Last Seen Blogs
anaelbrans
بـ̶B̶R̶N̶S̶ـرنـ̶v̶i̶p̶ــسـ𓄂๛♨️™
chal-lelerc
Keep shining🔥
n01rh43x
Just a girl living 10 years in the future
rainerreist
RAINER REIST
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Something beyond sweet to make your day brighter. Someone has to bring something good and wholesome to us lot of heathens.
My Little World
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
- Depeche Mode, “Enjoy the Silence”
* * *
It was not a sound but an abrupt silence that woke Kyuusei. A faint presence she’d accepted months ago, an oft-comforting echo of lost illusions, disturbing the kaldorei’s slumber by its sudden absence from her mind.
Kyuu lifted her head from the grass. Stars were visible through the trees above. It was still night in the Hinterlands, the few late-evening lights of Quel'Danil Lodge visible nearby. A soft rustle as Tallissan stirred next to her, the former Farstrider almost-but-not-quite roused by the druidess’ movement.
She’d felt this once before, two moons past when scattered fragments had drawn together in brief effort before they returned to their separate places. In an empty, uneasy silence, Kyuu waited for several heartbeats - her head tipped as if listening for some sound beyond hearing.
There. Attenuated, the presence returned. Silent.
Words were on her lips without thought, a question almost spoken.
But it was Tallissan who stirred once more, murmuring wordlessly as she rolled towards Kyuu.
Kyuusei watched the other woman’s resting face for a long moment before releasing her breath in a low sigh. Resting her head back to the soft grasses, she returned to her sleep.
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Campaign Journal - Zuldazar 2
The charges just blew a few minutes ago. I thought they’d be going in a few days or so- but no, they just exploded some of the city itself. Not the ships, though, I guess that’s not part of the plan tonight.
It’s one thing to kill an enemy while facing him in combat, but… it’s another entirely to be obliterated without warning. I didn’t know that was what we were doing, going into it, but I don’t know. They didn’t even get a chance to fight. I bet a lot of them died.
Is some of that blood on my hands? Does it even matter? They’d kill us and raise us into undeath if they had the chance.
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Campaign Journal - Zuldazar
Two brutal missions in less than a day- I think they’re trying to run us ragged, here. Even still, I feel like I’ve done actual good work. Those bombs we planted are supposedly the Alliance’s ticket into the city… so I just pray they’ll work when the time comes.
I think I liked us raiding the temple a little bit more. I suppose I’m rich, now, once we get back home. It’s a very strange thought. I’ve never had money to spare, I suppose- not in quantities like this. Despite it all, I don’t even know what I’d do with it all. Some of the others mentioned they were going to buy land back home with their cuts of the treasure. Not sure if that’s something I could really do- so I guess I’ve written all this for nothing. Maybe I’ll go around and buy people gifts. Maybe some clothes, too.
At least I’ve got something to show for all this, though. I heard something about medals, too, one of those would be nice.
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Campaign Journal - Pre-Zuldazar
I guess after the last stealth mission, they selected me for another one. I’m not supposed to tell the orders to anybody, but they said it’s behind enemy lines again- low chance of coming back.
It’s strange. For the first time since Argus, I feel endangered. Landing at Shatterstone was bad, but i never thought i was actually going to be in danger of dying. This is different, though. They picked a bunch of stealth operatives. SI:7, Lordaeron intelligence, those sorts. I don’t quite know if I fit in with them, even given my work with the Order.
But, i suppose this is what they want me to do. For the Alliance, and all that.
I don’t even know what to write in here- I may well die there. I just hope the Light doesn’t judge me too harshly, if I join it- and that they don’t give my corpse to the Horde. And I hope nobody hates me for going to war.
Ther’es a lot to say, but I don’t know how to start saying it. And there’s too many people I’d have to say things to. I’m not good at saying goodbyes, though. If I die and anybody reads this, I… I’m sorry, for just not having much.
[The pages seem to have gotten a little bit wet- probably some stray drops of water underneath Merellia’s entry.]
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Campaign Journal - Nazmir
[This one was kind of a campaign journal for all of Nazmir week.]
