#guild plot

[dinthoqaf]

Wilted Offerings

(Image of Zul'mashar in current Retail WoW) The Eastern Plaguelands were always a place of death anymore. Sure, the Crusaders were doing their best to mop up and rejuvenate the land, but despite these efforts, new ziggurats and new pockets of Scourge kept coming with it all and each offensive only made worse creations come about. This, however, wasn’t about either of them as Dinthoqaf came to wander through the foothills and mountains between the Dark Forest (now known as The Ghostlands) and the Eastweald (Area east of Lordaeron). Nestled back amongst it all in a hidden holler was a forgotten Mossflayer temple. The air around it smelled of stale death as no wind blew through the ever-dying trees. The ground and grass held an audible crunch of near-deathly dryness that protested Dinthoqaf’s more conventional method of approach. This was intentional if nothing else, as these lands were not his but another's and he knew he’d not only been felt on approach but somewhere here, always, was the presence of little buttoned eyes scurrying and watching in silence as hundreds of Voodoo Dolls wander and wobble their way place to place. They were his eyes and hands, much like The Nameless was Dinthoqaf’s. The Temple steps rose before him, allowing access into the boughs of its depths if one knew where to find it, knew where to look, or rather, how to find passage through its doorways. Within the air was staler, not quite rank but stagnant to the point one with any tastebuds could taste it simply by breathing it in through their nose. It was not a scent that merely disappeared because you wished it would.

(Image of The Sunken Temple in Retail WoW)

The inclined hall leading down into the earth was one lined with old troll architecture that dated back centuries, perhaps even millennia judging by the way that even down here, grooves had been left along the floor as naked soles passed across them. Stone once yelled now turned a brackish green from moss and age and dust began to accumulate in the corners so thick one couldn't tell if it was dust or dirt anymore. Despite this aging, it did not stop small wandering eyes from watching from forgotten little holes, vented wall gaps, and all manners of little alcoves that burlap or cottoned bodies could only fit within. It reminded him quite a bit of his years in meeting Nezzok, in meeting The Eventide Emperor too, a time that led to his wife and eventually a split that created the foundations of The Sanctum. In a sense, these halls were as near a walk down memory lane as he would be afforded.

(Image of The Sunken Temple in Retail WoW)

Down further and further, even here, the air began to grow humid and thick as the earth surrounding it insulated and well as protected. Bodies were kept preserved where possible, and some Dinthoqaf recognized, parts and specimens meant to be used for replacement parts for Nezzok should his undead vessel become overly damaged. A museum of sorts, but this is not where he needed to be nor was it a place he had a desire to gawk. Not because it made him uncomfortable or due to some issue with the process at all, but primarily because it held no actual interest for him as of current. No, what was needed was further within. Through twisting halls and corridors, rooms filled with working dolls, half-mummified bodies, and others being disposed of save for their hair being collected to be used later, Dinthoqaf walked. "Took ya long 'nough Bruddah. Wha'cha da, get stuck holdin' dah Weavah's shoppin' bags 'gain?" Nezzok now squat over the edge of a now dry 'pool' that once was used for some form of ritual baptism or something of the like. Maybe it had been blood, water, or something else entirely to commune with spirits or loa of some forgotten sort, but now, it housed two very specific things. Even in his given posture, the Troll was enormous and hulked over Dinthoqaf as he came to stand beside him. Nezzok's arms, the four of them, worked as the lower set knitted together hair from a pile nearby into what would later become fine cloths. Another arm perched on a knee at the elbow as the fourth worked on a Cigar that would come off as laughably large in the hands of The Defiler. Dinthoqaf would not answer this, knowing that The Collector and The Weaver would have tried to kill one another ages ago if it hadn't been for his position between the two of them. As much as they squabbled, they did not dare break that covenant and risk his ire. "And here I thought you were going to complain about me taking the scenic route here instead of doing something fancy to let myself in." He retorted, a little smirk coming about his face as he looked down into the pit. There against the wall, now that living flesh was here, were two Scourged Ghouls that belonged to the body of an elven woman and another an elven child. Their bodies were half-eaten with rot and the other half charred. Someone had tried to dispatch them and clearly failed.

