Leaderboard


Popular Content

Showing content with the highest reputation since 07/18/2018 in Posts

  1. 2 points
    LUNK RITE MOAR WORDS hai hi, me iS stIlL Lunkkk, wriTe stOry bout scarY day! :O haHa :O looK likE LoNk facE! 2dayYyYyy ScAry. FeW days b4r, sCar LadY brinG frned, n he bIg n mean. anyWay, 1day 2day end of miss Razzy contest. PRETTY LADY WIN! lunK very happppy. Affer she Win, HOUSE CATCH FIARRRR! :OOOO luNk watch shoWs in room wid friends crOnk n PonK. n boB n Lonk2 buttt dey naht frinds. dey sUck. So, we watchIn show, LunkkKk look like tis: \o/ he hav good time. Den, get HAWT. BoB tell turn air, buT no AiR, AirrR hot! B4r no, rooM on fiahr in Mid of Ahll miiii gren chilrend! N lunk Lock in firarr room! bOoB haZ good ida, Hee spiLl dranK oN fiarrhs! N CrOonk spits on fiaarhrs! smmMart cRoNk..s Luank try same. Den! PRETTY LADY COME SAVE LUNK! Door opn, pretti ladi derE wid nothAr pretY lady! TwO pretTy Ladies! :O Dey Yallink at moOks n wE run out RooM n dey SavEe liFE!!!! BesTtest ladIes evarh! baD stuf happeN miSs RazzY housE brrrn 2 groun, but MisS RaZzY sayyfe! n moOks sayyfe! we go Poooorrt? Purt? Pert now! NEwww hOomE 4 Lunk Lunk! luv lunk ❤️ The text is written in the same shambled up journal as before, the mook having had it stuffed in his pants as he left the burning building. The edges of the paper is charred, as the mook attempted to fan the flames away. There is a wrinkles where some stray saliva got on the paper. It is written in the same messy text, but it is full of love. Lunk loves his job and loves the people he works with. Especially Miss Razz ❤️. He won't forget his time at the house with all the pretty ladies and silly men! Or, that's what he thinks!
  2. 2 points
    The Grim was always a good fight, best of luck to you.
  3. 2 points
    Proud to have been a member of The Grim for several years, and I look forward to seeing the story continue on WrA. ❤️
  4. 2 points
    Hello! I feel like I should have posted this SOONER, but I've kinda been all over the board as far as forumers go! I am Hunter, otherwise known as Chestius, otherwise known as Mr. Pockets. I'm a small time youtuber and a huge fan of both WoW and TF2. I've been playing both for YEARS, and adore everything that comes with it! Some funny facts about me: I am very bad at video games I can do voice impressions of both the Goblins in WoW as well as the Scout in TF2 (the only difference was Smokers Lung, after all) Beyond that, I'm just a dork who loves treating WoW as an extra D&D Night. I love the game and challenge, but also love the storytelling and fun with RP. Hit me up in game for some Battlegrounds, and I look forward to seeing everyone in BfA!
  5. 1 point
    08.03.18 People are liars, or maybe they’re just fools. They claim to understand what The Grim is, what we do, and what our purpose is. Then, when they witness it in action, they are shocked and disappointed. It is clear to me now why members of The Grim have so few outside friendships. Outsiders sometimes say they want to be friends with us. They say they understand us, and still want to be friends. But they don’t. Not really. They want to be friends with who they want us to be, not with who we really are. They want us to change, to fit into their idea of right and wrong, good and bad. They offer, in their kindness, their support and help if we choose to “improve” ourselves into what they think we should be. To fel with that. I am Grim. I will not change. If people get upset because they see me attack humans, that is their problem. They obviously do not know what it is to be Grim, even though they claim to understand. I make no apology for my actions. I have no regrets. And I will not change. Peace through annihilation. By any means necessary.
  6. 1 point
    War for peace. War for peace. War for peace. And no one sees the irony. No one. I love it. Hit them while they're bleeding. Yes, we're bleeding, too, and risk everything in making the strike, but... But if we win this now, we can force acceptance and servility for centuries. Really? How has that worked out historically? If you insist. If there's one thing I'm never going to argue with, it's scorched earth. Scorch it all. Especially Lordaeron. The Windrunners have had their claws in human scalps their entire lives. Sylvanas was only too happy to find herself gifted with the power to hold human lives in her hands and have them worship her for it. Nathanos isn't just any corpse. I hope she regrets what she's done. I hope it saddens her to see her people, her human people removed from the home they bought with the blood of their families. That pit was disgusting before they turned it into a literal sewer, and it's disgusting now. Leaving it unusable for generations is all it has ever deserved. I hear the rumors trying to pin Malfurion's escape on Saurfang. Maybe so. That might explain his little failed death wish drama. To return their hero to them is a crime that cannot go unpunished. But was Sylvanas not there? Shouldn't she have seen it done? While everyone else bemoans the lack of honor in murdering hundreds maybe thousands of civilians, I'll be over here wondering why they failed to cut the head off the snake. Keep leaving nothing but ash and blight in your wake, Warchief. I certainly don't care how many innocents on either side you take with you in the name of some sort of necessity or survival. This is the annihilation we've been preaching for more than a decade. This is what we live for.
  7. 1 point
    On the first day, there is nothing. Nothing too far out of the ordinary for a dying forest, at least. Silverpine is the same rotting land in ruins it has been for far too many years, and the undead are of absolutely no help to it. The trees are either dying or getting chopped to the ground, as the Forsaken seem it proper to adopt foul orcish custom these days. Abominations still roam the land and belch their putrid gases into the air to mingle with the poisonous fumes wafting from the work of the camp apothecaries, which in turn mixes with the smoke rising from destroyed weapons of failed sieges against straggling insurgents trying to take back their land. Burning trash heaps that were once plague catapults, so trash heaps they remain. There is nothing of interest here. Everything is just as expected and that would be much more reassuring were it not for major military movement a continent away. Moving along unseen is simple enough when no one is looking for a lone red-headed human skulking through the shadows of towering trees at a slow and steady foot-pace, and when the air is already tainted with death, chemicals, and soot. Bronwen blends in with the night well enough, being clad in dark leather, heavy hood to shadow her face and a long dark cloak draped across her shoulders and falling down her back. It all doesn't do so much against the greenery clinging futilely to its hold on the land, but standing in a shadow or crouched upon a low bough of a tree shields her from even eyes that may have been looking for her, or someone like her. If they are waiting, they'll have to keep waiting. She has plenty of time to watch, herself, for now. Late on the second day, a patrol of three guards trudge shoulder to shoulder along the road down the middle of the forest, weapons and shields sheathed and at rest. They speak to each other in something that sounds to be very clearly Common, one might think at first sound, but some alien form of it that damaged throats produce. Sickly, gravely, breathless. They hardly sound like real words when produced airlessly, and all three have (or had) the same malady, it seems. If one discounts the condition of undeath, that is. They're bored, and that much can be told by the way they scan the trees with uninterested gazes. Nothing is out of order. Move along the route, don't waste time, she assumes of their methods. Nothing is out of order until they come upon a mound of dirt kicked up on the side of the road near one of the barricades set up on the sides. The work of a plagued wolf at best, or moon-crazed beast at worst. An annoying thing to happen across, but one easily remedied to keep wagons and carriages from being slowed. Claw marks that plunged into the dirt where the soil was scooped up and piled haphazardly onto the broken cobblestone by paws searched for something that may or may not have been found. Probably nothing was found, judging by the way the hole is left unfinished, if such a thing could ever be considered finished. The last of the scrapes drag off into the forest itself, leading towards the southeast. The deathguard in front, the one wearing the heaviest plate and what seemed to be many replacement parts, spouts what could have been a curse at the mess. It follows a noise that sounds as if it could have been the echo of a sigh: a shuddering motion made out of deeply ingrained habit rather than an actual breath. It makes Bronwen's face crinkle, the ghastliness of it, even as she shifts silently from her perch she made just far enough that she can still hear it. The guard swings a foot at the pile to kick it off of the stone of the road, which produces an explosion that is just big enough to send his sword arm flying into one direction and his helmet into another. Bronwen can't tell if it contains his head or not, but she doesn't care to wait and see. With the scrambling of his two fellows, she turns and prowls off through the shadows north into the direction of Tirisfal.
  8. 1 point
    "Warchief.. why?" The voice was frail, and then it was gone. Vilmah stood on the ramparts looking down, following the voices toward the sound of chaos and calamity that erupted outside of the city walls. Down in the field, spreading among the already yellow grass and weeds, a green gas was billowing toward the Alliance. In its wake, bodies were falling. It can't be, Vilmah thought to herself, watching the large bodies hit the ground, horns and antlers of the tauren digging into the dirt. The orcs stumbled a few feet, and fell on their faces. The trolls pinned themselves with their tusks. The goblins fell so quickly, like flies almost, and the elves in all their bravery reached for the sky for a few final words she could not hear. But those orcs were loud, and even as they died they asked; "Warchief, why?" Until the breath left them and the plague continued to cover their corpses, which grew thin and frail as flesh appeared to melt from their bones. Vilmah watched in horror as soldiers of the Horde stumbled, died, and fell apart. The yellowish bones of their corpses lay like stones among the armor and weapons. There wasn't even any blood, really. Just the swift decay of muscle and organs, falling to the earth in graying clumps that disappeared into the dirt. How did she even witness such a thing? She heard the call to arms. Ridan spoke to her through the hearthstone, hours before. "Undercity is under attack!" With Nika and Einar, the three snuck into Undercity disguised as Forsaken. It was chaotic inside, and the Alliance's SI:7 assassins had already stolen into the deepest parts of Lordaeron's crypts. Their mission was simple; rescue Steinburg as Infection rallied to defend their city. Nika and Einar proved a capable duo, and led the Warboss down toward Infection's guildhall. They were briefly intercepted by a priest, though Vilmah's shouting managed to stave off whatever mind control she was capable of. Then he arrived. The High Warlord of Infection. Vilmah had known Keraph since she was old enough to enlist. He saw most orcs as filthy creatures unfit to live on his world and treated Vilmah with only the barest of respect. Back then, they drank together. Traded insults. She called him 'old man', and never considered that someday they might be on sides so opposed that they would actually face one another in battle. Yet here he was, approaching her with a massive axe that seemed almost too big for his bony hands. Nika and Einar were already on their way to getting Steinburg released. "I'll hold him off!" Vilmah had told them. "Don't wait for me!" Nika wanted to argue, but gave Vilmah some smoke bombs instead. It was all she could do when Vilmah was that serious and wanted no argument, but Keraph wasn't going to be distracted by a few smoke bombs. Sanctuary was breaking into his home and retrieving one of his "guests", and that would not stand. "Bloodborne!" He shouted, snarling with yellow decaying teeth. "You traitorous green mongrel!! Have you truly abandoned the Horde so thoroughly as to betray the Warchief while we are under attack!?" "I'm not betraying anyone, Keraph," Vilmah argued, her sword drawn. It was long and thin, nothing compared to Keraph's axe but fluid in Vilmah's slender hands. "I'm just picking up a friend. You can get in my way or you can let me take him home, but I don't think you want to be dealing with me while the Alliance attacks from the outside." The rage in Keraph's face was readable, even from behind his helmet. The Warlord's mouth twisted into a deep frown, the wrinkles and flaking skin of decay contorting with rage. "If you do this there will be no peace for you, or Sanctuary! Do you hear me, Vilmah?" He shouted, using her name now. What did that mean? "You and your little group are going to pay. You will suffer. These are not empty threats, little girl." Her eyes narrowed. The last time someone called her little girls was... "I'm not letting you bully me and my men, Keraph!" The orcess shouted, moving into an offensive stance. Left arm forward, right arm back; Vilmah's thin blade was poised to slash and her knees bent, ready to spring. She and Keraph were both warriors, but their disciplines were different, and hers was fairly new. How long has she been training like that? He thought, raising his axe. "The Alliance has marched forward! their siege weapons are attacking the gates!!" Shouted a voice nearby. Both Keraph and Vilmah's attention were stolen. The Warboss felt a buzzing in her pocket, heard the familiar voice of Nika from afar. We have Steinburg, Warboss! We're going home! Mission complete, Vilmah thought, but Keraph still glared at her. A decision was being made. "Watch yourself, Vilmah," he said finally, through rotting teeth. "The end of your days grows near. You, Sanctuary, and all you hold dear. The Dark Lady will not accept failure, and I will not accept this--" "The boy king has arrived!!" Keraph pursed his crusted lips and pointed the axe at Vilmah. "Soon." And then he was gone. Vilmah stood in position, waiting. Part of her wondered if this was some sort of trick, but that wasn't possible. Keraph's home was being attacked from the outside, surely he wanted nothing more than to cut through the Alliance more than defend his honor against Vilmah. Then again, what honor does he have? She watched him go and ran in another direction, through the sewers, sheathing her blade on the way. The splashing of putrid liquid at her boots was something that no longer reviled her, nor did the smell. She followed the sewers to a secret entrance, one that brought back so many memories. The Alliance attacked from there, once. Led by an ally. A shaman. Outside of the crypts, the Undercity was much louder. The cries of battle were loud and told the tale of a battle still raging. She wanted to help her allies, but from where? Scrambling to the broken bricks and stones of Lordaeron's past, Vilmah climbed up as high as her hands and feet would allow her. Once she climbed high enough to see what was happening outside, Vilmah crouched down and looked for an opportunity to join the Horde in the defense of their city. To join her brothers and sisters as they defended their home. What she saw was poisoned orcs, trolls, tauren and elves. Goblins, too. As she leaned forward to understand, they all fell like sacks of meat, flesh falling from their bones to hit the ground like liquid. "Warchief.. why?" Vilmah hesitated. If she joined them, she too would die. Heart pounding in her chest, she reached for her blade and heard a voice telling her to stop. Be safe, and try to stay out of trouble ha'rega. Clenching her