. “He’s uh….” “He’s dead?” Syreena suggested, suddenly wondering at the warlock’s soundness of mind. “Energetically confused,” Malkaris corrected. “I can feel faint traces of two opposing energies in what’s left of him. There were faint whispers of how the Ebon Blade tried to raise a powerful paladin, and how it failed, so I’ve heard along the grapevine. He’s no paragon of the Light or whatever, but there is Fel, and lots of it mixed up in that holy soup of his. How much is this worth to you?” By that question, Syreena got the feeling this may be more dangerous than she expected. She also didn’t care. She wasn’t giving up her chance at revenge on one of the Alliance involved in holding her captive a couple years ago. “It’s worth it. No backing out now. I want him.” Malkaris gave her a look that was part concern and part curiosity, as if she were a crazy person and he wondered what she would do next. “Good,” he said as he tossed her fingernail aside. “I’ll need something stronger. More substantial.” “Like what?” Syreena asked, frowning. “That’s up to you. But if you want control of this thing we’ll be raising, it needs a direct link to you. I assume you’ll want this creature to be capable of its own thought, but bound to your will, yes?” “Yes,” she confirmed with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I want him to remember what he was.” As the little rogue searched her person for something, after firmly refusing to let Malkaris take one of her few remaining memories of the man they were trying to raise, Malkaris turned his attention to Khorvis, who had been communing with the earthen spirits of Tirisfal. “Khorvis, tell me…when you commune with the spirits, do they ever ask anything of you?” Khorvis reached out with the fury of his spirit while responding to the felmancer. “Aye, there do always be conflict. But we Grim do not relent.” The coffin suddenly splintered, and the roiling earth dragged the human up out of the hole, along with everything else he was buried with. Syreena gathered several items that were tossed up from the grave and slipped them into her pack. Then she frowned in thought and held something up to Malkaris. “Would this work?” She held up a pale purple gem, given to her by Lomani some time ago. “A friend gave this to me. She said this kind of stone is good for soothing the soul. I keep it with me always. Will it work?” Malkaris looked at the purple gem curiously. “That’ll do perfectly actually.” Syreena tossed him the gem, though with obvious reluctance. He rolled it about in his palm, his look thoughtful. “Yes….yes, this will work well.” Khorvis crossed his arms, letting the rain soak through his leathers. The storm above paled in comparison to the turbulence he felt concerning this strange ritual. Malkaris threw some poultices into a green fel fire he had started under the tree, and pulled out a sharp knife. He looked over the corpse trying to see what parts were sturdy and which parts were…decidedly not. After a brief moment, he jabbed the knife into the corpse, just below the navel. Content with the depth, he took the gem and stuck his hand in with it. His arm moved about a little as he fit the gem to the coccyx. Khorvis retreated a step, keeping a sharp lookout for…whatever his imagination may have been conjuring. Once content with the stone’s placement, Malkaris withdrew his hand and waved it through the felfire again. “This will be your anchor,” the warlock explained to Syreena. “Your will will be his will….when you choose it to be, in any case.” Khorvis grimaced and threw his shield to the ground. He rubbed his forearm, as if it were burned. His shield was icy cold. “And if the gem is ever cut out of him?” Syreena asked. “Will I lose control of him then?” “Possibly,” Malkaris said as he pulled some other tools out. “This will ensure obedience, but like most abused animals, it will take time before he realizes he has a will of his own, in the event that does happen. You’ll uh…wanna make sure that doesn’t happen.” He flashed both of his companions a smile before etching runes of necromancy into the corpse, each one lighting up with baleful light before fading, looking like nothing more than scarification. “Hush, human. Your spirit has a home in the cage of pain, hm?” Malkaris was hushing someone that probably wasn’t even there. Maybe. Khorvis growled, his tusks flashing in the crackle of the sky’s lightning display. “I have seen enough. Raise your plaything, Shadowblade. I do know this game too well to wish to see the ending.” The old orc shook his head and drifted away, heralded by spirit wolves on an astral tide. Malkaris complained that Khorvis would miss the best part. Syreena watched him leave, knowing she would probably hear about this later, but for now, she put her concerns aside to focus on the ritual. Malkaris was talking about her dropping some blood over where he placed the gem. She took the knife he offered her, and sliced open her palm. Making a fist over Symorick’s belly, she forced a few drops of blood to fall over where the gem was. “He will kill Alliance, as he once healed them,” Syreena said, staring at the corpse as her blood soaked into him. “He will torture the humans, as he once