2 pointsFebruary 16th, Year 625 of the King's Calendar "Passed hath many days since my departure of the Twilight Empire, and the blood upon my swords hath since grown several fold. Difficult was it to step from years long beneath service of their vision, but resolute am I amid this new path. Turned have I steel against aggressors all, those among the Grim and Dread Horde but at the forefront of countless others. Taught must the Horde be that battle against the demons is preferable than to attempt assail our flanks. To dare strike upon the Alliance whilst come is the end times shall carry consequence without equal or quarter. May the Empire rise from their stupor amidst mine absence, lest they succumb to the withering of passivity... That would be as the 'straw death' as spoken of in horror amongst the Vrykul. This war with the Legion shall not end in silence. Even now my weathered gaze glimpses the rising flames of the warring yet to come betwixt the Alliance and Horde thereafter. Foolish as not even the morrow is certain whilst the demonic armies lay siege to Azeroth. Nonetheless, the Banshee Queen will not sit idle once the Legion hath been vanquished. Seek shall she to solidify her reign through military strength as to deny the Horde its reason once return doeth they from the brink of desperation. As Hellscream before her, Sylvanas will seize advantage of this calamity's wake to lay the table anew amid her favor against us. Lose may I myself too easily within the forecasts of wars unbeknownst. Even as the warring before me hath yet to subside. The siege of the Nighthold progresses steadily. Gul'dan, the final remnant of the Draenor campaign, shall be cast down along with the tyrant Elisande. Though, most resilient hath the Spellblades of the Duskwatch proven themselves in defense tenacious of their ancient courts. The dance of their steel is reminiscent of the Spellbreakers of Quel'Thalas. Yet, their isolation hath become their undoing as opposed to the aforementioned. In spite of being experienced and trained throughout the ages doeth the combined forces of Azeroth present such an innumerable number of techniques ne'er before encountered. The longevity of the Nightborne alone shall not afford them haste enough to adapt and prevail. As of late mine own hand hath grown slow as well to adjust and wield that for which I have brought forth unwittingly. Lay had I mine offerings and armaments before the Thorignir once ended was our hunt, and granted was their favor upon me. The armor I bore seemed to at once become enlivened again, the scale and bone of Nithogg's brood inlaid throughout bristling with power. Know did I not how such blessing would manifest, but that discovered demanded awe as the cleavers I hold aloft. Upon one such encounter amid the Royal Athenaeum had my pauldrons discharged fiercely a surge of lightning as though breathed from the drakes of which they were hewn. To be wreathed in storm and hold fire amid my gauntlets... The expedition I had mounted unto Stormheim hath proven well worth the losses of our venture. Soon the Nightwell shall be wrested of the Legion's grasp and thence may we cross the channel again. There those as we may return unto the place of our failure. Retaken may be our pride and avenged the fallen of the Broken Shore ere stormed is the Tomb of Sargeras."
1 pointThrough fire and shadow, the one-eyed pair worked their daggers through the inky flesh of the voidlord. Daggers forged in the Mandate, despite Baal'themar's current tabard, struck true to their nature. Khorvis knew that of all situations, it was in combat that one's true self outed itself. The lamb would nestle and cry in fear. The wolf would show her teeth and seek the heartsblood. These were the commandments of nature, chiseled into the stone of every mortal's flesh. Fanged as they were, many of their strikes simply met smoke and ephemera - this shadowy realm twisted and contorted intent. More than once the warrior's blade clanged against the elf's, confused and disoriented in the rising smog. Simultaneously, it was becoming clearer that, despite the best efforts of Light-woven smites, rime-coated blasts, and earthen barriers, the melee was losing ground. Where one tentacle was severed, two more erupted from the flaming pool to take its place. This slow hacking at the aberration's trunks would leave the party overwhelmed. The Matron Oaksong, from her vantage, recognized the forming pattern. They were becoming the flock of sheep, boxed in and outflanked by the black wolf. It was in such a time that she knew the shepherd must act decisively. Waiting until the voidlord had turned its back again to follow the darting form of Baal'themar, Theira cast aside her staff. She drew upon the fleeting connection to Azeroth that the Shadowlands provided and shifted into her most feral, predatory form - and leapt for the shadowling's neck. Pads connected with armor plating. Claws snapped outwards and dug below, giving ideal purchase. With a terrible howl, Theira sunk her fangs into the back of the voidlord's neck. A searing race of shadow flooded her jaws, like a dam bursting and spewing forth a stagnant lake. The putrescence, far too rancid to swallow, forced her to shear away and with her bite came the upper spine of the enemy. An otherworldly shriek exploded from the many throats of the voidlord in tandem. It gyrated wildly, swinging its long arms in a frantic attempt to dislodge this most vicious assailant. One limb struck Theira squarely in the neck, sending the druid flying across the chamber to crash sideways into a stalagmite with a sickening "snap". The others clutched at the mortal wound, futilely attempting to staunch the flow of ebon heartsblood. Far too late to save itself, the voidlord thrashed in its own flaming ichor and folded in upon itself as a collapsing star in its final moments. The rapid implosion belied the deafening detonation that dropped the party to the chamber's floor. With a shiver, the wraithlings haunting the edges of the battlefield began to stir. ---- The hour was nearing its close. Reaper Mai'kull, having exhausted his patience studying the stoic horror that called itself Chaoseater, stared pointedly at the gateway to the Shadowlands. "What was taking them so long?" The mission was simple. A quick extraction. Shut the portal afterwards and seal away the shadows. So what had gone wrong? He could no longer allow this chain of events to meander its course. The Maleficar would intervene. Gathering the most potent of his dark parchments and steeling his wits, Mai'kull of the Grim pushed past the deathknight watchman and entered the Shadowlands.
1 pointBaal'themar fought alongside Khorvis, the large elf slashed and stabbed around his brother, he covered Khorvis where he could and attacked when the orc made an opening. He smiled, "Now watch the timbers of your house fall in flames" Baal'themar quoted the frenzied orc warrior. "You missed your calling Khorvis, you should have been a poet." he ducked under a thrashing limb. "Oh, how the woman would have swooned for you and your honeyed words." He chuckled as black sludge doused him, blinding him to an incoming attack. A thick tentacle slammed into his chest, the Iron bark and frost spells crackled with energy as their magic protected him from the spine shattering strength of the attack, the strike sent him off his feet and tumbling through the air into the filth around the pool. Slowly Baal'themar got to his feet, he shook his head and focused on the fight again. He spat out a mouthful of dirt and voidlord blood. "Heh, note to self. Jokes after." he lunged back into the fight.