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Everything posted by Vilmah

  1. "Well.." The orc scratched her head, looking at the card. Self reflection? There hadn't been much time for that lately, but the card was pretty. She inspected it closely, trying to decipher it's meaning. A tauren and a lion? The tauren looked innocent, and the lion seemed tame. Was it a hunter? Vilmah was not a hunter, but she did like animals. The tauren seemed to have tamed the lion, and they were at peace with one another. Calmness and calmness, together, though Vilmah's experience with lions was anything but. They were usually aggressive and territorial beasts, as opposed to most of her tauren friends, who were always so warm and welcoming. So two opposites, working in harmony? It seemed like something she would have related to, before Garrosh. "Maybe," she attempted to answer, searching for the right words. "..this is the sort of thing I look for? Aggression turned peaceful? Though it's the nature of the lion to be aggressive, and for him to hold back is for him to deny his instinct." Vilmah twisted her mouth in thought. This was something she was told often. "Like orcs, I guess," she continued, looking to Tuuro as if she were confessing. "Like me. I've always been told that we're naturally aggressive, and that my goals for creating peace between races is just denying my instinct. I looked to people like the tauren for guidance, but maybe this is the truth. We're like lions on a leash. We may be gentle for a time, but sooner or later, something will happen, and.." Nervously, she combed back a few stray strands of purple hair. "Well, I wouldn't think of myself as a lion. I don't think I'm anywhere nearly as coordinated," she chuckled nervously.
  2. The orc's head bobbed as she listened, her ears unused to hearing the common language translated so well. It was both impressive and fascinating. "...Strong yet soft." She blushed awkwardly. "Uh.." She stammered. "..thanks." Vilmah wasn't expecting a compliment in this hostile environment, especially not from a Draenei. "...reminds me, I could use nice hot spriiings bath right 'bout now! Vouldn't you?" The orc blinked, caught off guard. "I.. uh--" "Zhese voods aren't nearly as comfortable as ze Redblades..." With so many questions and answers, Vilmah's head felt fuzzy. Was he trying to confuse her? Or did this Draenei simply enjoy talking? He seemed friendly enough, but she wondered if he may not have realized what a hostile territory they were in. "...you doin' in zuch dangerous place, anyvays?" She waited for him to answer himself, then realize that he expected her to talk. "What was.. oh! I was helping the Arakkoa Outcasts. You know, the uh.." She lifted one of her arms and mimicked it hanging uselessly. "The ones who can't fly? They're being horribly oppressed by the others. It's really sad, you know? They asked for help, so I came to help them. I really hate seeing people hurt like that.." Clearing her throat, she indicated toward the dead body a few feet away. "I was trying to save the ones they enslaved. Help them get to safety, but, I guess I was caught off guard. It was pretty stupid on my part. I apologize for getting you mixed up in it, but uhm.. can I ask you something?" Vilmah pointed toward the tarot cards. "..what's up with those?"
  3. This was perhaps the strangest draenei Vilmah had ever encountered. She understood that they would probably not be able to understand one another. In fact, she expected there to be some kind of animosity between them, despite the fact that he rescued her. Perhaps, she imagined, he did it for some sinister purpose. Years of mistrust had removed the kind thoughts that Vilmah usually projected on to strangers, leaving behind a skeptical paranoia. She was ready for a fight, even if she hoped that there would not be one, and found instead that he was smiling. He was smiling a lot! "Bur! Bo'kia, av fa bala aggra!" He said, gibberish in her mind, but clearly the language he was used to speaking. Then came his hands. Panic washed over the orc as he touched her throat, and both hands went to her weapons. Her axe was far from her, but there were still a few knives hidden on her person; in her belt, in her boot, under her sleeve. Her hand went for the boot knife, but he didn't seem to do anything violent. He simply turned her neck left and right, as if examining her. The feeling of someone else's hands on her felt awkward, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on her forehead. What is he doing? She asked herself, hand twitching for the knife. But he released her soon enough, and in a deep booming voice, chanted his language. Now, she thought to herself, grabbing the knife handle. Now is when the fight begins.. I can probably get to his throat with this, but I'll need to be quick. The artery on his thigh might be better. I'll have to get in low to bleed him out, and-- "Can you 'ear me now, dah?" She dropped the knife. Her brown eyes went wide with understanding. "I am called Tuuroto. Tuuroto ze Starseer. Varm pleasure smiles, dah." Vilmah was speechless, her mouth dry. For a few seconds, she stared at the draenei, the weapons forgotten, her mind racing. He might have killed her, or at least attacked. That he took the time to not only rescue her, but speak to her as well, was a sign that maybe things weren't so bad after all. "H.. hello, Turroto. I'm Vilmah Bloodborne," she said cautiously, finally standing up straight. Her head stilled throbbed, but she tried to push the pain from her mind. "Am I to assume that you helped me? Because it seems like you did, so.. thank you. I appreciate it. Are you okay?"