teeth, she made a pained sound and let the sword slide back into it's sheath as a dark presence made itself known. Near the wall, she watched as Sylvanas, their own Warchief, cast what looked like some strange spell. Vilmah was too distracted by Sylvanas to notice that beneath her, bones were stirring. A chattering sound, like the tiny tapping of seashells rattling caught her attention only when it grew so loud that it mimicked a strange music. Turning toward the unsettling noise, her hazel eyes widened in horror at the sight unfolding before her. The soldiers she saw fall in battle were standing. Gone was their flesh, and any semblance of life. They were skeletal, gnarled and twisted, and walked forward with a singular purpose. ..has she killed them just to raise them? Did she become everything she hated about the Lich King? Battle waged below, and Vilmah knew she couldn't stay. She would either enter the fray with the blight at her feet, or escape. Neither seemed both intelligent and honorable. Which to choose? Be safe... "Oh... fine," the orcess muttered, looking into the courtyard. Clenching her jaw, she climbed back down the ramparts and made her way into what looked like a gathering of Horde soldiers. Some of them gave her a curious look, but that look was forgotten when a nearby explosion drew their attention. "They're inside!!" Vilmah shouted, finally drawing her blade. The Alliance was flooding in from the outside. She caught sight of some strange faces in the fray, but was thrown from her concentration as a human soldier caught her attention. He attacked her with a massive broadsword, and while she could defend herself, Vilmah wondered just how much she actually wanted to defeat him. After everything they had done, after watching the war machines torch Teldrassil, why was she fighting for Sylvanas' broken kingdom? Because it was still the Horde. Because Steinburg worked so hard to make it a home, and was nearly killed for it. Because years ago, she came to Undercity as a child, and was welcomed as a friend. Without considering these things outright, Vilmah fought. She was accompanied by other Horde military, but there went enough to hold them all off. She went blow to blow with the human before her, an overhead swing meeting an underhand thrust, steel against steel, honorable combat between two living beings. She swung her blade forward and bit into armor, then flesh. It was a well placed blow and pierced the surface, ripping through muscle to open the human's throat. There was no time to consider this though, and soon enough she was engaged in combat with another human. Then another. Then another. Vilmah was small, but she was experienced. The foot soldiers didn't know what to make of the blademaster in her skant armor, and made the mistake of aiming for her bare torso. Surely it would be easy to slay her by piercing the orcess' stomach, chest, neck. Anything. But they never came close enough. She was fast, and she was willing to accept an injury in exchange for a kill. A few cuts to her shoulder or side were nothing compared to the way her sword slid into someone's lungs. Blood flowed, the smell intoxicating and almost enough to overpower the stench of rot. After an exhausting fight, Vilmah stood among a pile of bodies covered in cuts, her mind cloudy with blood loss. Then she heard the horn. Behind the human she was fighting, a morningstar struck his skull. The human went down in a heap and Vilmah looked into the eyes of her assistance, a Forsaken woman in plate armor. One quick salute and she was gone. Vilmah looked toward the horn and saw that the Horde was retreating. Baine waved his massive arms, calling the remaining Horde soldiers to follow. Without questioning why, Vilmah followed the call to a goblin airship, praying that there were more on the way. But there were no more ships. Huddled among the Horde soldiers gathered by Baine, Vilmah watched as below them, the Undercity became engulfed in green smoke. She knew what that smoke would do to anyone nearby; orc, tauren, goblin, elf, it didn't matter. They all died, and without Sylvanas to raise them, they all remained dead. Still breathing heavily, her wounds began to sting. The adrenaline was fading and the reality of what happened slowly crept into her thoughts. She killed them.. she killed them and raised them, and for what? Undercity is gone.. Undercity is gone.
  9. 1 point
    This… isn’t supposed to happen. It was hard for Svetlaena Ascent to even think for a moment before more coughing racked her body and sent shockwaves through her mind. The Sin’dorei lurched forward and caught herself on her hands and knees amongst sands rapidly being blanketed in ash. Her head was pounding, her eyes stinging and tearing over. Despite the efforts of her lungs to cleanse themselves, all she managed to do was hack some gray slime onto the beach. Not like this. Nearby, the priestess’s hippogryph Ipolit collapsed, breathing but utterly spent, twitching his singed wings every now and then. She watched him for a time to assure herself. Once confirmed, she set about trying to rise to her feet. Easier considered than done. Svetlaena’s head was spinning far too much. It wasn’t just the pain and suffocation, either. She settled for simply kneeling there, falling ash sticking in her frayed hair, and staring back at the horrible beacon of war that the Horde had lit. Not like this… Within this burning ruin of the world tree a dark splotch of smoke amassed into the form of a storm crow as it propelled towards the Sin’dorei woman like a meteor, falling mere feet from her where she knelt. Sand, ash and cinder alike spilled in the area around them as the scent of smoke threatened to overwhelm her once more. As the disturbed debris once more began to settle, a silhouette of a druid stood where the crow had fallen. Standing about a head shorter than the average Kal’dorei female, the figure stood ready for martial combat; one hand held a shard of something, the other balled in a fist illuminated with a blue light. A familiar, wrathful tone of gravel greeted her after a hacking cough. “...I should have guessed... I should have known. Of all people to be spearheading this… atrocity…” ‘Atrocity’ was right. She wanted to tell Vaedoras that, but of all the people on Azeroth, he was probably the least likely to believe her. He had seen her blazing hatred for his people first-hand; an inner fire born of past betrayals and lingering resentment, he himself had been burned by it more than once. She wanted to say that she would have at least taken prisoners. She wanted to tell the druid how she’d tried to save as many as she could until the heat burnt the very air out of her lungs and forced her back for good. She wanted to say so very much, but all Svetlaena managed was more painful coughing fits, shaking her head and hoping the despair in her face and the burns on her skin said enough. “Five years.” The druid growled, gripping on the shard that pulsed with brilliant shades of red as if feeding its owner’s rage. It cut into his skin, blood dropping into the ash-ridden sand. “For five years, I’ve known you a Monster. But She begged me to spare you. She said you could be saved.” Vaedoras began the first step of his march. “And I did, for Her. But what has it cost us? I should have done this a long time ago…” “No. Syl...Sylvanas…” Svetlaena stammered out, trying to explain despite her scorched throat, beginning to realize just how vulnerable she was and just how enraged Vaedoras was. If only She were here. An attempt was made to stand. It failed. She fell back into a sit, reduced to trying to scramble backwards. The head-shaking became more frantic. “I didn’t… I-I wouldn’t… she’s…” And the strain was too much, the small priestess breaking into more coughing spasms, only broken up by the occasional ‘no’. “You wouldn’t?” The rough, incredulous voice raised in indignation at the perceived lie. “I wouldn’t!” Svetlaena spat back, finally with some conviction behind her voice, sounding nearly as rough as the druid in her current state. He would normally have found this absurd, perhaps even laughed at her, but any sense of humor seemed burned with the tree and those within. He continued his grim march towards justice. “You’ve always been an opportunist, I assume those burns are from trying to steal more victims for your wretched sins. Too long have I stood idle, too many have suffered at your hands because of it. I have neglected my burdens from Elune for too long, may I remain forever damned for it.” At this rate, he’d be upon her in moments and she had precious little strength left. The backwards flailing ceased. She raised a hand, realizing he was closing the gap far too fast and trying in vain to halt him. “I know what I’ve done,” her voice cracked, “I know what I am.” Eyes that burned struggled to focus on his to convey her honesty. “It isn’t this!” “Is that so?” Short as he may be in comparison of his own people, he still towered over the priestess. Behind him his trail was marked by his own blood, that which stained the crystalline shard that he pointed at her. “This is your last chance to confess, Svetlaena Ascent. May Elune hear you and judge you accordingly.” Cornered, guilt-ridden and at the peak of frustration, she slammed her fist into the sand beside her, “She won’t hear me. Nor will she hear you, nor did she hear them--” she gestured to the tree. “I saved as many as I could. She did nothing.” “Then I will serve in her place.” His natural fangs remained bared, the shard still poised to strike as a makeshift blade to deliver some supposed divine justice. “You expect me to believe you actually sought to save my people? After all your past crimes?” Svetlaena’s defiance seemed to lose its fire; she lowered her head, and slowly shook it to answer him in the negative. “Of course not. Not after all we’ve been through together.” Her tone suggested that she was almost amused by the question. Almost. It fell just short, too deflated and defeated to really embrace the irony as she typically did. “All I could think of was when my own city fell.” She just stared at the ground now, watching the ash accumulate. At least this way she could avoid the terror of that final moment if, or when, it came… and rob him of the satisfaction of seeing it in her eyes. “A fate that you’ve now brought upon us.” The Druid’s fist surrendered its illumination, only to grab the woman’s chin and force her to look back up at him. “You and your abomination of a leader. She was one of yours in life, was she not?” Svetlaena raised one of her weary, singed hands to grab at his wrist, but little else. She simply hadn’t the strength to pry him away or even tear out of his grasp. “She is no kindred of mine. Merely a shadow of it.” There seemed to be some hesitation to these words, but once they were said, it was replaced by the tiniest shred of relief. “And yet you still march to her commands.” Vaedoras hissed as he kneeled, getting closer to her face. “You’ve made this mistake before, with the brown orc. He destroyed a city, like your ‘Shadow’. He renewed conflicts that benefited none but his own ego-- as this one does, this wicked Windrunner and her designs. How do I know you truly regret it this time? What will you do to prove you have learned from your past, Svetlaena? Why should I believe that you can still meet salvation? Tell me, why are you worth sparing again?” His increased proximity seemed to be fanning the faded inner flame of defiance, for she ceased to avoid his gaze once more, “What makes you think you have this right? We once agreed that we two are monsters, didn’t we?” Narrowing her stinging eyes, she continued, “This is beyond us both. You’ve no right to be talking like a paladin… nor do I have any defense for myself.” “Because, I have the only thing Monsters like us seem to respect.” The Druid waved the now crimson shard where her gaze lingered before applying pressure on her entire jaw. “Might. You are right that we are both monsters forged in elven flesh-- cast from Elune’s graces for our sins. If she has truly turned a blind eye on us all this eve, then it is my time to do my proper duty as an apex predator and feed upon those like us. For the rest of my nights, I will seek out and hunt those who will prey upon the weak and innocent, as is my destiny-- endowed upon me at the hour of my birth when I claimed my first victim.” His voice was deathly calm, seething as the shard began its approach. His amber eyes never leaving his prey as he made her position painfully clear. “And yet, in my neglect of these burdens, I have caused far more suffering than if I had my fill. I see this now, Svetlaena… tonight's the night I accept my dark purpose as one of Elune’s Damned. Tonight I, Vaedoras Starshade, realize my true nature as an Apex Predator. And so I ask one final time, why should your final judgement not mark the start of this new era? Are you certain you have nothing more to say in repentance?” The entire speech was so long-winded and bizarre that it assisted the priestess’s disorientation; it all eventually becoming a blur of his anger and a strange awareness of the silence that now hung in the air, outside of the sphere of Vaedoras’s crazed declarations. Previously one could hear the echoes across the water, cries of the doomed and dying… now there was nothing. The flames on Teldrassil didn’t roar quite as high now. The fire was finally running out of life to consume. All this talk of predator and prey. She’d said similar things to Vaedoras, once, at a time when he had been at her mercy rather than the other way around. But this was amplified. Demented, even. Or, perhaps, she had always sounded just as mad as he. Svetlaena wasn’t sure anymore. “Do what you feel you have to,” she spoke with some strain from his grip on her, “if someone had tried to talk sense into me after Silvermoon fell, I wouldn’t listen either. I don’t blame you.” A deep breath. “But as someone who knows what I am, and what I am capable of, all I ask is that you answer me one question.” The shard lingered within her peripherals, his harsh gaze seemingly unblinking. “...I will grant you this request. Speak.” Her gaze is unwavering, despite the tightness in her throat. “Would I have allowed so many children to die that way?” There was a silence between them, the shard close to her neck, ready to bleed her out at any given moment-- assuming the searing heat that seemed to radiate from it didn’t cauterize her wound. “Fair enough.” The improvised weapon retreated. “Pray that you are telling the truth, and if not… that I never learn of your deception. You are granted one final chance from the Damned of Elune that stands before you. My mercy is spent, this is my final favor to Her and you both. Use it wisely, for my wrath will not be spared a second time if I hear you so much as touch another one of mine inappropriately.” He released the woman, pushing her back into the sand as he stood. “Have I made myself clear?” The wind knocked out of her, it took Svetlaena a moment to reply with a weak, “...yes.” Physically and emotionally spent, the Sin’dorei made no effort to move from where she lay, watching the ashes that continued to drift down from above. So many things she thought to say, but none of them would help at this point, and she knew it. With a sigh she settled on, simply, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” “And yet we bask in the fruits of the pale’s efforts.” Starshade scoffed as he turned his back on the woman that lay in ash and sand. He retreaded his dread march, as if it were the only path that remained for him. “Tell Windrunner and those who follow to enjoy her little empire of ashes, we will not forget this day. These flames will spread to all your Horde holds dear, and from this divine retribution, the Kaldorei will once again flourish. This is nature’s way.” When his foot finally touched where his march had begun, his form shifted back into the stormcrow, grasping that foreboding shard as he flew towards the east beyond the mountains to leave her to her thoughts.