(Image from Pride, Prejudice, & Zombies)

Dinthoqaf mused and like Nezzok, squat at the edge of the pool, holding a hand out over the two but not giving risk of being pulled in himself. No, this would take delicate magics to do as he wanted here. "Now this, this is a gift for the holidays..." Nezzok stood, his frame stretching up to the full twelve feet of undead brute force that he was and his limbs move him with the grace of a jungle cat. Not a noise was made as he left the hair behind to be tended to by the dolls and Dinthoqaf followed. Work was to be done. Hours would go by here, their work coming through the night and into the later hours of the next day as spells were sewn into newly applied flesh. Dark magics worked to regenerate or at least cleanse the undead rot to make the two look less undead. The charred flesh, however, remained and finally, at the end of the day what lay on a cold stone slab between Dinthoqaf and Nezzok was a revelation, a testament to patience but more so half nightmare, half dream. Woman and child alike had their rotten halves returned to them, hair regrown, flesh cleansed, eyes returned. If one were to catch either hiding around some corner in a game of tag, one would never know the other half was a burned nightmare of failure. "I know it's frowned upon to regift a gift, especially when the giver is present when the newest receiver obtains it but I think in this instance..." Dinthoqaf smiles, the features upon his face flickering with the torchlight in these hollowed halls. "... You'll want to be there when we reunite my dearest brother with his long-lost wife and babe..." "Wouldn't have it aneh othah way Bruddah." ( Continuation from a story from @nezzokthecollector and part of the background events for Guild Storyline for the Sanctum of the Forbidden. )

[frostbitecontingent]

Busy Week!

We’ve had a busy week over here in the FBC and we’re playing a bit of catch up for you in this post today! First off, we wanna welcome a new person into our ranks! Dead Dave! They’re an amazingly talented Tailor and Enchanter who’s joining our ranks as an Acquisitions Expert who specializes in acquiring much needed goods for his fellow Forsaken and Undeaders! ( I’d give his link, but I’m missing it at the moment, I’ll update this once I have it cause I know there is one! D: )

On top of that, we had a team consisting of Security Personnel (Darla, Axl, & Zokkine) and their Director (Zimble), delve into Scholomance to go after a magical power source that some renegade Cult of the Damned individuals ran off with! Once they got inside, they discovered that all of the Cultists were MIA but the labyrinth had been filled with worse horrors. Our team had been knocked out by security measures, only to discover the place full of hundreds upon hundreds of copies of themselves. Some of them quite convincing and others so far off they were near unrecognizable. No matter what though, something was off with each and every one of them to an eerie degree. ( Automatonophobia intended to be felt when looking at them.) These horrors didn’t move at first, at least not when looked at and in short order, the Security team found themselves hearing their own voices coming from their copies or slight grazes and brushes of hands touching their own or somewhere on their body as they tried to get through the sea of copies. Later and deeper in the labyrinth, they discovered that these bodies were being put together similar to mannequins and with numerous skin suits and hair pieces harvested from... gold knows where, in an effort to create more and more convincing copies of our team.

It wasn’t until they reached the inner most sanctum that they discovered four exact duplicates that were able to copy their voices and abilities and characteristics, even down to their personalities!  It was these four copies that it was discovered that they were nothing more than finger puppets connected to a large fetid abomination that had the power source tucked away on top of it, which it was feeding off of in an effort to power its efforts to make dopplegangers. Zokkine, in a quick effort to retrieve the power source, tried to teleport it over and while this succeeded, his numerous teleportation skills throughout the facility had been taken into account and the Source he now held also worked similar to a glue trap, sticking to his hands as a tether began to reel him in towards the stand, where large, razor sharp teeth sought to pull him in to devour him while also reclaiming the source. Luckily, our team kept their heads on and cut the tether, which ultimately led to the abomination starving to death in quick succession as it no longer had a source to feed off of properly. Having marked the mission as completed proper, they have now left the Labyrinth and its dead copies behind via portal, to take their prize back to Megahes for analysis.