  4. Rose took her time getting back to Aerie Peak. The Wildhammers were typically welcoming of the young human, if not curious about her way of dressing. She walked inside easily enough, though she made certain to take extra precaution in avoiding Naheal's traps on the way. It was nearly nightfall by the time she walked inside, stealing a glance at the griffon riders. They had always excited and fascinated her. "Where ye been, lass?" Asked one of the guards, a male dwarf with bright red hair. He seemed genuinely concerned that she was out alone. "Track-ang," she answered, her accent still rough. Rose had often had trouble speaking Common, since spending much of her youth speaking Orcish with a Drakkari accent. "Trackin', aye?" The dwarf chuckled. "You should be more careful! There's all sorts o' nasty things out there, waitin' ta gobble a little lass like you right up! Why, I saw orcs out there not too recently! Big green naaaasty orcs," he chuckled, wiggling his hands for emphasis. Rose tried not to roll her eyes. "Found a man," she said quickly. "Said bad 'tings comin'. Grim. Got ta get ready." The guard furrowed his brow. "What do ye mean 'Grim'? Who told ye that word?" "Grim. Horde Grim," she said impatiently, pointing toward his hammer. "Gotta get ready. Outside. Gonna come." The guard's eyes went wide. "They.. they sent ye to tell us?" Rose shook her head. "No. Other man. Elf man. Good! He told me, warn you. Warn you all. Grim comin'." The dwarf grit his teeth. "Oh he did, did 'e? I'll bet 'ats the one been takin' shots at us! Ey lads!!" He shouted toward his fellow Wildhammers, walking the perimiter. :Looks like we got an elf outside causin' trouble! Lets show 'em what we can do, ay?" "No!" Rose shouted, stamping her foot. "Elf is GOOD! Grim is BAD! Grim coming, gotta get ready for GRIM!" "S'alright lass, nothin' ta worry about no more," the guard chuckled, patting her head. "Now you be a good girl an' stay inside! We're goin' ta find that nasty old elf an' show 'im who's boss!" Rose shouted at the Wildhammers, but they were too excited at the prospect of busting some heads to listen.
  5. The human smiled brightly and gave an embellished bow, a few stray hairs falling into her eyes. Rose swept them back with a hand and straightened her leather jerkin. "My name's Rosette, Mister Malster. Ya sure are fancy." Without caution, she approached the elf and began circling him. He seemed well-armed, but mostly covered. "I can make it back by myself. I ran away so I could learn to track. I'm not bad, s'why I dodged lots o' ya traps. They're okay, I guess. Whatcha doin' out here by ya'self, Mister Malster?" She asked at last. "And 'ow come ya warnin' 'em? The dwarves don' like elves too much.."
  6. The human stumbled back, clearly caught off guard. Landing back on her hands, she stared at the elf for a few seconds, mouth agape. He wasn't someone she recognized, but Rose had once known blood elves well. They were friends of her family, her real family. The one who had to let her go when things got too dangerous. What would they think of her now, she thought? Learning how to track like Ji. "It was you," she said in Orcish, ignoring his common tongue. The language felt more natural, the grunts and gutteral sounds familiar friends that she had to abandon. It warmed a part of her chest and reminder her of home. Rose felt for the beads around her neck and held them protectively. "Ya shot at the guards," she continued, standing up and dusting off her leathers. She seemed not only unafraid of the "enemy" race, but happy to see him. "But ya didn' kill 'em. Ho' come? Why'r you here?"
  7. There was a certain amount of patience required for tracking. Patience and silence, both things that children were not typically very good at. Rose understood this early on, and worked to maintain her silence. She had a mission; to track down the person shooting at the Wildhammer guards. Who had delivered this mission to the ten year old? Nobody. She decided on her own. Why? Because ten year olds can make their own missions. Or at least they seriously believe that they should, and Rose was no exception. She wore tight fitting leathers, all of them pilfered from her caretakers, or gifted by them. Whichever she felt like explaining, really. She doubted they expected her to use them for real tracking, or that they knew where she was at all. Having lived with her new family for the past several years, she developed a sudden urge to run. If the kept tabs on her without her knowing, she did not know, but she had made her way to Aerie Peak by herself and nobody had stopped her. All they really did was look at the human girl strangely. Rose was very strange, but she enjoyed the looks. She was small, but not skinny. Her brown hair was braided on the sides of her head, like a troll, and she wore strange beads. The strangest part of her appearance, however, was her face; scarred violently from what appeared to be a deep burn, the adolescent was missing one eye and missing some air on the left side of her head. In her leathers, she wore a mask that covered part of her face, but usually enjoyed the looks she received from others. Today, she wanted no looks. She wanted to look for herself at who was firing at the guards. It was her own curiosity, piqued by the fact that none of them had been really harmed. Certainly there were more hunters than her scouring the forest for this unknown assailant, but she had her hunches, and she had something they didn't; language. The human could speak orc. Throughout the forest, she began leaving messages. They were small, carefully written, and embedded in the top-most parts of the trees. She believed that the "assailant" was really not an assailant at all, but needed to say something. Or do something. Luckily, Rose had a voice, and carved it into the tops of the trees. Hello? Friend [] Foe []