Light, it fucking sucks here.
I thought Vol’dun was bad. Vol’dun was hot, there were sandstorms every other day, and I don’t think I’m going to soon forget the bite of the Sethrak weapons- or the feeling of that lightning coursing through me. I do not know what powers the Sethrak wield, but they are not to be trifled with- I underestimated them at my great expense.
Of course, it seems underestimating things here is a failing of mine. We went out to scout the path leading to the northeast, but… there was some presence around. I could feel it in the air, pressing on my mind-I did not like the feeling. It reminded me of the Twilights, but more blunt- where they wormed their way into my mind, this force was like a warhammer beating me until I passed out mid-mission. I am just glad I was not more wounded.
Even still, it is filthy and fetid here. There is disease that the healers are desperately trying to stamp out, and apparently my own wounds were infected from simply not having them tended to immediately.
Then there are the blood trolls. They are savage in every sense of the word- they conduct foul, horrific rituals while bathing in blood to appease some dark god they worship. What’s worse, they slaughtered a stromic soldier right before my very eyes by ripping her soul out.
We filled them with bullets from the gunboats, but… it did not feel like we paid them back properly for the atrocities they’ve caused all over this swamp. One of the Lightforged here wanted to call a strike from the Vindicaar in- and I feel like that is what they deserve.
Unfortunately, there’s not time to spend fighting the blood trolls. The Horde will eat us alive with as exposed as we are here, if the bugs and disease don’t do it before then. I guess we’re moving into the mountains tomorrow, and that couldn’t be soon enough, really. fighting the Horde and Zandalari are better than sitting here, waiting to die.
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In Sickness
There was a bang on the door. Urgent, hard slams against the wood grain. Irvine wasn’t a light sleeper by any means and was slow to respond to it. Out of bed, bones cracked and a hideous house coat was thrown over shoulders. Padding to the door, moonlight divided him in half and his usually calm eyes were that of spooked horses. “Ler? Gods, what the fuck happened?”
Standing in the doorway, the ren'dorei priest shook hard. Blood drenching from maw to waistline in a morbidly straight line, he stared up at the ranger through glassy eyes. “I think I killed two people…"
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On Scouting and Goblins
Scout, but try not to engage. A easy enough task, or at least it was a task that was meant to be easy. After Nimruil dropped Inithelian off somewhere near Daelin’s Point, he took a moment to gather his surroundings and plot the best course of action ahead. Walking through the locals, he could catch whispering and idle chatter and gossip. Everyone’s topic at hand? Naga. Great, was all the blood mage thought to himself. Fish people, just what I needed, Ini should have taken this place instead. Nimruil sighed to himself, adjusting the rapier at his side to tighten it’s leather harness. The path most logical out of the fort, that is where he would go. However the path most logical, he would also quickly find was somewhat not the best; discovery of blockades and militia posted, and in the distance on the coast….Naga. He stopped clear before he even got to the exit of the fort and heaved a sigh. “Of course, why did I possibly think the roads would be clear. Oh no, fucking fish people just have to ruin my day.” He grumbled audibly to himself, raising brows from the locals as he backtracked the way he came. Side areas, he would have to trudge around side areas, which judging by the local meant wading through farmlands and hills. Great.
A break in the wall from earlier bombardments with Naga harpoons, and a little jump down, and Nim slipped past the walls of the fort to land on the outskirts. The first thing he did was check the perimeter near him, just to see if there were any nasties in the direct vicinity. He saw nothing, at least not to the naked eye. He had great eyesight….when it wasn’t bright ass sunlight. Even with lenses in his mask he always had a harder time seeing in the daylight. Squinting up at the sun, hand shrouding over the eyes of his mask, Nim took stock of what direction he was in, and where he needed to go. North, he needed to go North…and there was North with just a little turn of his body. Hand gripping the hilt of his rapier, and off he went. Heels had to carefully pick through the rocky, grassy terrain of what was essentially coastal farmland as far as the eye can see. Nim’s head was on a swivel, eyes darting from side to side, he didn’t really want to be caught unaware by a Naga…or worse, one of their Sea Giants they allied with.