tortured the undead.” “That’s for sure,” Malkaris agreed. “This creature is going to be a nightmare.” Continuing the ritual, Malkaris placed his palm on the corpse’s forehead and growled an incantation in his native birth tongue, the elven words coming out somehow darker and more savage than one would expect from a silky elven language. The words gained pace, and his own spectral form was wreathed in darkness, wisp light, and sorrow. “Don’t struggle now, little child. The Light will not save you from this.” As he murmured to the corpse, he dug one of his fingers into its left eye socket, teasing out the man’s soul by pushing it out, like a pimple, with his own energies. He extended a hand to Syreena. “This may get a little weird, but I need you to grasp my hand.” “I think this means we’re dating,” he teased, after she closed her fingers around his. Before any protest, he drew on some of the energy of what remained of her soul, and directed it into the corpse, establishing a bond between the gem, the dead, and the master. The corpse convulsed as it began to awaken, groaning faintly, as if from a long distance as his soul was drawn back into its new pain chamber. Malkaris removed his hands from Symorick’s body and stood up, patting himself off and then kicking dirt onto the fel campfire. Syreena wiped her hands on her leggings and watched the waking body. “It’s done?” “When it finally rises, it’s up to you how you want it to see the world. Loss, hope…that’s on you. It will know it lost something. It will start to remember somewhat. You can direct it. Just….don’t direct it at me. Also! Our souls touched slightly. Don’t be surprised if you start having dreams involving my childhood or whatever.” “What?” Syreena asked sharply. But the warlock only gave her a wide grin. Qabian had arrived at some point during the ritual, but had remained quietly observant until it was obvious the deed was done. “Mischief, I assume?” the elf asked as he stalked up to the pair. “Oh. You know,” Malkaris answered. “A little bit of light necromancy. Raising dead people. Making soul puppets. The usual.” Malkaris went on with Syreena about the things she might see because of their brief connection during the ritual. She was not pleased. “Everything has a price,” he informed her. “Reminding me why I don’t mess with…” Qabian motioned at the ground between the two of them, where the corpse still lay unmoving. “…that.” “It was a rare opportunity I couldn’t pass up,” Syreena said. “I’m sure.” Malkaris and Qabian bickered a bit, but Syreena ignored them. She was focused on the waking corpse, waiting to play with her new “puppet” as Qabian referred to it.
  12. 1 point
    “Malkaris, report to the Inquisitor’s office. Now.” Syreena’s voice over the hearthstone carried a sense of urgency and authority not often heard from the little rogue. She was pacing behind her desk when the warlock arrived. Despite her impatience, she resisted the urge to just drag him with her to the Monastery and order him to do what she wanted. After all, this wasn’t a typical Grim task she was about to ask him for. Instead, she thanked him for coming and told him she needed a favor. Malkaris raised a brow curiously and there was a playful twinge at the corner of his mouth. “I see by your look, you’re willing to listen to it.” “I’m all ears,” the elf said. And with that, he pulled out a pouch containing a few elf ears. “Qabian wanted me to give that to you, by the way.” For once, Syreena was more interested in the task at hand than in adding to her collection of ears, so she got straight to the point. “If I remember correctly, you have some skills in…making the dead live again.” The warlock stiffened slightly, glancing around unconsciously but slowly, but his curiosity deepened, and his smile widened. “I’ve been known to dabble….” “What is your success rate?” the Shadowblade asked him. “Depends on the task. What would you like me to do?” Syreena arched a brow, feeling her impatience rising again. “Isn’t it obvious?” Malkaris grinned and shrugged. “Well. There’s m ore to the art than just making dead things walk or do a dance. There are requirements, depending. Do you want whatever it is that you’re looking to raise to feel? To remember figments, not enough to know, but enough to torment?” “Oh, I definitely want to torment,” she confirmed. A frost gale blustered through to the office. The tinkle of bone chimes resounded with the sound of footsteps. Syreena looked up and nodded to Khorvis. “Lasher,” she said in the way of greeting. Malkaris also nodded to the orc. “Shadowblade,” he grunted, with a mix of admiration and vitriol. Syreena and Malkaris continued the conversation, going over details. Then Khorvis, having watched the two concoct their plot with an obvious air of distaste, spoke up. “That does sound like something unnatural to me, felmancer. Of whom the fel do you speak?” But it was Syreena who answered. “Symorick Tyrrell. I found his grave. Will you help us dig him up?” “Let me be clear,” Khorvis answered, as he stroked the twin braids of his beard. “I do not know who the fel you still speak of. Will this aid the Mandate?” Although Syreena was disappointed that Khorvis didn’t remember the name, she