  8. Traitor. Alliance sympathizer. What good are you to the Horde? Vilmah dreamed, but there only voices. They were deep, high, in between. Names cycled as their spoke; Abric, Nojinbu, Grisch, Bloodscream, and more she couldn't recall. All of them spoke the same cruel jeering words of Garrosh and his followers. It made no sense, but nightmares rarely did. Slowly, the voices and the blackness faded into the sound of a forest. Running water was nearby, and birdsong. And breathing. She attempted to open her eyes, but there was a pain deep in her skull that screamed the moment she tried. It was a dizzy and lethargic feeling, but she pushed through and forced her eyes open, finding herself on the ground still dressed in armor. Above her, the forest canopy seemed peaceful. Her body begged her to close her eyes again, but she ignored the request and fought to turn her head in the direction of the breathing. A draenei? He too seemed peaceful. Very pale, and as large as any orc male, he lie sleeping near her. Suddenly the memories returned; she'd been struck in a fight with the Arakkoa. Gritting her teeth with the pain of both broken pride and a broken head, she considered why this draenei might be so close. Were they prisoners? Or had he too been knocked out, she wondered? But there were no chains and no cages. Turning her head in the other direction, she saw the Arakkoa Outcast that she had attempted to save. He did not breathe. Did he try to save us? The thought was humiliating. A seasoned warrior should need no rescuing, and an orc would gladly die in battle, but a battle against some Arakkoa? That was unacceptable. This draenei might be owed a debt she could not repay, though she wondered how she might communicate that. She wondered more why he would save her kind, when the draenei and the orcs seemed to hate each other so. But not us. It took some effort to sit up, but with a strained grunt, Vilmah pushed herself forward. Her head throbbed like a storm behind her eyes, reminding her of the injury. Now that she was off the ground, she felt her head and discovered the culprit; a large bruised area on her skull, a little blood. The orc reached carefully into one of her pockets with a shaky hand, and retrieved a healing potion gifted to her by Naheal. It burned going down her throat, but the pain slowly dissipated. After a few sips, she felt well enough to shift on to her knees toward the draenei. At the very least, I owe him my thanks. While considering how long she should wait for him to wake up, she noticed the cards he left out. The card facing up revealed what looked like the Kirin Tor, and the number 16. They were jumping to their deaths. Tarot? After another moment of thinking, she decided that it would be best not to wait too long for the draenei to awaken. Very politely, she cleared her throat, and gave him a gentle tap on one shoulder with her fingertips. "...Mok'ra?"
  9. When the raven swallows the day... She had been tasked with bringing aid to the Arakkoa Outcasts. Vilmah had been on Draenor for weeks now, learning more and more about the home world of her ancestors. Though she had learned much from what they now called Outland, she had no idea of the vast rich history that this world contained, or of the people that Ner'zhul annihilated. On Outland, the Arakkoa Outcasts were all that remained of their people. Here, the High Arakkoa waged war against their cousins, often being the cause of their deformities, something that Vilmah could relate to. Earlier that day in Orgimmar, she had seen the fliers. It brought a reminiscent smile to her face, as she remembered the days when they said the same thing of her. “Traitor” was the least most insulting thing they called Vilmah, and those were the days before Garrosh. Though she no longer led, the weight of responsibility still lay heavy on her heart. There was no shame in serving the Warchief, but many of the Horde still held loyalty to Garrosh and his ideals. Surely they were the traitors, weren’t they? To blatantly disobey the peace that Thrall had worked so hard to create? At least on Draenor, it was obvious that many Horde and Alliance leaders were above their petty disagreements. Together, they worked to bring an end to the Iron Horde, though it was clearly with some difficulty that orcs battled orcs. Many could see their own faces, or those of their ancestors, amidst the would-be conquerors. Vilmah thought on this as she approached the Spires of Arak, her guiding her gray wolf Edmund through terrain that felt disappointingly alien. More and more reminded her that this was not her home, and was never meant to be. Her father a Blackrock, her mother a Frostwolf; only on Azeroth could she have existed. Only with the help of Ner’zhul, and the blood of demons. “You there,” came a raspy voice. Vilmah stopped Edmund short of an Arakkoa Outcast, his hunched figure a dead giveaway to his allegiance. “Yes?” “I would ask assistance of you,” he croaked, feathers twitching. “I will provide payment.” Though the Horde fostered a new alliance with these creatures, Vilmah remained wary of strangers offering payment in exchange for just about anything. She dismounted and approached him carefully. “What can I help you with?” “My people,” he wheezed, glassy yes turned to the ground. “Many have been chained and enslaved by the High Arakkoa, just to the north of us. I ask that you free them from their captors. If you can bring them to me, I will see them to freedom.” Vilmah nodded, relieved with the task. “I will do as you ask. Don’t worry about payment. It’s my honor to free your kin.” The Arakkoa cocked his head, as if confused by this, but said nothing. Vilmah pointed to the ground next to him, and spoke to her wolf. “Stay, Edmund. Protect.” Years before, the wolf would have willingly disobeyed. Now, he did as she commanded with an almost frightening reversal of attitude. She noticed a change in the wolf’s obedience when they escaped from Orgimmar, and the wolf saw other animals, his “friends”, executed by the Kor’kron. Often, Vilmah wondered if animals could know trauma the way orcs did. As the years passed, Edmund became less like a pet, and more like a fellow warrior, eager to obey her commands and follow her into battle. For now, he stayed behind, guarding the Arakkoa. Vilmah drew her sword, a massive two-handed monstrosity, and trudged up the hill toward a gathering of small buildings. What she saw annoyed her; High Arakkoa, guiding their crippled brethren toward ditches in the ground, where they would be commanded to dig. The Arakkoa Outcasts, their arms brittle and weak, would chip at the ground with picks until they were too