Nothing was really known of the location that Mac had given him, other than warnings of Naga, which he could clearly see on the horizon. Naga, Sea Giants and absolutely massive creatures in which resembled a eel that grew far too large for their own goods. Nim kept to the edges, cutting through the hills to end up on the coast near the little island he was tasked in observing, steering clear from the Naga entirely; let the locals handle that, it wasn’t exactly his pressing problem in the moment. At a distance as he watched the island grow closer on the horizon, the man initially thought that his area might have actually been promising, but nothing would have prepared him for how fundamentally wrong he was.
It was the scent that hit him first, a scent he knew all too well from all of his time spent with Mordred. The heavy, cloying scent of oil clogging his keen senses, stuffing his nose. The air grew heavy with it the closer he approached the coast between shoreline and island, a scent that combined with the distinct tang of metal. Clanking, whirring, cogs and wheels echoing a racket along the water; heavy machines were heard first, and seen second once Nim had actually stepped foot on the beach. His jaw dropped. The waters were thick and viscous, blackened by oil slicking the very tops of once pristine salt waters. Plumes of smoke belched in the air from the machines dotted along the coast, sinking into the earth like his own fangs sunk into a bite.
Shouts off to his side shook him from his reverie, snapping his focus to the source of the disturbance. The crude language and slang of Goblins assaulted his ears, as several of the creatures themselves started sprinting for Nim. “*Shit,” He swore to himself, and took off into a sprint further down the coastline, directed away from the distant fort. Sand kicked up by his heels, spraying behind him as he trudged through, but running in sand was gods awful and didn’t exactly allow his full potential. Lungs burned and legs pounded, attention hyper focused ahead of him. That is, until a explosion abruptly rocketed at his side, sending shrapnel and heated sand flying all around the magi. He hissed, throwing his hands up to protect himself from the rain of debris, though some metal had tore through the softer bits of his armors to rip bloodied wounds dotted along his body. A quick glance threw over his shoulder to quick what was happening, and it was a glance just in time to see that several of the maybe eight or so Goblins had rocket launchers trained on him. Directing his attention away, even for a split second, while still running would prove hazardous for Nim, as his run had him barreling straight for a oil spill slicking up the sand ahead of him. Footing slipping from under him, lean body flailed into a slide akin to that of someone on a frozen lake without blades. His body tumbled forward, flipping and rolling through the sand to dirty himself with beach debris and thick stains of oil; making him look like the strangest abstract painting of sand, oil and blood.
Though fate almost seemed kind, in a ironic twist, it was his fall that saved his life as the three rockets shot at him went zooming straight over his head; barely just missing contact with him in a close degree that was not at all comfortable. The rockets shot ahead of him, exploding upon contact with the beach to send more waves of sand into the air and crash down in a messy heap. Dirty, pissed, and with something of a twisted ankle now, Nim grit his teeth in a lowly growl rumbling within his chest. The magi flipped himself from his stomach to his back, facing the oncoming Goblins still shouting at him in that horrid dialect of theirs. He smirked behind his expressionless, blood wept mask as both hands raised. One gloved tugged down, exposing the dark grey of his palm only for the width of his flesh to be sliced into by a sharpened silver thumb ring adorning him. A flash of sanguine, a aura of red and wide, wicked eyes glinted behind his mask with a cruel and unseen grin. The Goblins had no idea what as coming, had not clue, and had no way to prepare.
Both of Nim’s hands rose towards the Goblins with that vibrant bloody glow twisting around long fingers, muttering incoherently under his breath with a reverb to his voice that sounded….wholly unnatural, wholly unholy. It wouldn’t be quick, wouldn’t even be noticeable at first by the Goblins, in fact they would be allowed to get closer and closer to Nim before they would start to really feel the start of their demise. It would start with a little heat, perhaps they were just running too hard, or the fuses of their rockets a little too potent. Then came the sweats and the sluggishness, slowing their run down from stubby little legs moving frantically to stumbling about. Then would come the confusion, the delirium as the heat rose steadily within their body. A fever, but not just any fever, a fever controlled by the twisting of blood manipulation. Slower, slower, hotter, hotter….the Goblins were forced into a complete halt nearly at Nim’s feet. They panted and yelped, clawing at themselves as if to dig into a unseen itch….or to open their veins and vent the heat building within them. A little fever would become a liquid wildfire running through their bodies. Green skin started to physically bubble as the blood in their very bodies turned against them and *boiled* like a pot left too long on the burner. Screams of agony, and then the dull thud of collapsing corpses, and the Goblins which sought to end Nim, were snuffed out.