[handofvengeance]

Total darkness had befell the sanctuary that night, almost as if it were magically enhanced to be just so. The events of the night had been as much chaos as Aerick had seen since his return to the Order. He laid in a bed not of his own, a figure tangled into his side. His fingers brushed through the seemingly asleep person’s light colored locks as he stared up to the ceiling above. Those visions of his own, while not the worst he had ever witnessed, still haunted him, as they would haunt anyone of their right mind. His own people, butchered and slaughtered right beneath his nose, and he could do nothing of it. Aerick shifted his head so that he might press his lips unto the forehead of the individual in which he shared a bed. Nothing more than a quiet hum and the shifting of their form was offered in return. He took this opportunity to, as steadily as he could, slip from their hold and maneuver himself to the edge of the bed.

One hand strayed upward and ran through his silvery white hair, only to then come back around and strike downward against his face. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he gathered himself and eased his way off of the bed top. His first order of business, dress himself. He donned nothing more than a loose fitting shirt, black trousers, and his black knee high boots. Just as quietly as he left the bed, he slipped from the room and moved soundlessly through the dimly lit halls of their holy refuge. In the distance he heard the sounds that he had expected growing louder with each step forward. The hushed whispers of men, women, and children alike faintly echoed throughout the open chamber of their main hall. The sight that he saw upon his arrival was not one that he had wanted to see, but one that was necessary. Guardsmen and their families all huddled in their respective groups as hooded men went from sect to sect and offered them bread and water. Aerick’s features grew grim, and soon enough twisted with anger.

Out of the ten or so men that tended the newly homeless, one strode over to the Lord and shoved his hood back. Short black hair, a handsome face, with ocean blue eyes looked to Aerick. A man perhaps in his mid twenties. “Seton.” Said the Inquisitor as he approached, “M’lord,” Began the armorclad man, “All outposts and villages of ours have been cleared. Any that remain are of our Sanguine Eyes, who lingered to search for any outliers.” Aerick nodded in response and shifted his gaze to the people, “See to it that they are fed, kept warm, and have a place to rest their heads tonight. We will fill them in as we can tomorrow, and should we need it, we will clear out more of this place to make room. None are to be left behind.” As he finished, his silvered, hawklike stare refocused itself upon Seton, “Yes, M’lord. As you say.” And with the bow of his head, the Eye moved off to rejoin his brothers-in-arms. Aerick was left alone as he studied over the scared, confused, and exhausted people of his Order. At that moment, he vowed to make this right. By whatever means necessary.

[ @morganadrake @veign-meridian and others of the order of avalon! ]

[jacob-holt]

Unknown Threats.

He was exhausted. Pure and utterly exhausted. 

“Harriett... please write to Venreena. I ...” he leaned forward suddenly and retched his entire stomach yet again into another bucket while Lorraine gasped, shooting up from where she sat beside him and rushed off to get some more water and fresh towels. 

When he was finished, he flopped back onto the bed, sweat soaking his brow and beading along his pallid skin. “I won’t be sailing anytime soon...” he panted, catching his breath while his lungs remained on fire from gulping in the air around him. 

For two days he’d been ill. A few days prior to that he’d begun to feel odd, as if he were about to catch some sort of bug. And now? He’d seem to caught whatever bug it was and it was wreaking havoc on his health.

“Oh, of course, my lord! Of course. Here, drink this first. You must stay hydrated...” she chided gently as she brought over another glass of water with a bit of lemon squeeze in it as soon as Lorraine left the room. The woman sat beside him to help him drink it easily but he choked and sputtered, eventually getting some of it down his throat, grimacing lightly. “Yes, I imagine retching leaves an awful taste in your mouth,” she said quietly. 