  10. 1 point
    SIXTY DAYS later..... The House event is finally over. Some highlights from the show: A band of murloc pirates who took over the pirate ship playhouse in the back yard, followed by fish fillet sandwiches the next day. A kraken with frikkin' lasers. Peachicks Shower stabbing Women in bikinis Piranha pond Outcasts Interviews The audience Mind-wiping Fights and Romance The WHEEL OF MisFORTUNE! The coffin, truth serum, fish broth, lava floors, itching powder Spa Day Bun huggers for buns and hot dogs Lunk, Lonk, Lank, Ponk, Cronk, Wonk, and Bob WOMP WOMP Fireworks exploding the house after the final awards ceremony, mysteriously at the same time other fires started elsewhere in the house and throughout the grounds The challenges: What's In the Box guessing game won by Nokh and Bor'ghul Drunken Obstacle Course won by team of Nokh, Megeda, Bor'ghul, T'suro Talent Show won by Shaelie for individual and team of Nokh, Megeda, Bor'ghul, T'suro Pool Chicken Fights - several won points for this one Trivia Contest won by Myaka Riddles won by Ketani Foam Sword Balloon Popping won by Soren Cooking Contest won by Myaka The big winner of the trophy and 100,000 gold is...... Ketani Addison of Twilight Empire! The Bilgewater Cartel Entertainment Division would like to thank the other contestants as well: Draquesha and Soren Bearcharger Nokh Deadeye and Mythiis Myaka Winterborne Kirsune Aedious and Mardalius Anterius Niala Moonthorn Aruku Hitowa Hayleigh Davenport, Tynalie and Shaelie Brightwing Megeda Dustrunner Sanjay Aaren Anastasis Bor'ghul Flamespeaker T'suro Sunspear Murue Azurehammer Asteray Yu'una Syreena Shadowblade And now, we leave you with this final thought...... NUH! ((Thank you to everyone who participated! ❤️ ))
  11. 1 point
    “…can sneak up and be in place to support the injured falling…back. Sir?” Blinking once Sol shook his head and glanced around with a somewhat confused look. This had already happened hadn’t it? “Sir are you alright?” Apparently not. Rubbing his face roughly the paladin turned to the man who was talking. One of his assistants, what were they talking about? “Fine, sorry simply tired. Go over that once more?” The man gave him a concerned look but turned back to the notes on the table between them “I was saying that if we fall out now and shift our position we can be in place when the inevitable wounded start arriving.” Nodding the paladin stood and waved a hand “See to it then.” The priest saluted and slipped out of the tent leaving Sol to stare at the canvas wall with a frown. He wasn’t left to his thoughts long as a scratch at the flap announced the arrival of his squire. “Dalithen. Anything to report?” “Nothing of interest. Horde is stalled so we’ve been tending to the scrapes that get filtered back to us.” Sinking down on his cot Dal shot Sol a look”This is gonna be bad isn’t it dad?” Sinking onto his own Sol just gave his son a tight lipped smile in return “We knew it was going to be with that right turn.” ——————- “Commander! We’re under attack, left flank!” Letting out an oath Sol kicked his horse into a gallop “On it. Get the injured and priests to the center!” As his men scrambled to follow his orders the paladin lunged off of his charger letting it dissipate back into the light and took a quick look around. Kaldorei? Here? No, this was wrong. The faces were wrong, he was wrong. Giving his head another shake Sol shook out his flail then took a defensive stance. If need be he would defend those they were protecting with his life but he really really hoped it would come to that. “Stand ready, here they come!” The night elven charge was strange to behold, the normally graceful movements were broken and disjointed as if they themselves had too many joints. It was only when they got closer that Sol realized this was because to a man the force was made of walking corpses. Inhaling sharply the paladin moved to consecrate the ground under his feet only to scream in pain as the light itself turned against him. Undeterred by the show of light the night elven corpses marched through the Sin'dorei forces knocking aside any they cam in contact with till they stood surrounding Sol. Twisting in place the paladin gave them a pained look “What are you doing? Why are you doing this? We are not part of the slaughter!” If the corpses cared for his words they did not show it. As one the group closed in reaching out to drag the paladin down into darkness. ——————- Sitting up with a gasp Sol let out a groan as his arm and ribs protested the movement. Looking around groggily he did his best to figure out where he was before finally sinking back down. He was at the hospital with Dustin. There had been no night elves, no ambush aside from the one Dustin’s mercenaries had set and most importantly no light turning against him. Pushing the sweat soaked hair back from his eyes Sol stared up at the ceiling. Strange dreams indeed.
  12. 1 point
    Nothing happens as she sits and watches until even the smoke from the burnt-out torch no longer rises. Nothing happens quickly, at least, and Bronwen has a lot of ground to cover so she ultimately decides that she shouldn’t be wasting time on this. She had expected maybe someone coming quickly when a regular patrol was delayed, but they don’t come before she begins to get impatient. Perhaps Command was more than correct in assuming much of the bulk of their excess soldiers were on Kalimdor and there was less than imagined to spare on something so mundane on forest patrol. That thought made her uneasy, and in accepting that it might be a great while before someone was to appear and check on the dead, she moves on. This time she plans on going to back west and towards the northern wall of Brill, but not until after she sets up a lure. Eventually, late night into early morning, two guards do march down the road with their best attempts at scowls on their faces to search for a stalker that may or may not have taken a break on his route for who knows what reason tonight. Neither of them carry torches themselves, just so they wouldn't ruin their chance to be able to sneak up on the lazy or distracted guard. The one with daggers at his sides watches the road, while the one holding a bow in her hand peers through the trees. Even if she’s *not* watching the road, she spies the corpse laying in the middle of the way and stops the man beside her by swinging her bow in front of him. He's annoyed at first, until he looks ahead and realizes what she sees. His hand moves to his daggers, and her bow is flicked up to smack him in the jaw before being nocked. The woman turns her head to tell the man to dash to town and alert the guards there of their findings, but when she turns her head she can see a small fire smoldering within the trees in perfect view of the road. Her words stop short as her eyes narrow, and instead she signals to her fellow. It’s punctuated with a smack to the back of the head, but that is the only sound that’s made between here and creeping upon the small burning pile. No one is there, neither are there footsteps leading to or away from it. No evidence of anyone being around is here, aside from the very deliberate creation of the tiniest bonfire. The woman peers through the woods through hiding, even if she’s sure the two are safe, makes a breathless snorting sound upon seeing another small blaze ahead. “What?” “Another one.” She points out towards the west. “Signals.” “Are you sure?” “Do you want to keep your head?” He doesn’t answer. She’s about to continue when she sees yet another two flare up in the distance, many meters apart, like they were each just lit. The archer grabs onto the stalker’s head and turns it so he can see them too. “Let’s go rally the boys and stomp out some pests,” she says, and tugs on the collar of his armor to quickly drag him back towards town.
  13. 1 point
    "You heard the High Overlord," the orcish grunt said with an arm pointed toward their target. "Find the civilians. Get them out." Vilmah had answered the call, and already she was uneasy. It was almost a relief when the Warchief sent her and a few hundred others to find Saurfang, the one orc she trusted to speak his mind in this madness. He was gone when they attacked Astranaar, but he wouldn't allow things to escalate to that level on his watch. When she arrived to his orders that they find night elf civilians and bring them in for questioning, part of her stomach settled. It was still nauseating that the Horde was attacking the Kaldorei, that they marched toward their tree in an effort to secure it for their own purposes, but at least no civilians would be killed this time. It was, of course, difficult to get them to trust her. She was an orc, and a strange looking one at that. Smaller than most, her robot arm and purple tabard did little to soothe the fears of the citizens that she found huddled and hidden. They stared at her with horrified eyes that had already witnessed the savage butchery of the Horde, and in their eyes she saw her fears; that the Horde would always be known for this, their cruelty, and how easy it was to show them just how cruel they could be. Why in the world would the trust her, after seeing other orcs like herself tear down their walls and burn their homes? All around, she heard shouts of conflict; trolls yelling in Zandali, relishing in the slaughter of elves. The Forsaken she saw wore mangled grins as they ripped apart guards with magic and blades, and even the noble blood elves covered bodies with arrows like some strange artistic display. She couldn't just extend her hand and ask these people to trust her, not when she knew what awaited them. "I take you safety," she said in broken Common, though it was clear by Vilmah's expression that hope was fading fast. The elves she found were a mother and daughter, hidden in the corner of their store room. The older of the two was already stained with blood, perhaps from the child's father. Their glowing eyes were rimmed with red and tears were still glistening on their cheeks as they looked at this small orc with her extended hand and broken Common in disbelief. The mother turned to her daughter and nodded sadly, then said something in their language that Vilmah could not understand. Choking back a sob, she and the little girl put something in their mouths, which Vilmah couldn't quite understand until it was too late. "No, wait!!" But they already swallowed, and the effects of the pill didn't take long. The mother clutched her child and sobbed, and the child looked strangely serene as she stated at Vilmah accusingly. Her eyes said "you did this", and in that moment, Vilmah would not have been able to argue otherwise. Leaving the little family to their peaceful death, the blademaster stepped out of their house and looked for more civilians. By then, most of the houses were on fire and there would be few she could find in the wreckage, but she went in anyway. The bare skin of her shoulders and torso blistered with the heat of the burning buildings, and her metal arm grew uncomfortably hot as she used it to break open doors. A few civilians she found were less intent on taking their own lives, but at least half a dozen saw Vilmah as a threat, and whatever "mercy" the Horde would grant as a torture worse than death. In those situations, Vilmah wanted to stop them. Surely, hope was still a possibility? But she knew imprisonment, she knew what sort of life awaited them in the shackles of the Horde, and even with his greatest attempts at mercy, Saurfang could not protect them. Maybe they are better off dead.. she thought with a sick feeling, the nausea returning. When she gathered as many as she could find, Vilmah returned to where she last saw Saurfang. He had already mounted his wolf long ago and was gone. She was going to ask what was wrong, but another orcish grunt pointed over her shoulder. "Look!" When she turned, the sound of Saurfang riding ahead echoed in her ears. The tree was aflame. In the distance, across the water, the home of thousands of elves burned without any sign of stopping. From such a distance, she could not see the people's faces, but she understood their predicament. There weren't enough boats, enough portals, for all of them to escape. There would be casualties, and they would be massive. Vilmah's heart felt like a stone in her chest, cold and heavy, as she listened to the cheers around her. Most of the Horde celebrated their victory as the civilians, some of whom Vilmah saved, looked on in horror as their tree grew bright red and lit the sky like a giant torch. A few Horde did not celebrate. They passed each other worried glances, perhaps ashamed of this act, perhaps afraid of the retaliation that would surely meet them. Vilmah just stared. Saurfang.. Whistling for her wolf, Edmund answered her almost immediately. He had been waiting for her nearby, hidden in the forest among the other animals that somehow escaped the wrath of war. Climbing on his back, Vilmah kicked him into a run and followed the path left behind by Saurfang. She had to see him, she had to see his face. When she did, she noticed that his face was contorted, enraged. He had been screaming something, but now it had passed. What did she miss? Saurfang, she thought to herself, tears blinding her. You coward.. you fucking coward.. you knew that was going to happen, didn't you? You knew, and you didn't even try to stop her.. Was any of it true? Maybe not, but the anger burned in her chest and when she arrived to the scene of the Warchief, Nathanos and Saurfang staring at their handiwork, she thought perhaps that she caught a glimpse of the High Overlord's face displaying regret. Shame. I should kill her, she thought to herself. I should kill her, now. I may not get through the dark rangers, I may not get through Nathanos, hell I may not get through Saurfang but I should try.. The thoughts were almost as comforting as they were impossible. Vilmah remained yards behind them, hidden among the rest of the Horde as they celebrated or mourned their "victory". As much as she wanted to make the attempt, she knew it would fail. Whatever skill she had as a blademaster was no match for the banshee. Not alone, and not with so many allies surrounding her. Sylvanas was untouchable, and unchallenged. Again, she looked at Saurfang, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts. in his face, Vilmah remembered the look she saw in Thrall when last she saw him; broken by his own decisions. Saurfang wanted to die in battle, that much was known to the Horde, and his age showed with every line in his face and the silver of his hair, but never before had he seemed so very old to her. Even his muscles felt smaller, weaker, and with none of the taut energy that the High Warlord often displayed. Here was an orc she respected, trusted even, but once again that trust was burned to ash. Like the world tree, Vilmah felt her faith in the Horde burn once again. Her desire to bring peace to her people went up in smoke like the thousands of screaming elves, and she had to remind herself that somewhere, her own people would be waiting for her. Waiting for something. Hesitantly, she looked away from Saurfang. Another hero gone.