Satisfied by his magic’s work, Nim smoothly brought himself to a stand, brushing his hands along his armors to flake off excess sand. A deep scowl was brought to his face, however, when he looked at the state of himself. New armors tattered by shrapnel, pieces of metal still sticking out of his skin, and oil smudged absolutely everywhere. He was going to need to bring those in for repairs and professional cleaning, and he wasn’t the happiest about it. He leaned down, swiping one of the rocket launchers away from a dead Goblin, uncaring on the roughness of removing it from his grasp. If someone was going to show him the disrespect of shooting missiles at him, he wasn’t going to show the respect of careful loot recovery. He turned the contraption in his hands over a few times, humming to himself. “Mord will like this.” He stated to himself out loud before hoisting the thing over his shoulder. “Fuck this place.” Was his firm stance on his section of the coast. With little more fanfare, Nim stepped over several dead Goblins, picking his way between them and made a definite journey back to the fort. He was officially done with this place.
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Scouting Stormsong
After bidding Nim a farewell, he had dismounted the wonderful bat and headed north away from Fort Daelin. His section of Stormsong was full of cliffs, at least from what the maps little elevation was showing him. Whistling a happy tune he took off from the main road, heading for the grassy path that seemed to be a straight shot up his area he was scouting. To the disorganized rogue the day was beautiful. Warm and sunny with lots of critters running about in the shrubs.
Burdened down with a pack full of goblin gliders, grappling gear, and other odds and ends not seemingly slowing him down. Quick and easy strides brought him to a crest of a hill. A breathtaking view and he wasn’t even all the way up yet. The only downside was that his grassy road up the hill had ended already. But that didn’t catch his eye at first. No instead his curious gaze was drawn to a nest in the middle of the flat hilltop. There were eggs in it, but no sign of its resident.
Peering about he approached with no sense of trepidation to poke the large eggs. Not one for knowing animals it was simply a marvel to look at, rather than to name. What stirred him from his curious inquiry was aloud and angry sounding screech. That drew his attention from the eggs and to the very large vulture like bird. It registered in his head that this was likely their mother, even as he jumped up from his position and sprinted down the hill.
Dodging the swiping of claws and nipping of sharp beak the young Ren'dorei made a beeline for a different rout up, trying his best to not fight the large mother bird. With the bird still swooping at him he laughed, ducking low and diving into the nearest shrub. Bad luck for him that it was spiny. Luckily, however, it got him out of reach of the predatory bird. After failed attempts to reach him the bird finally flew off, still squawking its protest at his intrusion. Staying still in his brush hideaway the rogue listened until the flap of wings disappeared.
Untangling himself from his thorny hideaway he hopped awkwardly sideways, picking thorny branches from pouches and pants. His scouting mission slightly side tracked he picked up his new path, hoping this one would reach the top. From this side f the hill he could spot the ocean, as well as the Tortollan Refuge along the coast. Pretty, but already occupied space. Marking his map to say as such he continued on. The climb up was not nearly as treacherous as he had hoped for. Not that he was looking for trouble, per-say, but he wouldn’t dislike it either.
Brushing stray leaves from himself the trek continued upwards. This trail he had been chased onto was a much easier way than he’d have thought. Having come prepared to climb some of these hills he was almost disappointed at the leisurely walk he was on. It was, however, quite pretty. Plus there was an occasional goat that he could pet which broke up the monotony he was facing. They were friendly, which meant they were either used to humans, or had not met one they considered dangerous.