exhausted to continue. Then they would be beaten until the pick came up again, only for the process to be repeated. It was a labor camp, not unlike the one Vilmah had been born in, except that here they were brothers. She had witnessed Arakkoa Exiles being pitched from Skyreach, the fall either killing them or maiming them beyond repair. Their wings stolen, they would never fly again. Now, to add more insult to injury, these creatures found themselves enslaved. It was a bitter cycle, easy enough for Vilmah to understand that she felt neither guilt nor pride as she approached one of the High Arakkoa with her axe. “Intruder!!” It squacked, attacking her with a fury of talons and magic. Vilmah’s armor absorbed most of the magic, but the talons she tore from her attacker with a quick swipe of her sword. Blood and body parts fell to the ground as the Arakkoa screeched in panic, now leg-less and bleeding out on the ground. “No..!!” “It’s not nice being crippled, is it?” Vilmah grunted, shoving the end of her sword into the Arakkoa’s throat. It was silenced soon after, allowing her to search the body for valuables. In its pockets, she found Apexis crystals, a few copper coins, and a single silver key. A few feet away, an Exile dug laboriously into the ground. He didn’t even seem to notice the violence that happened just behind him, until Vilmah located his chains and tried to key. It clicked. “Hnn..?” He grunted, looking at the orc questioningly. “Follow me,” Vilmah said quietly, pointing toward their escape route. “I will see you to freedom.” The Outcast dropped his axe without question. Vilmah led him toward where the other Outcast had spoken to her, but suddenly found the way blocked by two other High Arakkoa. “There!” One of them shouted, pointing at Vilmah. “Kill them!!” The Outcast followed Vilmah, unwilling to allow her to fight his kin alone. One of the High Arakkoa bombarded Vilmah with magic, causing the ends of her hair to catch fire. She tore off her helmet, beating the fire with one hand, then rushed the magic user and cleaved one of his wings off at the joint. “Filthy orc!” It cursed. Vilmah swung her sword, hacking off the other wing. She turned to the freed Outcast, but saw that he had been fatally stabbed by the other attacker. Enraged, Vilmah turned on the High Arakkoa and hacked at his body until feathers and meat flew in every direction. “What is the matter with you!?” She shouted, cutting off the creature’s limbs, bit by bit. “These are your brothers, your sisters! How can you do this to them!? How can you betray them like this, curse them, put them in chains...” The High Arakkoa would not answer. He squacked in pain, but made no words. Finally, Vilmah silenced him by severing his head. The sight of the Exile, dead on the ground so soon after being freed, pained her. It was a long enough distraction for one of the other High Arakkoa to launch a magic bombardment at her head, rendering the orc unconscious beside the Exile.
  10. Vilmah


    /cough http://sanctuary-tn.net/
  11. Vilmah


    "Grommashar. He is there." Vilmah overheard Thrall say this, but she nearly couldn't believe it. Garrosh Hellscream, son of Grom and former Warchief of the Horde, led the Warsong clan on Draenor from Grommashar. Finally. “Nagrand,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. Though this was not the Nagrand that welcomed her, where she met her grandmother and discovered that orcs could have a different future. This was the Nagrand of the past. Thrall seemed conflicted with their decision, but that was not the case for those speaking with him. They were planning an assault that would silence the former warchief, something that clearly weighed heavily on Thrall’s heart. The guilt he felt for bringing Garrosh into their lives was obvious, and Vilmah still harbored both love and deep respect for the Warchief that liberated her. That anyone could betray him, or their people, still angered her more than she was willing to admit. Vol’jin may have led the Horde, but no one could replace Thrall. The difference between them was that Thrall’s desire to put an end to Garrosh was not vengeance; it was necessity. Given the chance, Garrosh would have destroyed everything that Thrall had built between the Horde and the Alliance, but his hatred was felt by more than the humans he despised. Trolls, Sin’dorei, they were all the same in his eyes and unwelcome. He could not be trusted to live, and Thrall understood this. Vilmah felt differently. True, his death was a necessity, but that wasn’t the only thing that the orcess desired. What truly fed Vilmah’s desire to travel to Grommashar, and help put an end to Garrosh’s life, was the desire to make him suffer. There would be no peace in her heart until he felt the same pain and humiliation that he gave her, three years ago. Smoke. The first thing that they smelled was smoke. It was a distraction, obviously, as the Sanctuary guild hall was not completely engulfed in flames. This would have been an easy feat, but the Kor’kron did not simply want to incinerate the guild. They wanted to cause them pain. Standing outside of the Sanctuary guild hall, they burned banners of purple and gold. One of the orcs kicked open the front doors and called out for those inside; “Come out, little mice!” He laughed, walking inside. He was disappointed to see that it was mostly empty. “Can I help you, sir?” He wasn’t quite what the Kor’kron was expecting. An Undead male, wearing no armor and holding several books tucked under one arm. Steinburg smiled graciously, as he had been trained to do back in the bank of Daleran when dealing with an unkind customer. “Why yes,” the orc chuckled, grabbing Steinburg by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The undead was nearly weightless in his grasp. “You can tell your traitorous ilk that the time has come for them to say goodbye.” “Put him down.” Several other Kor’kron entered through the destroyed doors as Vilmah walked down the stairs. She wore armor dented and damaged from battle, a familiar axe on her back. Though made larger by the armor, she still stood smaller than the other orcs, her youth obvious. The Kor’kron let Steinburg fall to the floor unceremoniously. “And who are you supposed to be?” “I’m Vilmah