  14. 1 point
    Early on the third day the agent makes good time reaching the Ruins of Lordaeron, if one could call sneaking past a choke point filled with undead troops in any form 'quick'. Crossing to Fenris Isle, then crossing again to the mainland shore would be much too conspicuous to even the least vigilant peering eyes, so Bronwen pays off a band of rebellious worgen with a good chunk of her supplies to create some trouble on the other side of the road closer to the water to draw the guards' attention. Even if one or a few are ordered to keep watch, the nearby commotion helps her pass through the shadows, and the skirmishers are more than happy to help out, both for the reason to charge in and create trouble and for the small reserve of first aid supplies, dried meat and fruit she leaves with their camp. "At least someone appreciates it," she thinks, but not until she's safely past the redoubt and allows herself the chance to roll her eyes. The relatively clear but still sickly-looking skies of Silverpine become even more clouded and gloomy with every step of the human's creeping advance. It is the same as she expects. Same as it always was, but it makes her frown a little bit more, this time. The dead winds are a little more fetid and the howls of blighted hounds more ominous to her, and that's even without the haze of knowing nothing more than Astranaar has been attacked, at this point. Attacked again, more appropriately. There are elves all over the forest there hiding in the trees, she believes. If the fantastical stories about them are to be believed there is one kaldorei for each tree and they each can fell an orc between the boughs before a human eye can even see them, but that particular conversation has never come up between her and a night elf. She tries to think nothing of it, as she has her own tasks before her. The first of which is to find a tree to climb for watch, reporting, and somewhat of a nap while she can manage such a thing. There is one in particular she likes to choose while here that's fairly close to the sewers, but far enough that even the patrols with the widest avenues don't reach. It's tall with plenty of foliage and broad offshoots and it works perfectly as watching the giant disgusting divide in the side of the hills is one great note to check off of the list of things she has to scout. Her eyes stay on it and the sporadic bat-traffic that comes and goes, but her mind wanders just enough so she doesn't zone entirely out. She thinks about how she wants to go peek inside, despite orders stating not to do that very thing. She knows better, and she'd not come out until she'd wasted all her time harassing poor merchants and throwing dust into bats' faces as they passed through the arches up high to throw their riders to the ground. At least she'd do that if she wasn't bored and daring enough to throw it into the faces of the mages maintaining the city's portals and interrupt their focus enough to break the connection to the others for a few moments. She wonders if she should have first run off to Kalimdor to get her nightsaber from Darnassus, as she's planned to bring her home and put off for a couple weeks now, instead of reporting to Command for orders that ultimately brought her here. There are plenty of other things she thinks on, particularly the more comfortable things that have been left behind for who knows how long. While watching the great lack of activity happening around the sewers for a good while, Bronwen uses a runestone to recount her actions and observations in both Silverpine and Tirisfal up until this point. It amounts to very little, but little change this far gives her more focus for what's to come next. When the day is yet young, she shifts her cloak to wrap it around herself a little better, both for hiding from sight within the shadows of the branches and for a strangely comforting warmth. On the fourth day, after activity doesn't pick up, Bronwen makes her way uneventfully to the Bulwark, and gives her report on it and the barren entrance to the ruined city. Late on the fifth day, she turns back and makes her way towards Brill again, scooping fine sandy dirt into a pouch or two to stash in a leg pocket near her potions and antidotes. Upon fitting it inside and loosening the strings just enough to be able to reach into it when she needed it, she spies a lone patrolman walking down the road in her direction with a sword strapped across his back, a torch in his hand, and the Icon of Torment on his chest. She crouches in the bushes with a blade drawn and waits for him to pass, and in a quick flurry from behind a clean dagger is sent up through his throat and into his head with precision. She only looks down the road and back towards the other direction with little mind paid to his gurgling and lurching, since she expects and accounts for it in her own bracing movements. She hardly even looks at his face when she pulls her blade free once he falls still and inspects him just enough to be sure that he is in fact entirely dead, now. The body is left unpilfered in the middle of the road, and the torch left to burn itself out. Bronwen finds another tree to climb into a great distance away from the scene so she can watch what comes next, and plan accordingly.
  15. 1 point
    There are not many things in the lore that would have my brain exploding this much; from the perspective of someone who knew the Grim best in 2007 and 2005, this is absolutely shocking and sad news. It'll take a few days to process, I think, but that's okay. I look forward to seeing your continued prosperity, even if it's not on Twisting Nether. [I poured a glass of wine for the first time in weeks to and for this.] Peace through [Cheers and] Annihilation, - Alekander
  16. 1 point
    Nearly thirteen years ago, on September 16, 2005, the Necromancer, Maledictus, began writing what would later become known as the Mandate. Wishing to see the destruction of the races of the Alliance, The Grim formed under the tenant – Peace Through Annihilation. The founding members of The Grim were: Ayabba the Forsaken Warlock, Grainger the Steward, Laughingcrow the Tauren Hunter, Pincus the Forsaken Warlock, Snowfeather the Tauren Druid, and four others whose name and deeds have been lost to history. Since those very early days of the Twisting Nether server, The Grim have remained a heavy RP guild, IC determined to see the complete destruction of the Alliance and any other enemies of the Horde. Our echoed cries of “Peace through annihilation!” rang throughout every corner of Azeroth (“like a damn wolf pack” according to one person). We’ve also done our share of world PVP and battlegrounds, and we’ve managed to obtain every AotC achievement this expansion while still keeping a casual feel to our raid team. One of the earliest events that was popular on the server, so popular, in fact, that it crashed the server, was the King of Rats storyline. King Varian Wrynn was once found in the sewers of Alcaz Island, and The Grim made a storyline about discovering him and using him as a lab rat for plague experiments. When we came back to check on the results, we were accompanied by other Horde. An Alliance force, led by the Ironforge Regiment, was there to meet us. The battle was short-lived; apparently the servers back then couldn't handle two full raid groups of Horde fighting against four full raid groups of the Alliance. Cristok's Challenge was a popular event that started in Burning Crusades. A formal dueling tournament among Horde members, the purpose of the Challenge was to both prepare the heroes of the Horde to fight the forces of the Alliance and as a show of force. Also during this time, The Grim began weekly assaults on the fortress of Theramore. Fabled Order, an Alliance group of Paladins, stood as the main defense for the last living citizens of the kingdom of Lordaeron. During the Wrath of the Lich King, we led a massive assault, later known as The Drums of War, which raged across the capitals of the people of Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. Despite the threats from the Lich King in Northrend, the heroes of the Horde and the Alliance finally faced each other in open conflict. In the end, the Horde was successful in a coordinated attack on the Exodar, Ironforge, Darnassus, and Stormwind – seeing to the defeat of both hero and civilian alike. Arguably, the Drums of War was the start of the downward spiral of Alliance heroes until the discovery of Pandaria. During Cataclysm, Cristok and Leyujin led Onslaughts--various RPPvP storylines and events. One was "The Doom of Stormwind." In an attempt to destroy Stormwind from afar, The Grim had developed a plan to use Ragnaros’s energies, contained within a cannon shell, to be fired from Bilgewater Harbor against the White City. The plan was derailed due to the efforts of the Praetorian Guard, a highly trained Alliance military outfit that struck several successful raids against Grim depots that housed the materials needed for the superweapon. During Warlords of Draenor, members of The Grim participated in large storylines led by other members of the Twisting Nether & Ravenholdt community, such as Eclipse, Quorum, and Hollow, just to name a few. There was also the informal war between The Grim and Sanctuary. Unfortunately, since the launch of Legion, the server community population has greatly declined, or at least gone mostly absent from the game. RP guilds have disappeared, whether to leaving the game, disbanding, transferring to other servers, or just becoming less active in-game. For The Grim, Legion has been an expansion of struggles to find people to play with. Roleplay in-game has been scarce, attendance at Grim planned events was a mere handful of people, we often had to struggle to find a sufficient number of people to raid, and our Rated Battleground Team disintegrated with the loss of a few people, because there was nobody to replace them. Recruiting has been extremely painful due to the lack of population remaining here on the server. After a very long period of consideration, and trying to come up with other ideas, The Grim has made the difficult decision to move to a more active server where, hopefully, we can once again be part of an active roleplaying community in the game. Sometime this weekend, The Grim will transfer to the Wyrmrest Accord server. Farewell, Twisting Nether. We hope you have lots of fun and success in BfA. "I can’t stop now. The War demands much of us all, and this is no time to falter." - Cristok, former Hand of the Mandate.