Cresting another hill his eyes spotted a tree with a wrapped tentacle like statue around it. Like most of the things in Kul Tiras he assumed it had something to do with either the Tide Sages or the Cultists. It even had neat little benches around it. Humming to himself he moved forward to look over what he assumed was a rest area. What caught his eye was a long piece of scroll pinned to the tree itself. Interested in this strange little thing he got close enough to read what was written.
“As our lord’s gifts grew, others too heard the whispers.
Soon the very wind in our sails was ours to command – the waves pushing us ever onward into the night.
With time our hulls impenetrable to even the worst denizens of the deep below.”
Wrinkling his nose Inithelian read over it twice more before he shrugged his shoulders. It made no sense to him. Likely he was reading a part of a whole story, but at the moment he had other things on his mind. Or rather, more pressing matters. Pulling his map out again he marked his path up and wrote little notes as to what he’d found. Nothing groundbreaking here really, and certainly not a good place for a bar!
The map was slipped back into his brightly colored jacket, the batted and broken quill pushed into a pouch with the newly stoppered black ink bottle. Sighing he peered up the last of the hill, spotting swirling air ahead. This got him excited again, his very nature egging him into investigating. Creeping carefully up the hill he let a bit of caution guide him. Void forgive him if he disturbed an even bigger bird than before after all.
What he spotted stopped him in his tracks immediately.
There was a large elemental of wind ahead, its faceless visage gazing thankfully not at him. The air swirled around it as if being sucked in. One hand went to secure his hat to his head as he gave the large creature its space. When he was finally a good distance away he flopped to the grass, putting his legs over the crest of the hill and went back to making notes. A great big ‘No way in Fel’ being written where the air elemental was keeping vigil.
Ahead of him seemed to be nothing but steep hills and goats, no clear path down left him with one option. An option he had been eager to use. Putting his things away again he took his pack off, digging around until he found a clunky Goblin Glider kit. Humming happily and kicking his feet he followed the stinted Common directions to get it functional before strapping it on his back. Holding his pack in his hands he grinned like an idiot and just jumped off the edge, engaging the machine to glide over the rough terrain.
It was a rush to feel the wind whistling past him this way. Nothing along the way looked like a good place to build. Goats, steep hills and then cliff into the water. There looked to be an island or two ahead of him across the water. And while they looked interesting he could tell no one in their right mind would come out this way, not even for a drink. But that was the least of his concerns, considering the sight he saw on his right.
Right there in the ocean was a Horde ship. Remembering his map he realized how close he must be to a Horde held area. Well, that would certainly put a damper on his island trek. There was no way they could build anything out here within sight of any Horde people. Disappointed his journey was over he almost forgot he was gliding. The almost being the jarring stop as he got stuck in a tree. The little island he had seen before had halted his progress.
Trapped hanging from the tree he held his pack and kept an eye on the seemingly dormant ship. Laughing to himself he cradled his pack in one arm as a hand went for his dagger. The sharp instrument was used to cut him free, landing on his feet with surprisingly grace. Slipping his dagger back into its sheath he slid his pack back on and searched for his hearthstone. No need to stay here anymore after all, he’d gotten the information he needed.
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Negotiating with the Storm
“Sorry, miss. You’ll have to come back another time. Commander Kellam is still busy.” The young man posted outside the commander’s door, barring her way, gave her the same speech he had the last three days.
The man who had invited her out was rescheduling again. Another wasted trip to Fort Daelin.
Macaela stood there, chewing on the corner of her lower lip. “Mm. I see. This makes, what? The third time I’ve been out here by your commander’s invitation only for him to suddenly be too busy to see me?” A hum of amusement slipped past her lips. “I think I’m done waiting. Step aside, love. I’m getting this sorted today.”
Mac watched as blue eyes widened and a hand moved to the pommel of a sword, uncertain if there was an actual threat or not.
Underestimated for being a woman. She sighed inwardly and took a step forward, watching the man tense but still refuse to draw a weapon. The fool.
“Miss…”
“Easy…” Macaela whispered as she took another step in, invading the man’s personal space. “Perhaps, I can just… wait. All I need is a few minutes with the commander. We can… wait together, maybe? I can think of several things to keep us entertained.”