Bloodborne, and this is my guild,” she stated, approaching the Kor’kron. “We are proud members of the Horde and you have no business here.” The other orcs laughed. Steinburg scrambled to his feet and ran for another door as the banners burned outside. “We have business indeed, orcling. The Warchief has decreed that no traitors shall be allowed within these walls. You, and all your merchant weaklings are no longer welcome in Orgimmar, or with the Horde. The Warchief has commanded that we should place you under arrest, and have you put to work with the other peons, but I do so hope you try to fight back. Orgrimmar has plenty of peons, and I’d love to see that purple tabard of yours turned red.” Vilmah took a deep breath and reached for her axe. Pacifism was something taught to her by many people throughout Azeroth, and peace was a virtue that she wholeheartedly believed. “Pick up your axe,” she grunted, reaching back to slide the visor down on her helmet. “I am no one’s peon.” The Kor’kron laughed, but he stepped forward anyway. A swing toward Vilmah’s body was blocked by her axe, and as the two clashed, the rest of the Kor’kron made their way through the guild hall. One of them threw open the door Steinburg ran into and found what was left of his office; papers and books had been strewn about hastily, and an open window signaled the undead’s escape. Cursing, the Kor’kron ran with the others upstairs, and finding nothing living, ran back toward their leader as he fought the diminutive orcess. “Sergeant, they’re gone! Someone must have warned them!” The Sergeant shouted toward Vilmah’s face as he swung at her with his axe. She raised her own in response, her blocks growing weaker with each attack. “Burn it!!” He shouted. “Burn this place to the ground!” The helmet hid a look of rage in Vilmah’s face. Orgimmar was her home, and regardless of her differences with the orcs here, it was never hostile toward Sanctuary’s goals. This was different. This Sergeant had been sent to destroy them, her especially, and everything that she had built to create a safe haven. A heavy slam of axe against axe sent Vilmah to the floor. The Sergeant reared back and swung his axe down toward her torso, but the smaller orc was faster. She rolled out from under his attack and had just enough time to swing her own weapon at his legs. The Sergeant howled with pain and rage as blood gushed from his Achilles tendons. “Kill her!!” He shouted, though the other Kor’kron had already rushed to Vilmah with swords drawn. Fighting in such close quarters put her at a disadvantage, especially when they were twice her size. The young orc looked for an escape, but finding little to help her, ran toward the danger instead with faith that her armor could withstand a few blows. The axes and swords dented the plate mail, bruising her flesh underneath. A few bit through the joints of her armor, tearing a few new scars into her skin, but it was nothing she couldn’t bandage later. Her height finally an advantage, she managed to run through the Kor’kron as they swung their weapons, directly through the main doors and into the blazing fire they set outside. The Sergeant yelled in fury, ordering them to follow her, but it was too late. Vilmah’s windrider had been waiting for her call, and before the other orcs had a chance to run through the fire themselves, she was gone. The sun was rising over Sen’jin Village as Vilmah approached. She could see the Echo Isles in the distance, looking almost peaceful as the sky changed from purple to red. Down in the village, Master Gadrin stood with a large group, chanting over a small fire. Vilmah landed her windrider and ran for the group, immediately counting their numbers. “Vilmah!” Steinburg said with obvious relief. “You were right. They came immediately after you sent out the warning. Everyone was able to get out on time, but many of the animals were scattered.” She clasped the undead’s shoulder. “That’s alright. Is Nojinbu—“ “Gone,” Ninorra said, her red eyes glancing in the direction of Orgrimmar. “He took Rosette. Don’t worry, they’re both fine. He said that he would meet you tonight, but, he didn’t say where.” “I know where, thank you,” Vilmah sighed, looking at the group around her. They weren’t many, and they weren’t prepared to fight an entire Horde, but they were alive. “Thank you all. It looks like we’re in very big trouble.” Sanctuary looked upon one another with a sense of foreboding. “…does this mean we’re all criminals?” Asked one of the elves, a death knight female. “Yes, Catalinetta,” Vilmah answered sadly. “Which means that the safest thing to do is for us to split up, or Garrosh and his cronies will hunt us down. I know that we all have things to protect. Be it family, or a home… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect us better.” “Think nothing of it,” Ninorra said brightly. “This is not the end, Vilmah. This is only a pause. Perhaps we shall all return someday, and give that orc a taste of his own medicine.” The other guild members nodded, agreeing. Vilmah saw that not all members of Sanctuary were present, and held her hearthstone. “The safest thing now,” she said sadly. “Is that we not contact each other. At least, not for a while. If absolutely necessary, we can communicate through go-betweens. Stranglethorn Exports. But these,” she held up her hearthstone. “We have to destroy them.” Pulling each of their stones forward, Sanctuary placed them in a pile in the middle of their circle. Vilmah waited until she was last, and held the stone close to her mouth. “If you can hear me,” she said through their secret channel. “Please, listen. Don’t come looking for us. Find a place where you can be safe, and if you must fight, do it under another banner. The Horde wants us dead, but we will not die. Sanctuary will not go quietly into the dark. We may not have our hall, or our banners, but we will not lose our goal. We will fight.” The other members nodded solemnly. “Goodbye, my friends,” she said one last time, and placed her stone in the pile. Ninorra rubbed her hands together, and murmured something under her breath. The warlock’s red eyes glowed brighter as fel fire rose from the ground and enveloped the stones. Together, they crumbled, and returned to the earth.