  17. 1 point
    The building was on fire and it was not his fault. He would have been disappointed if he had not been running for his life. An arrow snatching at the hem of his robes made an unnecessary point about the gravity of his situation. " Stand and fight, COWARD!" The sentinel demanded, nocking another arrow and firing it in rapid succession. The shot missed his ear by a matter of inches, causing him to instinctively jerk away in a delayed and thoroughly pointless reflex. Qabian blamed his exhaustion. The smoke in the air was getting worse, his eyes had begun to water and breathing was growing more and more difficult. Perhaps that was why the "legendary" archers were shooting so poorly. A useless byproduct saving his life from an enraged woman. It could have been the exhaustion from the battle or the adrenaline induced hysteria of the chase but the thought caused the magister to start laughing. He was rewarded for his momentary lapse in focus with an armored fist across his cheek. The sentinel had finally caught up to him. Any noise of protest he could have made was silenced as the heel of her boot pressed down painfully upon his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. " You think this is funny?" She demanded as she drew the arrow back and took aim, from such a distance she was not likely to miss. " No, this just reminds me of my career in teaching. Though i'd call it more hilarious than funny." Another chuckle was cut short as the Kal'dorei put more pressure on his aching ribs. "Shut. Up." The woman snarled as she stared down the grinning mage. " Or what? You will shoot me? Hardly a threat after-Hngh!" He let out a pained cough as she pressed down on his ribs again and bared her sharpened teeth. The woman looked as exhausted as he felt. Grime and blood coated the plates of her armor and left uneven splashes across the exposed purple flesh. Now that he had a moment to finally look at his would be executioner, he could see shaking limbs. She was tired, she was hurt, and she was racked with anxiety from the slaughter. " I thought your kind believed in honor! Where is the honor in this?" She snapped at him. It took him a moment to realize she expected an answer. He kept his surprise hidden behind his usual infuriating smirk. He needed time, just a little bit more to catch his breath, and in her anger she had give him exactly that. He did not have the energy to formulate a proper lie or story to stall her. Between the lack of oxygen and the delirious feeling born of a mixture of panic and hope he could barely even think. He would never tell anyone what happened that night but he would continue to blame that for what he blurted out. " Do you believe in the boogeyman too?" He babbled as he saw the string stretch back in preparation. The question earned him a slight reprieve as she drew her boot back enough to allow him to breathe but still keep him pinned. " What?" She demanded. " What are you talking about?" " The Boogeyman. The monster under the bed or in the closet of children. A figment of their imagination created by their fear of the dark." He hissed out as he sucked in a grateful breath of smoke-tinged air. He was not sure what annoyed him more, the straws he grasped for to stall the woman or the fact that it seemed to be working. " No child should fear the dark." She snapped, still trying to puzzle out what the man was talking about. " But they do." He insisted, feeling a familiar tingling as the exhausted reserves began to fill drop by drop. " They use it to explain their own fear because a fear of nothing is ridiculous! It's a faulty construct." His rant was halted as the boot pressed down upon his ribs again, the sentinel controlled the flow of the conversation and she wanted him to know it. " That's what it is to you? Nothing?" " Less than nothing," Qabian confirmed with a wheeze, expending what little air he had left. He fought down a surge of panic as the bow was drawn back another inch in preparation. " Think about it!" He wheezed, hiding his relief when she relaxed a fraction of an inch. " The orcs are the ones shouting it the loudest and what are they? The ones with the most to make up for. If not for this concept what would they have left? Nothing." The end of the statement was barely a whisper as his head began to spin The sentinel eased up on his ribs enough to let him draw in another choking lungful of air which he sucked in greedily and promptly hacked up a globule of dirty saliva. " Nobody wants that they are irrational or horrible. Everyone wants to be right. So what do you do with that much baggage? You make up a code. Make up some justification for why you've done what you've done and pretend that you're not as bad as they say because you have one noble sounding concept to cling to. Honor is easily forgotten but the first thing to be cried out about. It's something you use against them even though YOU don't believe we have it in the first place!" " What's your point?" She snapped. Her ears twitched as one of the support beams let out a groan of warning and a high pitched squeal. " My point is that you are trying to insult me with air. You are trying to hit me with something that does not EXIST save for in the imagination of frightened orcs. Honor is nothing more than a word shouted out by everyone so they can pretend they aren't awful people. The Horde is awful, the alliance is awful, you are awful..." " And you are any better?" She demanded as she drew the bow taught, having reached the end of her patience with the mage's explanation. " I never said that..." He let out a raspy, unsettling laugh as he felt the spell take shape. It was a match compared to a forest fire in terms of what he usually wielded but he had nothing else. "In fact... I am far worse." Even before he had finished the statement, Qabian had begun to move. He pulled his head to the side as he tightened his chest and twisted his body to throw her off balance. The meager energy he had gathered coalesced into little more than a needle of ice, no larger than a toothbrush. As he twisted and she released her shot, the needle found the exposed joint in her armor. The arrow she held pierced the stone with a deafening shriek and a spray of sparks as the metal scraped the rock. His captor let out a shout of pain as the ice pierced her flesh, forcing her to remove the leg from his chest. He scrambled to a standing position as she fell into a seated position and let out a wordless shriek of outrage and drew another arrow The creak of a drawn bowstring was drowned out by the crack of a ceiling beam finally losing its fight with the flame. A fraction of a second was wasted as she looked up in surprise at the buckling ceiling, another fraction was wasted by panic and the torn desire between punishing the blood elf and her own survival, and then time ceased to matter as the flaming debris buried her in a roar of falling wood, flame, and stone. Exhausted by the effort and desperate for clean air, Qabian staggered out of the collapsing building, clutching his mangled and now singed ear. There was no time to even make sure the job was finished. If any of the other sentinels spotted him he was done for. He doubted talking about boogeyman would work on another one. Qabian sucked in a lungful of clean air and adjusted his rumpled robes before removing his hearthstone from his bag. This was one story of many that people would never hear. Saved by the faults in two constructs in one night? Ridiculous!
  18. 1 point
    It's going to be that one, he thought to himself, watching as the goblin nodded his head toward the empty pint of beer he'd been served only minutes before. Tahzani had an ongoing bet with himself over which one of his patrons would pass out first, and today he had a good pick of people to choose from. First, there was the goblin. He'd come in from Southshore, battered and bruised, likely from some scuffle over azerite or something else the Warchief ordered her troops to do. It was times like this he was glad for his job; far be it for him to break his nose a third time. Trolls healed quick, but that didn't mean they healed exactly the same. Tahzani's nose was like a jagged knife with not one but two ridges where the cartilage was broken. This alone made him stand out from the other trolls who patronized his establishment, and the Coldstar Cantina was growing more popular as the conflict in Southshore ramped up. "Hey barkeep," said a trollish woman in Zandali, her dark red hair and black facial tattoos outing her as a Ferraki. Sand snake, he thought to himself, approaching the female. "Watchoo wan'?" he asked politely in orcish, unwilling to bring the irritable glances of his many orcish patrons his way. They tended to get testy when he spoke in Zandali, and he wasn't going to start trouble over some sand troll. "Double whiskey, neat," she said, still in Zandali, flashing a jaw full of impossibly white teeth and large tusks. Of course she doesn't want ice, Tahzani thought to himself, pouring a glass with twice the usual amount of whiskey. Passing it to her, he took note of the gold rings on her fingers and the gold cuffs on each wrist. She didn't seem particularly rich, but it was an unusual choice. "He'a ya go," he said in a dry tone, as if he didn't have time for any Ferraki nonsense today. The sand troll took her drink and rolled a few coins toward Tahzani. "Thanks, handsome," she said with a grin. A twitch in his eyelid was all that answered her. When was the last time someone called him handsome without it being a joke? "I told you I wouldn't take any of your bullshit!" came another voice from nearby. Tahzani's attention was stolen by the new conflict; an orc was grabbing a tauren by the collar of his shirt, which was both hilarious and dangerous. Tauren could do massive structural damage if they were so inclined, and orcs didn't know when to back down. "Ey eye ey!" He shouted, waving a hand at both of them. "Take it outsahd! Ain' got no tahm fo' ya bustin' up mah tables an' chai's, mon!" The Ferraki laughed into her hand. "You think that's going to stop them?" She teased, drinking half of her glass. Sure enough, his commands went completely ignored. The tauren reached back and swung toward his assailant with a massive paw to the face, knocking the orc back a few feet and into the wall. A round of laughter went out around the room, and try as he might, Tahzani couldn't help but join them. It wasn't usual that a brawl wound up stopping with a single hit though, so he shook a fist at the orc. "Ey mon! Know when ta stay down!" But the orc didn't know when to quit. He was dressed in thick leathers and animal hide, the mark of a hunter, and sure enough a wolf suddenly appeared from outside only to leap at his tauren "friend" and sink his jaws into the larger warrior's thigh. "Get 'im, Ash'ar!" the orc shouted, hauling himself back to his feet, whipping out a rifle to aim at the tauren. The tauren seemed almost amused by the wolf, until its teeth dug in deep enough to find flesh. "An'she!" He shouted, smacking the canine away in the same way he did to his partner. Now it was time for Tahzani to intervene. "Ah to'd ya ta stop," he said firmly, putting away his own laughter with a shake of his head. The troll had a number of things he could do to stop them, but deescalating situations generally didn't happen when one introduced more violence. Luckily, there was a distraction. "Yoo hoo!" Came a familiar voice, and a familiar jiggle. Well that's an unexpected blessing, Tahzani thought to himself as a blood elf walked into his establishment carrying a guitar. Busty-the-elf to the rescue. She smiled with her painted lips and sat down primly on a bar stool, her low-cut robes exposing her breasts in a display an orc might find lewd. "Who wants to hear a song about how my night went?" She asked with a grin. The orc hunter put down his rifle. Elves were funny, and this one was particularly entertaining. Tahzani let out a heavy sigh. Saved by tits, he thought grumpily to himself, wondering vaguely about the difference between elf and troll breasts in terms of weight and softness. Well elves usually have little ones, but this one has pretty big ones.. can't be as soft as a troll's though, there's no fur, and besides, why would anyone want to bother with an elf, they probably talk through the whole thing and... It was when he was deep into this internal monologue when the music started, and the patrons went just a little quiet to listen to busty-the-elf's song. "Hey, give me another double, handsome," came the same Ferraki as before, smiling at Tahzani with a sinister grin. Rolling his eyes, he refilled her glass. "You can stop calling me that any time now." "Why would I want to do that?" She asked innocently, passing him the coins. Tahzani glared at her. "Because my face is busted to shit and you know it." "Doesn't seem so bad to me," the Ferraki said through a grin, the face paint around her eyes wrinkling mischievously. Is she actually flirting with me? The barkeep thought to himself. He tried to think of the last time someone actually had the nerve to flirt with him and was interrupted by a loud round of applause as busty-the-elf's first some came to an end. Glancing toward her, he saw the elf take a bow before turning back to the Ferraki, who mysteriously disappeared. "What the.." "My eye! My eye!!" Came a shout from one of the tables, a blood elf male leaning forward, clutching his left eye. Blood rolled down his face and hand as he shouted in a panic, and Tahzani groaned to himself. "We don' need anodda bar fight toni--" But his words were cut short, because it wasn't a bar fight that cost the elf his eye. Tahzani noticed a glimmer of air shifting before him, the unmistakable form of a night elf visible for a brief moment as she stabbed another patron, this time a goblin, in his eye as well. "Cripes! My friggin' eye!!" He shouted, and the bar erupted into chaos. "There's a rogue here!" "Takin' out eyes!" "Someone find 'em before they get anyone el--, ahh!! My eye!!" "An eye for an eye, Horde!" Shouted the elf in her own language as she faded from sight only to stab at as many patrons as she could find. Tahzani groaned. Of all the bars in all the world, it had to be mine!? Backing up, he grabbed his staff from the wall and considered the price of using the fel to fight this unseen foe. He was trying to give it up, or at least, he thought he was. What choice is there, though? If some elf is in my bar, taking the eyes from my customers, there had to be something-- "Hey handsome," came the familiar voice of the Ferraki, suddenly appearing in front of his bar along with the limp body of a night elf female, her knife sticking half-way into the elf's throat. "Look what I brought you." For once, it didn't matter if she was actually flirting or if she was just being tease. Tahzani stared at the two, sand troll and night elf, then shook his head and waved a hand toward the nearest bar stool. "T'anks fo' da help," he said with the hint of a smile. "Next drink be on me."
  19. 1 point
    "Horrid girl!" Razz looks very upset when asked about Tynalie. "Absolutely horrid! She set off a firework in my house! Who does that? Sparks burned everything! The walls, the furniture, my arms! And she started a fire in my kitchen! Horrid, just horrid." The curvy prima donna goblin walks away, shaking her head and holding a perfectly manicured hand to her ample bosom. She is obviously completely distraught at even the mere mention of Tynalie.