She heard the gulp and watched the man’s throat shudder as she pressed in, getting rather familiar with his groin. Or so he thought at first. Sadly, however, it wasn’t a warm hand but cold hard metal pressed against his jewels. That realization likely came crashing down around him when he heard the telltale click of a hammer being eased back.
With a free hand snaked in the man’s hair and the other holding a flintlock against his softer bits, Mac smirked.
“Then again, I think I’ve waited long enough. Now open the fucking door or I’ll entertain myself by pulling the trigger, love.”
There was a mad scrambling for keys and the office was opened clumsily, the door pushed open to a short hall and office beyond.
“Not now!” She heard barked down the corridor. Mac, of course, ignored it. Waving the man she had at gunpoint away, she stepped into the poorly lit entryway and closed the door behind her, taking a moment to give the poor violated lad a suggestion.
“The commander truly is busy now. His other appointments will have to wait.”
The man was leaning over, nodding as he huffed out a sigh of relief. Soldiers braved war day in and day out, fearlessly, however… a gun to the dick was often more terrifying than being slain in battle.
Men always had strange priorities.
With the door closed, Mac walked in like she owned the place, watching Commander Kellam push up from his desk with a look of shock and indignation.
“What is the mea–”
Mac cut him off as she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “We had an appointment. I was tired of being disrespected. I thought I would even the playing field, love. We have things to discuss."
An hour or so later…
“Look, Miss. I understand you have a business you want to run but I have bigger concerns than dealing with property management for a damn bar. Not sure if you know this but Boralus has about three dozen bars…”
Miss.
There was that damn word again. Miss this… Miss that. She didn’t know if she hated being called ‘miss’ or ‘ma’am’ more. Both grated on her nerves, to be honest, mostly because they always came with a condescending tone. He was talking down to her.
“It’s Lady, commander. Lady Macaela Marley. Since as you would rather speak down to me like I’m some trembling waif, I think it is time you realize just who you are talking to. I’m not some meek little girl who is coming here for scraps or charity. I want the land, you have a war to wage… Both take money, which I have. Now I could go directly through The Admiralty, but if I did that you wouldn’t see a single copper from that exchange.”
She took a step closer to Commander Kellam’s desk, sliding over the leather bound sleeve with the collected documents and deeds for the isle of Vagrants Rest.
“The paper pushers and accountants with The Admiralty are my next stop and I will throw an obscene amount of money at them. I was practically robbed with the rates I paid to insure my tavern in Boralus… And then my bar burned down, thanks to the Forsaken, leaving me enough to line someone’s pockets quite nicely. Now it’s going to be you and this fort… or some greedy bastard who lives behind a desk. You… have the authority, here and now, to allocate lands seized from Lord Stormsong’s Holdings.”
She stood up taller, giving the man a playful smirk. “So… what is it going to be, commander?”
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Kyuusei,
I have been thinking long about the favor you’ve requested of me, and please understand that is it not a simple one. Like I said before, it is outside of my realm, but I believe my wife might have answers for you. At the moment, our caravan is located in Duskwood, close to Westfall. Please join us Tuesday at 6:30.
We look forward to seeing you,
Ren
@blackmarketmistress @kyuusei-shadowleaf
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Campaign Journal - Vol’dun
[Very shortly after helping @the-outliers find their new bar location in Stormsong, Merellia very quietly slipped away. Her destination? Zandalar. This happened last week ICly but I’m catching up on missed writing. Writing below the jump.]
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The Shattered Glass: Re-Opening!
Following the events of the ongoing Horde Incursions on Boralus, The Shattered Glass Tavern has finally found a new location to call home. Tucked away, safely off the coast of Stormsong, protected by the might of Fort Daelin, this favored watering hole is once again opening up its doors!
Come Join us at The Shattered Glass Tavern!