answered confidently. “Yes. He will kill many Alliance.” Malkaris looked between the two. “For the record, I don’t particularly care if it does or not. It’ll be nice to raise a corpse or two for a change.” Khorvis stomped to his feet. “Fine. Even after so many years here on Azeroth, my Common still do be the stuff of hellboar shit. Tyrrell sounds like a name we may have crossed. I will find a shovel.” Khorvis went off to find a shovel, and the other two left the office as well, still talking details. “Can you do anything to make him be my pet and do whatever I say?” she asked. “That I can,” the warlock answered. “But if you want absolute obedience, I need something of you. A piece of you—a memory, body part, something with meaning…” He pointed at her one remaining ear. “No,” she said quickly. He held up his hands in a “don’t stab the messenger” fashion. “Necromancy ever has been an art of give and take. The more you give, or…borrow, the more you can take.” The little rogue bit off a chunk of a fingernail and gave it to Malkaris. “That do?” Khorvis returned with a shovel. “Where do be the grave of this Tyrrell?” “The Scarlet Monestary cemetery.” “Shall we then?” Malkaris suggested, and the three departed to go gravedigging.
  13. 1 point
    The small farm outside of Andorhal was coming along nicely. Syreena was pleased with the progress she was making on the herb gardens, and the workers were scheduled to start tomorrow on digging out a room under the barn for her alchemy lab. As she tended her growing herb garden, she paused to look over her land. Finally, after so many years of living in sewers and tents and inns and the guild hall, the little rogue had finally decided to buy her own place with some of the vast amounts of gold she’d accumulated over the years through various means, most of them questionable if not outright illegal. It was peaceful here, she thought, and although peaceful wasn’t normally her preferred atmosphere, it was a nice change of pace at times. It was especially welcome at her own home when she was working on her personal projects. Just as she was musing about how much progress she could make in her alchemy projects, she heard a strange tearing noise nearby and turned to see what it was. A dark purple portal was opening just a few yards away. A man stepped through the void portal, wearing dark leathers, light hair and facial hair, and a black eyepatch. One of his arms was made of an odd metal now, but Syreena’s undead flesh crawled as she recognized Geodorik Deepwater, the halfling of few words who seemed to oversee security for Eternal Aegis when she was a prisoner there. Her memories of that time were still fuzzy and incomplete, despite all attempts to remedy that, but she did have broken and distorted recollections of Geo’s hands on her as he bound her wrists behind her back, or tied her legs together so she couldn’t run, or shoved her into a cell. Now, judging by the look in his eye and the pistol in his hand, he was here for only one reason, and he wasn’t planning to wait to see it through. Armed with only a garden trowel in her hand, Syreena didn’t hesitate. She threw the little spade at Geo’s face, which was just enough distraction to jolt the revolver’s aim away from her head. She grunted as the bullet pierced her stomach instead, flowing right through her leather armor as if it weren’t even there, but at least that wouldn’t kill her there. Neither rogue wasted any energy on words. Syreena did not bother with asking why he was here, or trying to taunt him with insults, or attempting to intimidate him with threats. Though details were fuzzy, she knew without question that he was all business when dealing with her, thorough, and more than competent. As he raised the revolver for a second shot, Syreena was already in motion, rocking back on one heel to kick her other foot at Geo’s wrist. She felt the impact all the way to her hip, but the gun went sailing through the air. With the pistol gone, Geo drew two swords. As Syreena spun away, she pulled three small throwing knives from slots on her chest armor and flung them at him with deadly precision. He was quick with his swords though, and managed to deflect one of the blades. Another stuck in his armor and did no harm. The third blade, however, landed in the exposed flesh of his living arm. Syreena saw the reassuring sight of crimson blood running down his forearm as she drew two long daggers from her belt. Geo barely winced as he yanked the blade from his arm. Blood sprayed in an arc with the movement. The two stared at each other, and as one, moved in, both raising their blades for attack. Geo had the reach with the swords, but one of his arms was injured, and Syreena quickly took advantage of that, striking that arm again and again until it was near useless to the halfling. Her success did not come without a cost, however. One of her own arms was missing a chunk of flesh, her torso was pierced and sliced, and now Geo had her effectively pinned against the stone wall of the house. His demonsteel arm was raised, ready to pummel her head. He knew that was the only way to do permanent damage to a Forsaken. She ducked at the last second though, and his mechanical