  12. ((Grisch is so hot right now. Good stuff.))
  13. Vilmah


    The smell of battle was heavy in the air. It was cold in Frostfire Ridge, and usually cold temperatures helped in ridding the air of the telltale sign of war; rotting meat. The ogres didn't typically bury the dead, or even burn them. They left the corpses of their slaves out to rot as a warning, but orcs were not afraid of death. Especially not the Frostwolves. Since arriving in Draenor, Vilmah had served this clan as willingly as anyone could. Thrall could have commanded her to do anything, but she felt more than obligation to serve the Frostwolves. They were honorable, they were just, and after having to kill the orc that might have been her father on another world, she felt the need to bury her mind with battle. It did not take long for the Frostwolves eagerly assisted her in this desire. Though more brown that most orcs on Azeroth, she still bore the green twinge of one who's family drank from demon blood. It was difficult, she could see, for them to trust her. Vilmah understood this and remained obedient, until they gave her the chance to aid them in a dire matter. Frostwolves by the dozen had been captured in battle, and now stood in chains and cages in Bladespire Fortress. For any creature, chains are an insult. To orcs, however, it was more then that. It was an affront to their honor, their clan, their entire race. A chained orc was an orc filthy with dishonor, and these Frostwolves must be freed or die in battle. Vilmah was given the task of not only freeing them, but supplying them with weapons. It was a mission she embraced with both willingness and fervor. The Fortress was daunting, but it did little to intimidate the orc. Alone, she went inside, leaving a trail of bodies in her path. The ogres here (nor anywhere, really) weren't the type to negotiate, and the sight of an orc, even a green one, led to one thing; conflict. Armed with a two-handed mace, she fed their appetite for battle with very little finesse. A warrior, Vilmah was not known for grace or skill, but for her tenacity. It wasn't much of a talent, she knew, but she was proud all the same of her unwillingness to surrender. Instead of allowing herself to train in smaller weapons, she did what she knew she could do; swing a bludgeoning weapon twice her size at a creature ten-times her size, until it's body was rendered a pile of steaming meat in the snow. The ogres never quite stood a chance against her. The fights were easy. The ogre would charge her, expecting to swat the small creature like vermin. Instead, Vilmah swung her mace toward their legs, breaking them at the ankle. In agony, the ogre would swing with their giant arms, but her mace would find their arms and break them, too. Down they went, and finally she had a shot at their most vital spot; their skulls. Her mace bit into them like ripe fruit, spraying blood and brains into the ground. This was repeated dozens of times, until she made her way toward the cages with blood caked into her plate armor. Whatever shine it might have had before was long since dulled by the gore. The sight of her, however, was a rallying cry for the enslaved Frostwolves. A few beckoned her forward with yells of encouragement, their hands reaching forward from their cages and chains, as if they could free themselves by sheer will alone. They had been starved and beaten, but nothing could erase the fire from their eyes. Vilmah approached their cages with purpose, breaking open the locks with her mace. The enchantment enhancing her weapon kept the bone and metal in pristine condition as she destroyed the metal binding them, leaving bits of broken cages and chains in her wake. In her enchanted backpack, she pulled out weapons; swords and polearms, but mostly axes. The orcs reached happily for these axes, the wood secure in their callused and frost-bitten hands. They thanked Vilmah with a hearty pat on her shoulder, some with tight bone-cracking embraces that one would not think a starved orc capable of. Other simply grabbed the weapons and went running toward the nearest ogre, screaming obscenities as they tore through the pink flesh of their captors. One orc, however, did not meet Vilmah's gaze. It was a female, around Vilmah's age, with a single long black braid coiled over one shoulder. She wore the destroyed armor of a warrior who had been bested, and little to protect her from the cold. Hunched over in a cage, she stared forward into space as Vilmah approached her. "Are you alright?" The greener orc asked, before smashing open the lock. Regardless of whether or not the Frostwolf could fight, she would be freed. "No, I am not," The Frostwolf answered as she crawled through the cage door, reaching immediately for a loose rusted chain on the ground. Vilmah watched as the orcess marched further into Bladespire Fortress, as if searching for something. She followed her closely, mace at the ready, but saw that the Frostwolf was not simply walking into danger. She was stalking someone. "Can I assist you?" "Stay close," the former captive grunted quietly, pointing out a group of ogres sitting around an open cask of grog. They drank and laughed, oblivious to the danger stalking them. The Frostwolf glanced back at Vilmah, a smirk on her dirty face. "You take the middle ones. I have a score to settle with that one with the scar on it's face." To Vilmah, and most non-ogres, these ogres looked identical. However, the Frostwolf pinpointed this one with the scar for a reason, and Vilmah was not about to argue with her. Comfortable in her usual role of "attention-seeking berzerker", she charged toward the ogres. All three turned their attention to Vilmah, who swung her mace through their soft pink skin and crushed their bones. Two of them, she targeted specifically. The third, she left for the Frostwolf. It