Every Thursday starting at 8:00 PM CST/ 6:00 PM PST
In Game Proxy: Thresher’s Wharf, Stormsong Valley
OOC Notes: This is a weekly tavern night, set to take place every Thursday in Stormsong Valley. While the OOC Proxy is Thresher’s Wharf, IC we have added an island to the map to avoid community storyline disruption for anyone also using Thresher’s Wharf. The IC locations is being referred to as Vagrants Rest. There is a a quick map HERE for anyone interested in its placement.
This event is open to all and hosted by Outliers. Please send a whisper to Macognito-Moonguard or Infirmum-Moonguard for an invite to the shard.
Summons will be available upon request. For those who are flying out, Millstone Hamlet and Fort Daelin are close Flight Paths to the Proxy location. The coastline DOES have aggro-Mobs, however, the Island itself is completely clear of danger.
For questions, please contact me @inkedwolf-compendium via message. You can also contact @thekinginblue.
Tagging @boralusevents for boost bump. Thank you again Cesare!
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Micro Event 2/25/19
Alliance War Effort: Supply Disruption
With the ongoing incursions, supply trains and deliveries have been disrupted. All across Kul Tiras, supplies have been stolen or outright destroyed by the horde, preventing a much needed reprieve for Alliance forces.
The cost of meat, grain, ore, and medical supplies had skyrocketed. The war effort is asking for donations to aid soldiers on both the warfront as well as Kul Tiras.
Estimated Risk Level: Mild
Timeframe: 2/25/19 to 3/10/19
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Micro-Event 2/18/19
Fort Daelin: Volunteers Needed
The Naga are no stranger to the shores of Stormsong Valley, especially the beaches surrounding Fort Daelin. While the nautical pests seem relentless in their repeated assaults, they have gained little ground, and have proven to be more of an annoyance than an actual threat. Those Fishy Vermin have no real impact on the well built and well supplied Kul Tiran military base.
The surrounding isles, however, are not so lucky. While the focus of the naga has been Fort Daelin itself, the islands off the coast have seen more and more naga sightings. Minor injuries and moderate structural damage were reported in previous weeks. This week, however, reports have fallen silent well past deadline.
Fort Daelin Command is asking for volunteers to scout out the isles under their protection and report back. Scouts needed for Thresher's Wharf and Vagrants Rest.
Estimated Risk Level: Moderate
Time Frame: 2/18/19 to 2/24/19
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Micro Event 2/11/19
Stormsong SITREP: Horde Advances and Footholds
Mayor Ros of Brennedam has received the newest reports of the dangers of Stormsong Valley. The once peaceful farming Valley, protected by the might of Fort Daelin has seen better days.
Reports from “The Hill” state that new forces from Warfang Hold arrive in small droves to supply The Clearcut with manpower. Several farmsteads have failed to report in. Scouting missives revealed some taken by “The Kraul” while others report Horde foothold.
Civilians are warned to avoid Windshorn Hills North and West of Eckhart’s Lodge. Hillcrest Pastures South of Brennedam. Additional warnings include caution around Amber Waves Farmland, south of Brennedam, and Tidebreaker Summit, north of Sagehold.
Call to Arms posted in Brennedam. Mayor Ros sending small groups of skilled individuals to stymie the damage, cut down enemy patrols and advances, and evacuate citizens.
Estimated Risk Level: Moderate
Timeframe: 2/11/19 to 2/17/19
OOC Note: This weeks micro-event was tailored for our Stormsong Explorations that will be happening in guild discord. This is just a brief report on how the valley is fairing and some cautionary markers for horde outposts and pressure points. The locals and regional “guides” would likely share this information with anyone visiting.
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For Those Who Keep Asking...
…Flapjack lives, though it was pretty close. He almost became a ‘fursaken’ during the incursions. He’d tell you all about it, but you don’t speak Cat Tiran. Ryan Reynolds knows his pain.
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~ Smoke & Mirrors ~
They came not as dreams, but flashes amidst the dark; moments too fleeting for eyes to follow, leaving only a broken mind to interpret the impressions.
Each echoed like the crash of hammers inside his skull, a blinding torment of light blooming sparks against the stygian abyss of his enforced slumber. LIke raiders creeping under the gloom of a moonless night, until their murderous deeds were revealed in lightning’s stark relief.