  20. 1 point
    When Vilmah had been tasked with brokering peace between two centaur clans out in the dead waste of Desolace, the last thing she expected was for the meetings to take place at the base of a massive waterfall. Instead of grey, dingy dust and dry bones littering the ground, she was welcomed by a gentle glow of greenery and the cries of living beasts. That sound was comforting, but she had to listen hard for it over the ever-present clangor of the huge fall. The place wasn’t clear of the presence of death, however. The stink of it lingered wherever the clansmen tread. This place was a haven for them, like Shattrath or Dalaran was for the Alliance and Horde. And just like those grand cities, this place was rife with dirty looks and murderous intent. And then, of course, there was the actual dead man accompanying Vilmah. He followed her like a cold shadow, closed-lipped and soft-footed. It was disquieting, but she’d rather have someone to accompany her to this land of hostility, even if it had to be someone like Georgio. “Don’t see something like that every day,” Vilmah said wistfully. “Not usually.” Georgio spoke little, and so softly it came as a whisper. Vilmah scratched one of the scars on her neck. “Where are you from, again, Georgio?” “Brill, after the turn. Before, the city.” “The city…you mean the capital city?” “Yes. I preferred it as it once was, not so as it is now.” “I see.” She could understand that. From all Vilmah had heard of the Second War from its survivors, the capital of Lordaeron had been like a fearsome beast no hunter could bring down. The Horde had come close, only to be broken against its dreaded walls and scattered across the northern kingdoms like blades of grass before a gardener’s scythe. It had been a city to be proud of. And then Arthas. Her thoughts always seemed to lead back to death eventually. Even in this peaceful place, there was no peace from death. Beyond all else, she felt tired. “I think I’ll turn in for the night, Georgio. It was a long ride, and the greetings seemed to stretch on forever…” The ceremonial greetings had been a lavish affair with every respectful ritual possible. And Vilmah had endured them twice, one for each of the centaur clans. Things would be much easier if they worked together. I guess that’s why we’re here. “Centaurs are sticklers for tradition. Keep that in mind tomorrow.” Georgio began to slink off towards the circle of tents that marked the moving city of the beast-men. The tents were clearly divided between those stitched of quillboar skin painted red and those of gnoll skin painted green. Centaurs preferred to display their more impressive kills, so Vilmah had learned. “Georgio,” Vilmah called out. The Forsaken turned about, his bright yellow eyes burrowing under the orcess’s skin. “You’ve worked with these clans before, right? Have they ever gathered like this without coming to violence?” His dead flesh twisted in something resembling discomfort. “Not for years and years, Vilmah Bloodborne. I’d suggest you get a good night’s sleep.” As he slipped into the darkness like a specter, Vilmah promised herself she would do as he warned. --- “It is a great honor to have you here, Vilmah Bloodborne,” the translator said, his voice scratchy and not pleased-sounding in the least. His master, a grey-bearded and one-eyed chieftain painted with bright-red markings, grunted in his own tongue while eyeing Vilmah as a carpenter measures a length of wood. After, he swept his arm over the wide array of food on his long, tall table. It stretched on for several feet in either direction and was lined with centaurs painted just as red, but more humbly than their chieftain. Vilmah felt half a fool sitting in the high chair while the chieftain and his entourage sat all around her. Georgio sat by her left hand, which made her feel a more comfortable. Not by much, but it counted for something. The translator spoke again, “Chieftain Gromul humbly offers this meager meal as a welcome from the Pakan people, ever friends of the Horde.” Georgio had told Vilmah of the Pakan clan’s history with the Horde. For years they defied the Horde’s presence in Desolace, especially around the coastline area they claimed as their sacred ground. They had been aggressors in a bloody three-way war between themselves, the Horde, and the third party present at this summit: the Komen. “If this is what the Pakan count as meager, then I hope to be invited to more feasts,” Vilmah said with a smile. The translator seemed unconvinced by her gratitude as he repeated her words in his tongue. Gromul, however, belched a laugh. “Small though this may be, you will find nothing near as great on the tables of the Komen. They have always been jealous of our wealth.” “Oh,” was all Vilmah thought to say. This was a delicate situation. Her every action could turn either side against her in a heartbeat. “Take care with such honest talk at the meeting today, Chieftain,” Georgio’s whispery voice said, “Remember when you last spoke of Komen wealth at one of these meetings?” “My chieftain says he remembers all too well,” the translator replied as the grey-bearded chieftain chuckled, “A glorious battle, and many Komen lay dead by his spear.” “And many Pakan as well,” the Forsaken replied with a shrug. “It was mine and Vilmah Bloodborne’s understanding that your people had bled long enough on the spears of your Komen cousins.” Vilmah gave Georgio a thankful smile. “Yes, and that is what brings us here,” the translator grunted. “And what brings you to us.” The remainder of the meal was all pleasantries and humble boasts. At times the chieftain or one of his chief raiders would mention the Komen in passing. Georgio even managed to coax a small praise from the chieftain’s eldest son. “The Komen,” he said, “Have proven hard to kill.” --- Vilmah’s apprehension about this meeting had grown steadily after the feast, and Georgio’s grim temperament did little to ease her nerves. “Remember to steer the conversation away from the Second Battle of Tall Grasses,” the undead reminded her for the fifth time that day, “The Pakan are still sore about that loss, and they are like to grow more heated if it is discussed.” “Georgio?” Vilmah interjected carefully. The man’s wrinkled grey face watched her impassively. “Why haven’t we discussed the peace terms? Shouldn’t I know what sort of reaction to expect from that? Why all the talk about battles and faux pas?” “Because we can control the conversation until the terms are spoken.” “What happens after?” “One of two things. They’ll either erupt into a full-blown battle then and there, or they’ll simply leave the meeting feeling cheated and sour, but at peace nonetheless. All we can do at that point is hope for the best.” Vilmah rubbed her temples irritably. “I think I need some fresh air. How long until the meeting?” “One hour. I would be quick were I you.” She departed from their shared tent – which Georgio never used, leading Vilmah to suspect he did not sleep at all – and walked around the ring of tents. All around her she saw Komen and Pakan, two sides of the same coin to her eyes. One was painted green and the other red and either used different skins for their tents and clothes, but otherwise they were indistinguishable to her eyes. It made her heart sink to imagine these people, who should have been kin, killing each other for generations. “Excuse me, miss?” a voice as clear as running water called after Vilmah. She turned to see a rather small centaur clopping after her. Even more surprising than his voice and size – he was handsome. His long, dark hair was tied back in a neat bun, his eyes were green as grass, and his features were softer and cleaner than the other centaurs Vilmah had met. She noted his green body paint arranged in intricate patterns, a sign of the Komen. “What can I do for you?” she asked politely. “Well, it is embarrassing,” he said with a strange boyish innocence to his tone, “I fear I’ve lost my favorite quill. It is made from the feather of a thunder bird, about this long.” He indicated with his fingers. “A thunder bird? I don’t think I’ve heard of that.” “It is native to these lands, and sacred to my people. They are incredibly rare, but we sometimes train them to hunt or to tell when bad weather is coming.” Vilmah’s eyebrow lifted. “They can predict weather?” “Indeed they can. They can even pass through thunderstorms without fear of lightning. The feather is brown and white, like the hair of a centaur. You haven’t seen a feather about like that, have you?” She shook her head. “Sorry.” “Ah, it is no bother. I will use a spare for the meeting.” “You will be attending?” “Oh yes. I am Chief Vlambok’s youngest son, and the most literate. I am Varamor; I serve as translator and scribe.” Only then did Vilmah realize they had been speaking Orcish. “Ah, that makes sense.” She chuckled. “Well met, Varamor. I am Vilmah Bloodborne. You speak my tongue rather well.” He inclined his head appreciatively “It is a noble tongue, and I have always had a passion for things from faraway lands.” His green eyes drifted to Vilmah’s left arm. She had grown used to the stares her prosthetic received, but she couldn’t help but notice when Varamor’s eyes moved. They were like emeralds when they caught the midday light. “Perhaps later we can discuss our cultures with each other,” Vilmah offered. “Yes, I would like that,” Varamor said. “For now, my search continues. A pleasure to meet you, Vilmah Bloodborne.” He trotted off gracefully, scanning the ground as he went. Strangely, Vilmah began to feel better about the upcoming meeting. At least one person there won’t be unreasonable. --- “My chieftain finds these terms absolutely unacceptable,” The Pakan translator barked not a moment after Vilmah had concluded reading them. The red side of the negotiating table rumbled to life with grunted complaints and insults. Though Vilmah could not understand them, it was plain to see how displeased they were. The Komen on the green half of the long table stood quietly around their chieftain, Vlambok. The old centaur’s beard was long, braided, and white as snow, and his eyes were as green as his son’s. Varamor watched Vilmah, his face flushed with sympathy, as he scratched notes on his clay tablet. “How can the Horde expect the Pakan to accept a peace that so blatantly benefits the Komen? We would lose our most valuable boneyard, a stretch of field where we harvest our red paints, and half of our bountiful hunting grounds!” Vilmah cleared her throat and replied, “That is the only price the Komen will agree to for the lands you fervently argued over in the Desolate War. In return for the boneyard, flower field, and hunting grounds, you will have unrestricted access to Horde ports along the coast and a lump sum payment of sixty thousand gold as blood pay for the lives lost in war.” “The Pakan will never sell the lives of our fallen warriors for so cheap!” Vlambok muttered something in his tongue, so quiet he made Georgio sound like a Warsong. Varamor had to lean in close to hear and translate. “My father wishes it to be known that Komen lives were lost in even greater numbers than Pakan in the war. The lands we desire will be sufficient to honor their spirits.” The red chief Gromul spat on the table, ushering shocked and angry roars from the Komen side. “That is what my chieftain thinks of your dead Komen weaklings.” Vilmah glanced at Georgio as the table erupted into cries of hatred. The undead sat deep in his tall chair and cleaned his fingernails. This is ridiculous! I won’t just sit here and do nothing! A veiled, green-painted centaur woman stomped across the dividing line of the table and punched a red centaur in the teeth. The two fell over each other in a heap, strong legs flailing and budging the table aside. Vilmah felt trapped when the wooden edge scraped against her chair. Chief Vlambok slapped his hand against the table and cried out at his people, though Vilmah could not tell if he was urging them to stop or fight on. She had no such uncertainty about the red chief. Gromul stood with a smug look on his face while his warriors shouted and shoved at the green centaurs. Vilmah roared and shoved the table off her chair, sending a few surprised centaurs stumbling away. Then she slammed down on the red and green surface as hard as she could with her metal arm. She felt the wood bend beneath the force of her strike, causing such a crash that every centaur in the room looked at her, aside from those still wrestling on the floor. “ENOUGH!” she shouted, “There has been enough blood spilled between the three of us to fill an ocean! And yet here you all stand, you proud and haughty warriors, having forgotten so soon what death tastes like!” The red chief grunted defiantly, though not so confidently as before, “The Pakan cannot accept a peace so poor. It would be like pissing on the pyres of our ancestors.” Varamor spoke his father’s words calmly, though Vilmah detected a hint of reluctance “We Komen are ready to lay down our spears for this peace. My father…wishes to offer me as a marriage prospect to seal the deal in blood as well as words.” This ushered new grumbles from both sides, but not all sounded displeased. Vilmah realized she was standing on her chair, her metal arm buried in the thick wooden table. She seated herself, feeling her face flush. “Not bad, orc,” Georgio whispered. Vilmah smiled embarrassedly. Gromul stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. The room quieted when he prepared to speak. “If we are to agree, my chieftain’s grandsons will owe allegiance to him alone.” The green centaurs looked none too pleased at that, but Vlambok merely nodded. Varamor kept his fair face guarded. Vilmah could not begin to imagine what he must be thinking. “We shall consider this offer further,” the red translator said, “We shall retire for now to think over the terms and meet here again tomorrow.” By the time he had finished translating, half of the red centaurs had cleared from the long, tented table. Vilmah released a tense breath and sank into her chair. She eyed the shattered ruin of the table before her, half aware of Georgio slinking off with a brief congratulation on surviving the first day. A shadow fell on her as she lost herself in thought. Vilmah looked up to see Varamor smiling sadly at her. “Today did not go quite as expected, no?” “No, not quite,” she replied, “Honestly, I thought it would be worse.” He chuckled. His laugh was clear and beautiful, like waves lapping at the shore. “You must have heard some stories about our previous summits. In my youth, I witnessed a hundred brawls between my brothers and Gromul’s sons. But alas, now only his sons attend.” “What happened to your brothers?” “The war. All but my oldest brother perished, and one of his legs was lamed. Now my sons will be pledged to Pakan should this peace be settled. My father’s blood runs thin.” His green eyes looked forlorn at the broken