did not take long for her to attack. Though armed only with a chain, this Frostwolf knew how to take down an ogre. She swung the chain around her head once before throwing it toward his skulls, and wrapping it around both necks. Swinging to the ogre's back, she twisted the chain in her hand and planted her feet against his wide torso, pulling backwards, yanking the metal until the ogre choked. "Remember me?" She grunted, though the ogre was in too much of a panic to effectively recognize his former prisoner. After a few seconds, he stumbled to the ground. Vilmah was finished pummeling his comrades by then, and searched the corpses for loot. The Frostwolf kicked her victim's skulls, making sure that it was dead. "Filthy creatures," she grunted, stumbling down his body. It was then that Vilmah saw how injured the Frostwolf was. Clearly she had been hiding it until she could exact revenge, but she was clearly weak and thin from her time in the cage, and her left forearm appeared purple and swollen. "Come on," Vilmah said quickly, ducking beneath the Frostwolf's arm and helping her to stand upright. The orcess did not argue, but did not thank her either. Together, they left the fortress' walls, meeting only a few ogres on the way out. Vilmah would gently let down the Frostwolf and charge at these ogres before them, rather then let them engage the two orcs first. It took longer than expected to finally be free of the fortress, where Vilmsh could call upon her wolf to carry both orcs out. The sight of the gray creature brought tears to the Frostwolf's green eyes. "He is your companion?" She asked, as if shocked that green orcs could also be connected to their wolves. Vilmah smiled and pat Edmund's head. Though long removed from his puppy phase, the wolf was still overly affectionate and sniffed curiously at the Frostwolf. "He is. This is Edmund, and I'm Vilmah Bloodborne. Please, let us take you back to the Frostwolf garrison." "Thank you, Vilmah Bloodborne. I am Kaggia Iceblade, warrior of the Frostwolves. My group was ambushed by those damned ogres, weeks ago. Had it not been for you, I likely would have died there. I thank you for aiding me in killing the one who put me in chains. Honor demanded his destruction." "It was my honor to help you," Vilmah replied dutifully. The Frostwolf nodded, satisfied with this. She mounted Edmund, who walked slowly beside Vilmah on their way back. "Bloodborne," the Frostwolf repeated. "I do not know this name. To what clan do you belong?" The green orcess shook her head, unable to shake the embarrassment. "I... I have no clan. Not really." It was the truth, but it wasn't the entire truth. Her father had survived the prison camp, only to remain there, trapped within his own memories and hatred. Gor'mul of the Blackrock, once a proud warrior, too full of rage to accept his surviving daughter. He died before the Cataclysm, at the hands of an Alliance invasion. More recently, Vilmah met a younger version of Gor'mul. An unrepentant Blackrock who sought to invade Azeroth with his brothers, Vilmah had been forced to kill him. Two fathers, in a way, now dead. Both Blackrock. Her grandmother, also Blackrock, was now a Mag'har and somehow remained in Outland. None of it made much sense, so Vilmah attempted to make it simple. "My mother and father both died in Azeroth. I.. did not know their clan." "Your people come from a strange land," Kaggia considered. "For a clan not to raise one if it's children." Vilmah cleared her throat. "Our people.. they were scattered. Our clans were broken. The place where I was born, it was liberated by Thrall. He is the green orc who came to your people, to the Frostwolves. Anyway, there were so few of us, rather than unite as clans we united as a single Horde. I was raised by the Horde army to be a warrior." "I see..." Kaggia muttered thoughtfully. "This is a strange story you tell me, but they must have trained you well to be able to kill so many ogres. I am impressed." Vilmah smiled a little. "Thank you." As they approached the Frostwolf garrison, Vilmah saw that the rest of the liberated Frostwolves had made it back safely. Leaning on each other for support, they were cheered and fed by their brothers and sisters. Kaggia dismounted Edmund and gave him an affectionate pat. "This is a good wolf," she said kindly. Another orc approached them both, this one male. He stood a full two heads taller than both Vilmah and Kaggia, whom Vilmah suddenly noticed was nearly as short as she was. "Kaggia," he grunted, placing both hands on her shoulders. "My mate. How my blood boils to see you in this way. I trust you killed your captors?" "This one here aided me," Kaggia said, pointing toward Vilmah. "One of the green ones, from Azeroth. Vilmah Bloodborne, this is Garr'kash, my mate." "I thank you, Vilmah Bloodborne," he said loudly, grasping Vilmah's hand to thank her. The two shook wrists firmly. Garr'krash, however, did not release her immediately. Instead he peered carefully at Vilmah's brown eyes, as if recognizing something. "..forgive me, Vilmah Bloodborne," he said quickly. "Let us celebrate this victory! We will drink, and tomorrow, we will destroy those ogre bastards. Never again with they enslave a Frostwolf." Vilmah nodded, and watched as Kaggia embraced Garr'krash. Her mate pushed the disheveled hair and grime from her face, exposing what he had seen within Vilmah's. The same round features, the same nose, the same mouth. Kaggia's green eyes were large, but they did not bear the color of an orc who's veins were tainted with demon's blood. Vilmah's stomach sank with sudden realization. Kaggia, here in Draenor, was the shadow of her mother who never left Draenor. But Garr'grash, huge and brown, his hair red as the sunrise, was not her father. He never would have been. Here in Draenor, Vilmah never would have existed.