fist went through the wall, damaging the arm at the wrist in the process. Geo raised his sword and brought it down at Syreena’s neck, in a strike meant to decapitate the Forsaken. Her own dagger, however, had found its way under his chest piece and pierced the skin there, taking the momentum out of his swing just as it cut through the skin of her neck. Syreena thought this wound to her neck felt different somehow, but she would deal with that later. “I told you I would kill you someday,” Syreena hissed at him. In truth, she couldn’t remember saying such a thing to him, but it sounded like something she would say. Her golden glowing eyes were fixed on his face as she drove the dagger deeper up under his armor, and the tip of the blade went through his heart. This was something she would not forget. She studied him like that for a few minutes before pulling her weapon from his chest. She sheathed one dagger, but kept the other in hand, just in case of...anything. Going through Geo’s armor and pockets, she took any coins she found, as well as any other items that looked useful. The wrist of the mechanical arm was severely damaged after going through the stone wall. She was certain that house was severely damaged as well, but right now, she was more interested in the Eternal Aegis man that lay dead before her. “One down, four to go,” she said softly to herself. She finally put her dagger away and picked up one of Geo’s swords. She lifted it high and brought it down with all her strength at the weak point in the demonsteel wrist. After several tries, the blade finally cut through all the metal and the hand was free for her to take as a trophy. With the hand safely tucked into her armor, she moved to cut off Geo’s head, thinking she was way overdue in sending presents to Marrus and the rest of the Aegis. Before she had the chance to collect his head though, purple flames engulfed the body. The body was quickly consumed by the flames. When the void flames finally died out, nothing remained on the ground except a dark purple burn patch on the ground. Syreena reached up to scratch the side of her neck where Geo had cut her. She was no stranger to a variety of injuries, but this felt different. It was itchy, and, although she couldn’t see it, the color of the wound matched the purple of the patch on the ground. ((Story by Geodorik and Syreena))
  14. 1 point
    Warning: Mature content The air out in the Plaguelands was thick enough to taste, a pungent mixture of rotting meat and plantlife amongst a myriad of even less pleasant odors. He shuddered in revulsion and urged his dreadsteed to pick up its pace as he rode through the parched, grassy hills. The path he had chosen was not the easiest but it was less likely to draw attention from the living who had established dominion over the main roads. Even after a decade of warfare, the wilds still belonged to the dead and the diseased. The diseased were the reason that he had come in the first place. When the plague began to spread amongst the humans, the Mossflayer tribe had rejoiced. What group wouldn't be happy to see such misfortune befall a hated enemy? Yet their joy did not last as the very land they sought to reclaim turned into a spoiled prize. As the sickness spread amongst the humans, the land itself became tainted. The desperate need for untainted game drove the tribe into a trap created by the Scourge and their followers, leaving them as another casualty in the developing conflict. The tribe had fallen, but until their dying day they had lived on this doomed soil. If any spirits knew of disease and ruination, it was the trolls who had shuffled off their mortal coil here. For the hundredth time that hour alone he checked the charm he had crafted before beginning his voyage. The knucklebones had been taken from a human corpse and left to soak in a jar; in a cocktail of rotting sludge of plant matter, the venom of the local fauna, and strips of diseased flesh taken from the living dead themselves. He had vomited immediately when the bones had been withdrawn from the muck and even hours later with several layers of leather separating his skin from the stained bone he still felt unclean. It had taken him far too long to realize that that was how he knew it was working. When the charm no longer made him uncomfortable, he was getting further away from the entity he was tracking. A ring of dead trees surrounded a patch of yellowed grass that had been trampled flat with long dead firepit had been dug in the center. Surrounded by bones lying flat on their backs or sides it was easy to guess what had happened. No weapons had been drawn and there were no tracks leading back out of the area. The adventurers had simply gone to sleep, never to wake again. A chill up his spine followed by a wave of nausea left him dizzy. He had arrived at his destination and the momentary relief was soon buried beneath the dread of what came next. He knew not the name of the spirit he wished to bargain with nor did he have a piece of his target; all he had was the charm he used to sense it and what would ultimately be used to contain its blessing. The Amani trolls had a sense of superiority that could not be removed. The