table, red and green wood chips intermixing like a cataclysm of blood and grass. Vilmah felt strangely guilty. A green centaur clomped into the tent, yelling frantically in Varamor’s tongue. The young Komen looked shocked but shouted quick commands with confidence. The warrior ran off at a gallop. “Vilmah Bloodborne, the campsite is under attack by quillboar clansmen! I must see to my father’s safety.” “Let me help you!” Vilmah shouted suddenly, hopping to her feet. She carried no weapons, yet she could still fight. “Very well. On my back!” She followed his directions, and together they raced out into the camp as it devolved into chaos. The quillboar had attacked on the green side of the camp, and thus far only the Komen had engaged them in battle. Vilmah spied a pair of spears dug into the earth and pointed Varamor towards them. They both took one up as they raced on to battle. Chieftain Vlambok’s white beard was easy to spot from a distance. He stood surrounded by his fiercest spearmen, who were in turn surrounded by quillboar and their war hounds. Varamor shouted encouraging words to his people and led a charge at the quillboar line. The prickly creatures scattered in an instant. Few smaller than a tauren would stand against the charge of centaur, Vilmah thought. Once Vlambok was free of his attackers, he embraced his son and clapped Vilmah on the shoulder, saying a few words. “He offers you thanks, Vilmah,” Varamor reported. “Tell him to hold his thanks until the enemy is routed.” The green chief seemed to like that. Varamor took a deep breath as they began to charge the enemy once again. “I must warn you, Vilmah, I am no talented fighter. My brothers would have been more use here.” Vilmah patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think about that. Focus on the here and now. One enemy at a time. Focus on now, and it will be over before you know it.” He seemed to gain confidence at that. The line of centaur grew as Varamor rallied loose spearmen to follow. By the time they crashed against the quillboar line, the young centaur was screaming a warsong alongside his brethren, and his song was the most haunting of all. --- Night was falling. After the battle, Vilmah walked the field of the dead, seeing quillboar bodies and centaurs painted green scattered everywhere. She looked hard for Pakan markings but found none. Once she thought she had found a pack of them, only to discover that the red was made by splatters of blood. “They didn’t even try to aid us,” Varamor said, giving words to Vilmah’s thoughts. “Though what more could be expected from those savages?” “Perhaps they didn’t want to cause further panic,” Vilmah offered feebly. Varamor sighed. “My father will do nothing. It is clear those blood-hided monsters had something to do with this. The quillboar have never been so bold as to attack us with all their strength.” He trotted off towards his father’s tent. “Come, Vilmah. I am certain my father will have a place for you.” Feeling uncertain, Vilmah jogged after him. The green-painted warriors were bickering angrily in the chief’s tent when they arrived. Vlambok looked somehow even older than before. Varamor was waved to his father’s side, and Vilmah alongside him. “What are they saying, Varamor?” she asked when they took their places. “The obvious. The Pakan are liars and traitors and should be dealt with in kind.” And break the peace we came to forge. And here I thought we were so close. Vilmah said nothing, only listening as Varamor translated. “Chalwar, father’s prime warlord, says we should attack at once, so to catch them off guard. Gulin, our storm witch, claims this to be folly, as the red brutes would expect such a response. My father urges patience, as always.” “What do you think we should do?” Vilmah looked up at his eyes, so full of life, and uncertainty also. “I don’t know. My mind tells me that we need this peace, but my heart says we should never bend our legs to those murderers.” She understood him. She had felt such pain before. That only made it harder to tell him, “If your people should choose war with the Pakan, I will not be able to help. I came here to make peace, not pull the Horde into war again.” “I know,” he said sadly. He continued to translate for her, but the discussion only led around in circles for hours on end. At long last, the green chief beseeched his people to tend to the dead, set sentries in case of further attacks, and hold the peace until morning. “In the meantime, my father will sleep like the dead. I fear his strength is waning, and Chief Gromul knows it.” Vilmah departed the tent feeling sore from riding, tired from fighting, and restless with anger. The Pakan are bullies, it is plain to see. Yet I cannot stand against them. Surely there must be something… “Orc woman!” a voice called out, thick with the accent of the Komen. Vilmah looked to the incoming centaur, painted green, and carrying a body in his arms. A bipedal body…Georgio! “What happened?” she demanded. “He found in battle,” the centaur said in simple Orcish, “Quillboar spear in neck.” Vilmah examined the wound. A spearhead still lay in his throat. Georgio opened his eyes and saw her, but when he tried to speak he spat green blood in her face. “Hush, Georgio,” she said calmly, “You’re going to be alright. Komen, healer!” The centaur seemed to understand her, and he raced off. The undead shook his head. He twisted free of Vilmah’s grip and started scratching something in the dirt. Vilmah read it as he wrote. “Not quillboar…are you saying someone else attacked you?” Georgio nodded. “Who, then? Was it the Pakan?” He began scratching out a response, but the Komen returned with a healer, and he scraped mud over his work. Does he not trust the Komen? What happened to you, Georgio? The healer took the undead into his tent and gestured for Vilmah to stay outside. It was far too crowded to try and sneak in, so she did as she was bid. If Georgio couldn’t trust the Komen, then he must have been attacked by one of them. But why? Vilmah shivered as the night grew cold. She knew one thing for certain: if one Horde diplomat had been attacked, the other would be in danger as well. She made her way to her tent to retrieve her sword and shield. “If they come after me, this won’t be enough,” she muttered to herself as she tied on her swordbelt. If there was one person she knew she could trust, it was Varamor. She made for his tent at a quick pace, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. When she arrived, the chief’s son was nowhere to be seen, though the entrance to his tent was guarded. She snuck around to the darkest side and crawled beneath the hide wall. I hope he doesn’t take offense to my intrusion, but I’m sure he’ll understand since it is a matter of life and death. The most striking feature of the tent was the finely polished desk sitting in the center, covered with heaps of papyrus and parchment and clay and stone tablets. They were written on in dozens of languages, including Orcish and the bizarre script of the Qiraji Vilmah was somewhat familiar with. She spied all sorts of writing utensils as well. There were styluses for the clay tablets and chisels for the stone, inkpots and quills of every color imaginable, and even metal-case fountain pens. The collection was laid out neatly, showing pride in something uncommon among Varamor’s people. It brought a smile to Vilmah’s face. And then she noticed a prominent feature: a great brown and white feather marked with little frills of green. “Thunder bird…” Vilmah muttered quietly. He had said it was lost, yet here it was. Curious, she sifted through some of the writings, focusing on the Orcish script. There were many poems, and all of them mournful. Some even made Vilmah’s heart stir and her eyes blink to hold back wetness. The saddest of all spoke of the pain of loss. The loss of love. “I lost you to red storm, my love…” she read aloud. “And to red storm my vengeful heart is cast.” Varamor’s voice made Vilmah jump. “That was the hardest for me to write, but I made myself write it over and over, in every language I knew how.” “You…you were in love, but the war…” “Yes, the war. It took everything, as wars do. But it was the Pakan that did the taking, and the Komen that gave all. You saw them all today. You saw all of Gromul’s sons, hale and healthy.” “But not your brothers.” “Nor my sweet love, Leyanah. She was named for a gentle spring flower. But flowers do not live when the red storm comes.” His green eyes were glassy before he shut them. Vilmah shifted uncomfortably. “I…I’m sorry.” “You have no reason to be. It is the Pakan who should be sorry, but the truly guilty never are.” “There is still a chance for peace, Varamor. You know that, don’t you?” “No. I gave up on that dream when my spring flower was taken from me. Now all that is left is war. The only true chances for peace are in your death, or that of your enemy.” His fine, mournful features now appeared sinister in the low light. But above all, he looked desperate. “Why did you attack Georgio?” “I’ve known the undead for a long while. He is dutiful, and his heart is closed. He could never be convinced, so I had him was silenced.” “Convinced of what?” “That my people are not afflicted by the same evil as the Pakan. But you, Vilmah, you could bring the tale of what you’ve seen here back to Orgimmar. You could tell all the Horde that the Komen are a people worth fighting for. I could never hope to win a war against the Pakan myself, but that will not stop me from trying.” A horrid thought crossed Vilmah’s mind. It hurt even to think it, but she had to ask. “The quillboar, that was you as well?” “A simple enough trick. You’ve seen the Pakan tents with quillboar skin and needles. The red savages have done the same to us with gnolls in the past.” He shook his gnoll-tooth necklace pointedly. Vilmah glared. “You brought your own people to harm…” “There was no other way! My father would do anything, even sell me, to prevent further war.” Vilmah eyed him desperately. “Don’t you see what you’re becoming, Varamor? This warmongering…you’re becoming the very thing you hate so much!” He shook his head sadly. “There is no other way. I had hoped you would see.” He walked to the entrance of his tent and dropped a totem on the ground. Vilmah started after him. “Varamor, I won’t let you—” A shock ran through her body and she fell back from the entrance. The centaur looked at her pitifully. “Don’t try to struggle against the storm, Vilmah Bloodborne. It only hurts worse if you do.” Vilmah drew her sword. “Release me, Varamor!” she shouted, but he was already galloping away. “Varamor!” She swung her sword, only to feel the shock again, this time driving her arm numb. She gasped. The air was growing thin around her; she could not breathe. Desperately, she tried to push through the invisible wall with her metal arm, but the shocks made her heart flutter uncontrollably. She flung herself back and gulped what air she could, feeling her vision fog up. Her thoughts went to old friends, old enemies, and old kills. She saw smiles and skulls and blood. She heard cries of friendship, cries of hatred, and cries for mercy. Guilt tugged at her like a bird’s talons. Guilt at failing, and at leaving people behind that she’d sworn to help. She felt guilt for not stopping those who hurt her friends, and guilt for killing those that did not deserve to die. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Just close my eyes, and the guilt goes away… Her eyes flashed open. She spasmed for breath that would not come, but she forced herself to focus. Focus on one enemy, then the next… She grabbed the nearby desk to help herself up and clumsily spilled half of its contents to the floor. She picked up her sword and threw it at the totem, but the invisible wall stopped it short with a crackle of lightning. Vilmah nearly fell over with the effort but supported herself on one knee. Her hand brushed a feather. Thunder bird! She thought desperately. The brown and white feather looked only like a smudge of colors in her hand as she crawled her way to the tent entrance. She gripped the end of the quill and pushed the pointed tip through. The wall crackled around the feather, and she felt the hot numbness take hold of her arm, but the feather did not stop. The tip touched the totem’s surface just as she faded to black… Light came rushing back, and air filled Vilmah’s lungs. No breath had ever tasted so sweet. Her eyes refocused, and she saw the totem was knocked over. She tested the air of the tent entrance and found she could pass through. She gathered her sword and shield and sprinted clumsily. She was no huntress, but she could see the freshest tracks led through camp towards the massive waterfall. She spotted Varamor and a small warband at the start of the hill road and knew she could not catch up to them before they reached the summit. With bows in hand, they have a perfect vantage point to rain death on the Pakan. And when the red centaurs take up arms, the sentries in the Komen camp will have no choice but to take up arms as well. Vilmah knew she had to reach the top before that happened. She sprinted to the base of the hill, found the driest stretch of rock, and began climbing. The road up to the top was long, roundabout, and winding. She knew that from her long ride down to the camp. The climb up was straightforward, but it would take a great deal of strength to outpace centaur legs. I have no other choice. Dawn will break before the reach the summit. She would just have to rise faster than the sun. --- She clawed up the last few feet, her heart a lump in her throat, as the sun’s first light brushed her back. Her muscles were jelly, her fingers covered in cuts and blisters, her metal arm was almost too heavy to carry, and her lungs were stretched thin from breathing hard, but she was alone at the top. I made it in time. She seated herself with her sword in her lap, as was the custom of a Blademaster. She steadied her breath and let her stamina return. As she waited, she listened to the thrum of the waterfall, as she had all night long. She felt the sun lick at her neck, and the sweat pour down her brow. She felt alive. Nervousness faded away as the quiet of battle took hold in her mind. Varamor crested the hill with a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. When he spotted Vilmah, he gaped at her like a guilty child stumbling into his parent. She stood, blade in hand and shield strapped to her metal arm. “I’m giving you one last chance, Varamor,” she called out to him, “Go back and give peace a chance.” “I must do this, Vilmah. For my people.” His warband climbed the hill and took positions around him, bows trained on Vilmah. She lifted her shield and hoped her plan would work. “If you want to prove yourself, fight me alone.” “I am no great fool to think I would have a chance against you alone, Vilmah Bloodborne. Else I would have dealt with you more directly