  14. Where would you prefer we hold it?
  15. I had no idea the Horde wasn't allowed in Dalaran.. especially since I was just in there RPing with some Horde a few days ago.
  16. I was requested to do Tavern Night Horde-side on Monday, so we'll meet up at 8:00PM (server) at The Filthy Animal! EDIT: I won't actually be there personally, so.. someone let me know how it goes! >_>
  17. This is a great idea! I am Horde tho', so I think I'll just steal it.
  18. Main RP Toon: Vilmah Horde Or Alliance? Horde Guild: Sanctuary What was your favorite RP event or storyline? Too many to count. Who is someone that you used to RP with and haven't heard from in a long time, that you miss the most? Jobolg!! Share a screenshot from an RP you enjoyed: Don't have my screencaps, switched computers long ago..
  19. Vilmah


    The smell is easily recognizable. Old burnt wood, burnt paper, burnt flesh. The strength fades away over time, but it never quite leaves the debris. Piles of broken stone and ashes lie like a warning; do not rebel against your leader, Garrosh Hellscream's will is unbreakable. Except that he is breakable, and he broke. She doesn't tread carefully over the crumbling bricks or the old lumber. It seems nobody has cared enough to clear it away, and all that remains is the leftovers of a raid from long ago. Inside broken walls are sun-bleached floors covered with dust. A few rats hide in corners, but they are the only remaining tenants. Anything worth stealing has been stripped, from clothes to books to the windowpanes. Here and there are indications of children; notches in the rotting wood, broken toys. The bodies were all taken and burned or buried, but the places where they died remain blood-stained. Nobody stayed to clean or rebuild, and the rat shit lies in little piles underfoot to add their stench to the mix. They're not afraid to confront this intruder and one scurries across her path, only to be stomped to death by boots blackened by soot and mud. The creature squeals for an instant before it's bones shatter, leaving a pile of fur and blood as she makes her way to one of the rooms left intact. It's just as filthy as the rest of this building, but one thing remains; a book shelf. Inside of this book shelf are the scattered pages of old tomes, journals, ledgers. A jewelry box, already raided, lies broken on it's side. Without hesitation, she grabs one side of the book shelf and drags it, letting it crash unceremoniously to the floor. The sound makes insects and rats run from what appears to be a hole in the wall full of dead vermin. With a gloved hand, she reaches inside and fishes through the decay. Sifting through rodent bones and hair, roaches crawl up her arm. Unbothered, she searches until finally she finds what she's been searching for. A few seconds worth of sweeping the roaches from herself are all she needs. Leaving the book shelf and everything else behind, the orc trudges out of the door, only a little filthier than she was when she entered. Another orc stands outside, drawn by the sound of the book shelf crashing, and peers at her warily. He's a huge burly warrior, clearly a soldier of some kind, his armor chipped and dented as if he'd just returned from a fight. Hers, in comparison, is haggard and held together by bits of leather and salvaged metal. "Hey, you," he grunts. There isn't a verbal answer, but she looks at him with eyes reddened by lack of sleep. "Don't I know you?" She almost laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. Nearby, a shaggy wolf with patches of missing fur growls low until she puts a hand on his muzzle and walks him away. "Nobody knows me."
  20. <p>Between 140 and 165, without counting muscle. I think they'd let you get away with 180, so long as you looked fit. It's all about body fat ratio, they need guys to look fit for the uniform to work appropriately. There are some bigger dudes, but they're really muscly and don't have much bodyfat.</p>

  21. <p>Awesome!! Just remember that you need to fit the height/weight requirement. I don't want you making a trip for nothing.</p>

  22. <p>Sorry dude, you have to apply in person. XO They have an office on Prince Street in Alexandria, VA.</p>