spirits here would surely be darkened by the magic that hung over the land like a shroud. His appeal would be blind and filled with guesswork and if that failed he would be at the mercy of the offended spirit. With that sobering thought, he set to work to prepare the area to appeal to the dead. The bones were not cleared from the campsite but repositioned until they were groveling before the firepit. The humiliation of a former enemy would have to be enough to stroke its ego. He withdrew a pair of vials from his pocket, one green and one red. The contents of the green vial were thick and bitter to the point that he had to force his mouth shut and swallow. His body reflexively tried to stop him, a survival instinct against ingesting poison. He would prove he was suffering and unwell, just like the land. He stripped down to his loincloth and reached into the ashes of the firepit. HIs black stained fingers were moist with some unknown filth that had mixed into the ashes. The combination of death and filth was perfect for his means, but it still made his flesh crawl as he painted patterns and symbols in black across his bare chest, arms, and legs. His body became a canvas telling a story of his desire to destroy, the spirit would know this and choose whether or not to make an appearance. He flicked a hand and reignited the firepit with a sickly green flame. Fel was almost universally despised, but the spirits of the land wallowed in sickness and corruption. The magic was merely another form of suffering for them to enjoy. The final piece of his performance came from his pack. Two curved, sickle-like knives with freshly sharpened edges. He held one in each hand, one in a reverse grip, the other in an upright grasp. To mark oneself was to pay tribute, to bleed was to pay tribute. The Loa would see just how far he was willing to go just to draw its attention. He would be damned if he did not make a lasating first impression. There was no need for subtelty. His dance began with a scream of pain as he drew the blade across his shoulder and drew a strip of hide away as easily as one would peel a carrot. The agony did not die with time, it only grew worse as the poison took hold. His veins were growing heavier and itched maddeningly from the inside. Every beat of his heart sent fire through his veins as Syreena's mixture began to spread. His movements were shaky as he high stepped and screamed around the circular clearing. He threw in a spin here and there as he drew the blades across his exposed skin. More bloody lines were dug across his body, more strips of flesh were pulled away and dropped onto the blood moistened earth and speckled the bones. His blood mixed with the filthy ash paint, rendering the symbols difficult to read and meaningless as they ran and smeared across his flesh. It soon became all he could do do stay upright as he throatily wailed a song without words, rhythm, or even meaning. His nonsensical verse was puncuated randomly by shouts of pain as he looked for another unmarred patch of skin to cut open. The flame rose and hissed as he flicked the blood from his blades onto it with violent motions and spins. Unbeknownst to him, the flames had begun to twist and another shadow stretched away from the light. He had practiced the dance and the motions he would take well in advance, but even if he knew the steps it became impossible to follow as his senses became dulled and his body grew weaker. The poison Syreena had given him him left him dizzy and nauseous; he should have expected such a high-quality agent from his friend. He began laughing hysterically as he realized that the one time he would have accepted someone giving him an inferior product was the one time they went above and beyond his requirements, and it was all to hurt him. His steps faltered, his legs wobbled on bones made of jelly, and soon afterwards he crashed to the ground. " Ya try too hard." An amused, wet sounding voice gurgled from behind him. It had worked! Relief washed over him, indistinguishable from the waves of nausea as he struggled to rise. He looked upon the spirit he had called and immediately fell into another fit of dry heaving with his eyes tightly shut. He had seen war, he had seen the dead, he had seen mass graves and mutilation, but the form the spirit had taken was indescribable. His reaction earned another gurgling, wet noise that was nothing short of a violation of what laughter should be. " Well little hexer, ya put on a show to call me an' I be flattered. Now ya can't even look at me? Don't have the stomach ta look upon the dead anymo?" Tahzani forced his head up with sweat stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. The hindrance made the horrid form before him barely tolerable; brown, bloated skin whose surface crawled was all he could make out. He gulped down his bile and spoke with the strongest voice he could manage, " Loa of de Mossflayah. He who embodies this blighted land. I have come to bargain." " As it has been and always will be. Ya honor the traditions calling upon the ancestors... Though ya be far away from home, Revantusk." " Dis land reflects the soul of the one I want exposed." The creature before him let out an