1 pointOn 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.
1 pointThere 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