Just as quickly, the scenes faded from sight, afterimages imposed upon his mind’s eye only long enough to leave an impression, if not the memory, intact. It was as if the beast were drowning beneath storm-tossed waves, unable to see beyond the wreckage of flotsam that surfaced quickly as it submerged.
And like the aftermath of a shipwreck, the sights told no coherent tale; splintered wood, a barrel. Buckled shoe. A bottle. An arm. The images in his mind told no story either, for the moments coalesced from times and places as scattered as his thoughts.
A skull amidst roses. A crow, and a locket. The window upon a tower. Weeds in the garden. A blanket. Dead men on splintered barricades. Horror frozen on a woman’s face, steaming entrails not enough to warm her over. Bathtubs in barren, mist-shrouded woods. A large dog. A snake, a broken button, a cherub’s innocence lost. Hazel eyes, lead-paned glass. The hands of a timepiece. A hand in a purse. The dead and the dying. So many. Writhing limbs, written pictures, rolling waves. Magic. Runes. Scars. Children, murdered by hands that once nurtured. An abused body, claimed night after night to a blur of fresh bruises, fading as fast as they bloomed. Rats. An explosion of tangled vines. Shadowed rafters, shiny bottles, warm hearth. Manor houses and sewer tunnels. Glass walls and carved bones. Fur against flesh.
All of it, no matter what, no matter when, glimpsed upon fields of shattered glass, scattered throughout with fangs and claws every bit as sharp, and much more wicked.
And closer, somehow fresh yet forgotten… a ritual.
Tangled bodies amidst writhing smoke… through his eyes and from afar, both with the same lean, lithe body beneath. As if she’d been a lover, but another’s as well in that very moment. Blazing, amber stars beneath a bloody moon. Begging for release. Begging for a boon.
Until darkness claimed the beast once more.
But from the depths, at last,
it returned.
In the darkened gloom of tomb-like room, within a coffin-like tub, the beast that was broken whimpered with pangs of pain. Even in dusk the light seared like branding-irons through squeezed-shut lids, the return of awareness assaulting each of his senses in turn.
That wan light burned away any echoing memory it might have retained. The roar of the city was as thunder against his eardrums, even though in truth the bustle of Boralus beyond had softened to evening’s hum. The polished wood beneath was like stone, pushing with an agony of pressure against the bones of his too-gaunt frame, though rocking in place to spread out the pain only succeeded in setting every inch of his body afire.
Taste, at least, it had been spared, tongue too dry and almost desiccated with thirst, swollen somehow behind his fangs even despite his dehydrated state.
Scent, however, it could not escape.
It was the last of his senses to return, deluged as it had been by so dreadful an assault. A miasma clung to the air above, a solid wall of stench so strong it might have served as a physical lid upon his coffin. More than anything else, perhaps, the reek was what brought it back to the waking world, gasping for air and suddenly sorry it did.
Helpless to do aught but curl into a ball and retch, the beast laid amidst its own vomit until naught remained within, shuddering rasps of tortured breath wracking its form.
It said a great deal that the room smelt no worse in the aftermath.
Having heaved itself dry, the beast hauled his way clear of the coffin’s rim, mind not working on any -sensate- level but to escape that putrid foetor, to breathe air unpoisoned by the overwhelming stink. But the scent merely rose with the beast, as if it had torn the lid free only to find itself yet buried beneath the ground.
Too weak to clamber free of his confines, it merely tumbled from their grasp. His too-gaunt frame crumpled to the floor beyond, driving whatever breath it yet held in a pained wheeze from its breast.
Lacking strength yet to stand, it scrabbled and rolled along the floor, scratching a path with finger and toenail like some sort of clawed, clumsy serpent.
But the door was locked from without and the windows barred from within, so the beast merely crept to the darkest corner of its cell, curling into a crouch as it perched out of sight.
And there it waited amidst its myriad agonies,
trying to remember what…
or perhaps who,
it was.
((An excerpt from the aftermath of a storyline with @inkedwolf-compendium for those wondering where Tryn’s been. Poor lad’s been having it a bit worse than Flapjack of late ;p ))
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