intrigued noise and leaned forward, silently commanding him to continue. " She waves her banners and preaches ideals that she forces others to follow, but none of her army does. She be a hypocrite... A tyrant... Irredeemable scum surrounded by filth. I want her to suffer, I want her to scream an' weep, I want her fair features to mirror the rotten core dat i've seen!" " Talkin' about dirty insides, look at yaself. Ah can taste de poison in ya veins, the dirt in ya blood... De taint on jah very SOUL!" It released another gurgling mockery of amusement at the flare of anger that crossed Tahzani's features. " I can do that for ya, but what be in it for me?" The jovial attitude took on an edge of greed and an unspoken threat. If he failed to please this one, the debilitating illness he felt would be a candle to a bonfire. " Ya tribe lay dead or enslaved by de Cult a de Damned an' what remains a de Scourge in dis area. Even as we speak dere be a sect of human holy warriors workin' ta purge de lands of what remains of jah tribe." The amused air that surrounded the plague ridden being disappeared, for a moment he feared he would not get the chance to finish his statement. " Wah be comin'. De Alliance an' de Horde been workin' ta rid dis land a de Legion but it ain't gonna last, it nevah does. An' ah know someone just as eagah as jah ta see Humanity fall. Jah gimme jah blessin', an' de sickness dat brought de Mossflayah such joy can be used against jah enemies once moah. Jah gimme jah blessin' fah dis one elf, an' i'll make suah it gets ta de right people ta be spread amongst de humans. I will give jah vengeance beyond de grave." He could no longer meet the Loa's gaze and his head dropped towards the ground in a gesture of submission. His heart was laboring to beat as the blood rushed in his ears. Every pulse of the organ sent a wave of nausea through his guts and a surge of fresh pain through his blackened veins. " Half for you, half for humanity." The warning was delivered and quickly followed by a violent surge of nausea that sent him to the bloodied mud in a thrashing heap. He vaguely registered his own muffled screaming and the feeling of his heel being brought down upon the brittle skull of one of the begging skeletons. The poison in his veins no longer registered as a cold lump settled in his gut and a feeling of wrongness permeated his very being. The charm found its way to his hands once more; the knucklebones were gone, more accurately they had become part of the liquid. The unnatural, magically induced disease had reduced them to a gelatinous slurry that settled into the bottom of the vial, the amber-brown liquid had become cloudy and threaded with wisps of darker energy that squirmed and wriggled like worms made of smoke. He could taste blood and bile as he reached a violently shaking limb for his bag to grab the antidote. Even as he downed the thick, red liquid he knew that it would only take the edge off of what had become a minor pain. He dropped the empty antidote and reached for his hearthstone. " Get me outta heah..." He whispered hoarsely, invoking the spell. Within moments, he disappeared, leaving behind a sodden, bloodstained, and fel tainted campsite. ***** His skin crawled, cold and slimy in contrast to the burning dryness of his veins and throat. He squirmed on his bed in the grip of a fever dream and pleaded with the unseen as his heels dragged and kicked at the soiled sheets at the foot of the bed. The Forsaken watched him with unease. His wrists and ankles had been strapped down to prevent him from thrashing out of the sweat and blood stained bed. He was covered in maggots that had immediately taken to removing the diseased, dead flesh from around the peeled sections of hide. His wounds were inflicted by tools that had to be wrestled away from the delirious bartender before treatment could even begin. Such wounds were painful but rarely fatal for trolls, but the effects of the wound went far beyond simple bleeding. He had already sent for more maggots as several of the plump white creatures had already curled in on themselves and fallen still. The dead flesh itself seemed cursed. Tahzani's former profession was known to him but he had never witnessed the cost with his own eyes. He had been successful, the tainted trinket was proof of that and had been removed from his person to allow him to recover. Hooked up to tubes and bags of fluid, the pale, dark-veined troll was a sad sight. " Will this solve anything?" He asked the insensate troll. Feeling a dim surge of anger at the carelessness of the hexer. " Will this make either of you happy? ANYONE?" He sighed as the troll released another pathetic whimper and shuddered. The next question pierced the haze of the troll's mind. Everything he had suffered through because of her and for *her*. His ultimate reward for the act was most likely a prison cell for the rest of his days if he was not slain immediately. "Is it worth it?" Selris asked quietly. " No." Tahzani answered with a weak croak. The answer meant for a far broader question than what had been asked. The realization of what he had said sincerely was worse than the pain that left him bedridden for the rest of the night.