before.” He called a command to his warriors and they advanced in three groups of two, two from the sides and one directly. So much for that idea. Time to improvise. The flankers drew bows and loosed while the direct charge readied their spears. Vilmah ducked down and lifted her shield over her head. The arrows flew faster than lighting. Two ricocheted off her shield, while the others bit through flesh. One scraped by and did not stick, but the fourth dug into her leg. She growled and leaped forward to meet the spearmen. Seems I am the fool who stands against charging centaur now, she thought dimly. Her shield caught one spear and she grappled the centaur into the other as the second spear sliced open her arm. Her sword arm fell limply, so she bashed the two centaurs with her shield to incapacitate them. Then she used their bodies to cover herself from the other warriors’ arrows. They circled her, but she kept herself covered in every direction. She felt like a beast caught in a trap, but the bowmen dared not come any closer. “I’ll give you the same honor you gave me, Vilmah,” Varamor said, “Throw down your shield, and I will spare you.” Vilmah growled back ferally, “You’re lying. You can’t have me live to tell the Horde you were the aggressor. If I die, you can claim the Pakan did me in.” “You are as sharp of mind as you are with sword. But that won’t—” “VARAMOR!” The chief’s son whirled around as the green chief himself thundered to the top of the slope, his own noble guardians in tow. Varamor gaped at him and said a word Vilmah recognized, the Komen word for “father.” The two screamed back and forth, but Vilmah could not follow their conversation. She focused on binding up her wounds in case she needed to defend herself again. Vlambok approached Varamor carefully, his arms outstretched. Varamor was weeping now. He screamed another word Vilmah recognized and wheeled about, charging towards the cliffside with his bow at the ready. He screamed the same word again and again as he readied his arrow. His bowmen looked uncertain, but at a word from the chief, they threw down their bows and knelt. Varamor never slowed. Vilmah sprang into his path, her shot leg throbbing painfully. Her wounded arm still hung limply, so she left her sword behind and readied her shield. Varamor charged straight ahead, his green eyes turned to a vile shade of poison where once they had been grass. All around her became the thundering of hooves and the crash of the waterfall. He screamed his warcry and aimed a shot at Vilmah. The orcess ducked down and the arrow thudded into her shield. She charged forward and slammed the shield down with all the strength she had left. The force of his leg hitting the wood and metal splintered her shield and yanked her metal arm clear off her stump, but Varamor went down in a heap. Then Vlambok’s guardians ran in and held him down with their strong forelegs. All the while, the chief’s son screamed in agony his word of desperation, and Vilmah felt only pity and pain. “LEYANAH!” he yelled as his legs, bent and broken, flailed in the air. --- Chief Vlambok came to visit Vilmah in her infirmary bed two days later. By then, she had told Georgio all of what had happened, and the undead could manage a few grunting words. Mostly he said “Damn.” Vilmah stood shakily with a crutch when Vlambok entered the tent. He waved for her to sit, and he himself knelt alongside her. A new translator stood to say his words in Orcish. “My chief says that his heart weighs heavily on his son’s downfall. But he thanks you as well for putting an end to his scheme.” Vilmah lowered her head humbly, not feeling particularly praiseworthy. “I am sorry for your losses, Chieftain. Will the Pakan listen to further offers of peace?” “That is a more difficult matter. Word has gotten out of what young Varamor intended, and the Pakan curse the Komen name with much fervor. They demand we turn over Varamor as prisoner to face Gromul’s justice.” Vilmah looked at Vlambok, shocked and apologetic. “They’ll kill him…” “Yes, my chieftain knows this. Yet what alternative exists? To go to war?” “That would not end well for anyone.” “Exactly as my chieftain thinks. But what kind of man is a chief who betrays his own son to his death so that his winter days might be peaceful?” Vilmah had no reply to that. There is no right answer here. In every direction pain ways, only in some there is less pain than others. But Vlambok watched her expectantly. Desperately, even. She saw the same painful hope in his eyes that she saw in his son’s. He needs my answer. He cannot make the choice, so he asks it of me instead. She took a deep breath. “Chieftain, I only came here with one goal: to make peace. At times to reach that goal one must first make war. I know it seems like trying to go west by walking east, but nothing in life is straightforward. We can never tell if we are walking the right way, but we keep on because to turn back is to give up. “Varamor turned away from the path, but you still have a chance to keep your people from straying. You can still try.” His nod was slow and painful to watch. His head fell, and he seemed to grow a hundred years older all at once. Vilmah’s heart ached worse than her wounds. “My chieftain thanks you for your words, Vilmah Bloodborne. The peace talks will resume tomorrow. He gives you his word.” Vilmah shrank back onto the furs and tried to rest, but her mind would not quiet. Georgio sat up in his furs and looked at her with his wrinkled, grey face. “Damn,” he said. “Yeah,” said Vilmah. “Damn.”
  21. 1 point
    Full Name: Pelande Aijatar Nicknames: “Pelly” Date of Birth: Aug 21 Age: ~10,000+ Race: Nightborne Gender: Female Hair: White, hints of faded blue Skin: Lavender Eyes: Lavender Height: 6’10” Weight: 205lb. Place of residence: Suramar Place of Birth: Vashj’ir Known Relatives: Maela Aijatar (sister) Religion/Philosophy: None Occupation: Warrior, mercenary, former guard Group/Guild affiliation: None Guild Rank: N/A Enemies: Night Elves, Legion Likes: Stiff liquor, exotic landscapes Favorite Foods: Anything with eggs Favorite Drinks: Fermented black tea Favorite Colors: Navy and gold Weapons of Choice: Spears, but mildly competent with a sword and shield Dislikes: Birds of any kind, wine Hobbies: Dance Physical Features: N/A Special Abilities: None Positive Personality Traits: Enthusiastic, focused, principled Negative Personality Traits: Prideful, reckless, judgmental, holds grudges Misc. Quirks: Wears light protective plating on her forehead and ears Theme Songs: “Are Things Still Burning” by Em Harris History: Born into a family proficient in magic, Pelande always lagged far, far behind her siblings in terms of arcane ability. She was surrounded by prodigies and yet struggled to cast the simplest cantrips. One of over a dozen children to busy parents and viewed as a consistent disappointment, she received the smallest share of affection by far. This led to a strong inferiority complex that has her always projecting a prideful air. Now that she’s part of the Horde, Pelande has decided she must find out what this means to her. On top of that, she has reason to believe she isn’t the only survivor of her family line, and the clues point to the Alliance...
  22. 1 point
    Skullduggery War, a constant within the world of Azeroth, something guaranteed like the tide's ebb and flow. Causes of war are negligible once it starts, and the moral code of justice only caters to the winning side. After all, the flavor text of history books is decided by the winning side, is it not? So don't delude yourself with a sense of justice and mercy, just focus on surviving, winning, making it to the end of the day. It's rare to find folks that can see events like these for what they truly are. Those talented visionaries are sought out, branching from all walks of life to empower each other. Standing as one seafaring unit, survival in this ever-changing world is guaranteed.. Skullduggery Mercenary Corporation is a multi-faceted company of talented on-call work. With a recent up front payment, Skullduggery has an extended contract working as an elite privateering force for the betterment of The Horde (Disclaimer: This is by no means to be confused with Piracy. Skullduggery is a licensed company that employs legitimate work). With recent events causing a disturbance between the Alliance and Horde, a call to arms has been established. Assassins, criminals, heroes, brawlers, privateers, thugs, nobility, soldiers, and even the incredibly foolhardy and brave. All walks of life are trained, forged in the fires of combat, and prepared for anything to come. All walks of life can commit to the code. All walks of Life can be dedicated to the Defense of the Horde... But only the elite can truly become a Skullduggery Sailor. With the ever-encroaching forces of the Alliance seeking to destroy, rout, and enslave the Horde as their resolution for peace, Skullduggery is a fighting force that attacks from where enemies deemed impossible. Suicidal missions, special operations, chaotic battles, and constant calls for strike teams at the ready are what Skullduggery brings to the table. And of course, for the risks taken, reward is a must. Those that seek the lucrative life of a skilled mercenary should seek out none other than Skullduggery! Enlist today! {OOC} Skullduggery is a passion project guild being built for Mythic Dungeons, Casual PvP, World PvP, and RP amidst this all. We look to be laid back and relaxed, allowing player freedom and fun in and out of game. The Guild Alignment is officially Chaotic Neutral, as many ranges of contracts for work will be available, some on the table, and others below it. We are part of a community of RP guilds looking to bring more players into the mix for BfA. Requesting Employment? Rules: We are laid back, looking for more to join in on the random fun. In character is where RPers will see the obvious rank and file of a naval company, but ooc will always be open to chill. Race: All Canon Horde races are accepted. Character: All ranges of alignment are accepted as Skullduggery employs a melting pot of culture, however each member must be capable of following a code of conduct. This code is for the safety and functionality of Skullduggery employees, therefore cannot be abused. (Treason and infighting are not accepted character traits) Classes: All canon classes are accepted alongside flavor to such classes. (example: An orc monk who identifies as a Brawler is fine, as Brawler still fits within the ideals of a Windwalker Monk) PvP Conduct: War Mode will be something encouraged, but not forced. WPvP events will of course be in War Mode. With War Mode being on, attacking enemy players is indeed encouraged, but keep this separate from obvious bad sportsmanship (Like whisper harassment and character stalking). Code of Conduct: Complete the Contract. Bring each and every contractor home. Do not stand in the way of a contract. Do not stand in your fellow employees way. Work together, survive, endure, and cash out together. At the end of the day, Success and Survival are all that matters... Contact: Chestius of the Ravenholdt Server. we have a Discord for most of our RP as well as Communications. We are looking for all sorts of players interested in both gaming as well as RP. No prior experience required, in fact, we encourage all to jump in and give it a try. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Leadership: 1. Captain Chestius, Owner of Skullduggery and Captain of her Flagship. -Age: 60+ -Profession: Hunter/Sniper -Years in Service: N/A
  23. 0 points
    ((Transcript of the last part of the Darnassus burning RP from TE's Discord channel)) Resileaf watches as all the Imperials stream through the Temple of the Moon and enter the portal to Stormwind. She stood beneath the arch of the Temple's entrance for a moment, looking at the portal... Looking back into the blazing city... She stepped back into the Temple and stood in front of a group of Priestesses. None of them were going through that portal, she knew. "Sisters. I will seek more survivors... Protect the Temple just a little bit longer." "Elune watch you, Priestess Ravenwing." "And may She welcome you in Her embrace as well." She stepped back towards Leon, Myaka's gryphon, and climbed on his back. "Just one more trip, friend. Just one more.", she said as she cast a protective barrier around him and herself. And back into the inferno they went. Resileaf flew through Darnassus from atop Leon, seeking to hear the screams and pleas through the crackling fire. If there was even a single person left in the city, she had to find them. She couldn't leave anyone to perish... Finally she heard them. Screaming voices calling for anyone's help. Directing Leon in that direction, she found a house, miraculously still intact. Inside, a family of five, trapped behind the flames. "There! Take me closer!", she called as she cast a divine beam of silver light before the entrance to the house, extinguishing the flames instantly. Leon landed, and the Priestess motionned for the family to come out. The five elves streamed out, crying and breaking into thanks. Each of them climbs on top of Leon... And Resileaf realizes that the gryphon is struggling to carry all five of them. She is silent for a moment, as she slowly grows to understand what this means. She approaches the gryphon, and leans in to whisper into his ear. "Go now... Save them and yourself... You have been more than brave enough." The gryphon would caw disapprovingly, probably trying to convince Resileaf to climb as well. "Hurry and go! Do not let those five lives be extinguished with us. Save them, and return to Myaka. I will... I will find my own way out of here..." Leon gave her a disapproving glare again, but relented. Flapping his wings hard, he took flight, leaving Resileaf behind. The Priestess was trapped by the flames now. She did not even try to find a way back to the Temple. The only thing that kept her alive was the aura of silvery light that kept the inferno at bay. And it was fading fast. The heat was getting to her. The smoke was choking her. She felt weak in the knees, and stumbled only a few steps before she lost her footing and fell on her knees. Grabbing at her throat, Resileaf felt strangely numb. Emotionally numb. As she looked around, she saw images going through her mind. The Horde rampaging through Ashenvale. The piles of dead in Astranaar. The destruction of Darkshore. And now this. "We had surrendered...", she found herself saying. "There were only civilians here..." "You killed them all..." "You killed us all..." "You murderers..!" As the flames intensified around her, Resileaf felt rage bubbling up within her. As the fire engulfed her, she began to scream to the sky. As the inferno consumed her, she bellowed in rage. As she was lost to the fires, Resileaf screamed until the flames drowned her screams. Until there was nothing left. Until she died.