  15. 1 point
    Little time was wasted when the group crossed the portal and stepped foot on Dreanor. They arrived on a small island called Ashran, at the aptly named Warspear; the Horde base of operations. Both the Horde and Alliance had setup bases for operations in the area, on opposite sides of the island of course. Even though this Iron Horde threatened all of Azeroth, the 'old fences' still stood in the dealings of Azeroth's native and adopted races. In the Forsaken camp at Warspear Luebella was told that the factions were racing to uncover artifacts on the island. Apparently it had been the site of an Orge empire. Secrets of the old empire, and objects with some magical power, had been found throughout the area. Skirmishes had broken out around the island, each one over control for the archaeological finds that may lay in the ruins. Although the secrets on the grounds peaked Luebella's attention, that was not why she was sent to Dreanor.They made their way to where the Apothecary had set up. Mock, Ottis, and Yurrie waited as Luebella went on to receive her orders. There was movement everywhere; soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, engineers, workers, explorers, healers...and those that took care of the dead. Some came to the land for their King, some for their Warchief. Others came to protect their home, to make a quick profit, to discover a new land, to see a world they had only heard of in the stories of aging elders. A few came for vengeance, a chance to kill. Many that crossed the portal had come to die.Ottis's head darted back and forth with the constant stream of commotion. He watched the various expressions on the faces that passed. His ears strained to try and hear one of the many conversations that walked by, but could only catch short fragments from the surrounding crowd. More than anything he searched the hands of the crowd hoping for a morsel of something to fall close enough to him to snatch. "Just like the vale" Yurrie commented to herself. This place reminded her of the increased presence of the Horde and Alliance forces back in Pandaria after the former Warchief, Garrosh, had all but destroyed the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. "I don' see any G'ummies..." Mock said, turning his head side to side,"... or any lu'kydos". Yurrie put her hand on his shoulder, "I cannot say that I do either" she remarked.Yurrie could hear the heavy steps of plated boots, and the shuffle of a ghoul from behind her. "Alright, we will be going to Nagrand to support a Horde outpost there. The place is infested with Iron Horde and Orges, but gains have been made in rooting them out". Luebella stopped in front of the two, facing them. The ghoul stayed close to its master. "We have a strong foot hold in the area now, and with the Alliance pushing in on their own front we are in good position to begin assaulting the fortifications in the area". "..'nd w'at r' we do'in t'ere? corpse wall fir t'a breath'rs?". Mock didn't sound impressed. "Finally a job you can handle", Ottis was looking up Mock...and ducked in time to avoid a half kick the undead aimed in the rabbits general direction.Lubella stared blankly at Mock. "That's all you need to know. You two will go and secure our transportation with the flight master, we depart in two hours. I will be there after I attend to some other business". With that Luebella quickly turned and started off into the passing crowds; the ghoul quickly behind her." Must be important" Yurrie remarked to Mock as she picked up her pack; Mock scooped up Ottis at the same time. "Al'ays is wi't 'er" Mock said as they stepped into the street and merged with the crowd.