“Eugh,” he groaned, wiping his mouth with his forearm and curling back beneath the covers with a harsh shiver. “Thank you, Harriett,” he said in an exhausted mumble before fatigue began pulling him once more into a restless sleep.

Harriett stroked his brow with soft fingers, frowning at Jacob’s still form. “Of course,” she whispered, barely audible. “Of course...” She looked at the glass of water before moving to stand from where she sat along his bed and strode toward the ensuite. There.. she’d dump the remaining water down the drain.

((For plot relevance: @cedrickholtstories @lorraine-lemieux @venreenaholt @holtandthornetradingco ))

[pettyelves]

Lady in the Water

Investigation notes, Drustvar: Addressed to No’Vindere Amberbark

With The Blind King lost at sea, you had repeatedly assured me that the crew must still be alive. If it had been anyone else, I would have not believed them- but you are never wrong.

Investigation had led us to Drustvar where Dylan, had washed up, mysteriously unscathed. There was something eerie about the land in and of itself, but it was when a fog had nearly taken myself and Kurel. Following after an entranced Dylan we came upon a being, who seemed impossibly tall. Almost elven in her appearance, she seemed to be a part of the water itself- which she fled back to when confronted. We were left with her thrall--or charge, a witch who barely got a spell off before Kurel blew her brains out. Shame, too-- we could have kept her for questioning. 

I do not know the source of what deafens our communication seals, but there were several items found in a house near where Dylan was found. Raylen has a locked case I’m interested in-- and I found a journal which I’m going to sift through. I’ll write more when I’ve had a chance to visit the other side-- something about that thing felt familiar.

Stay safe, No’Vindere

Eilithe Duskbringer

Sealing the envelope, Eilithe pressed the rising sun seal into the back before she passed it off to a courier who was bound for Zuldrazar. With a slow sip off her drink, she shifted her eyes to the barkeep. “You lot have a private bathhouse?” 

It definitely wasn’t her bath at home, which could comfortably seat her and Kurel- and maybe even a third. But it was good enough. She climbed in one leg after the other and slowly sank into the steaming water. Ideally she would have suspended herself in water, yet in this bathtub she felt the embrace of the brass sides. Eilithe sank all the way down so that only her lips and nose stuck out from the water’s surface.

And then she stopped. Perfectly still, not even the rise and fall of her chest. Drip....Drip..Drip.Drip. Her lips sank beneath the still waters.

When she opened her eyes the gray-scale domain of her mistress was blurry. The soft glow of the souls who awaited the Gate-- or perhaps something else entirely drifted in clusters to no where across the glassy black water that stretched endlessly. It was only Eilithe’s presence that seemed to disrupt them.

A wandering and shapeless soul drifted like a light gray ball of light towards Eilithe’s astral form- a trail of light left behind it. It was not until it was just ahead of Eilithe that it took the shape of a human girl, barely eighteen. “You’re here,” she said in an echo. 

Eilithe straightened in her physical body- though the projection of her merely swayed. “Where is the Lady?” 

She shifted looking here and there, “It’s not safe anymore. She’s forgotten us.” 

“Try to focus your form- your thoughts are erratic.”

“We have to hide now. When the creatures come-- The Harbinger has abandoned us. He came. He made her leave.”

“Who is he?” Eilithe asked with far more patience than she ever showed the living.

“He... Will you stay here? Will you protect us now?” 

A distant growl came from just out of sight- just beyond the horizon of the the endless lake. The girl’s spirit exploded into smoke zipping away to hiding with the others- like thousands of lights shooting to the shadows. 

Eilithe snarled back at the beasts, “Begone, these are not your dinner. Know your place, beast.” 

The creatures she kept, and the ones that were kept at bay here were of the same ilk. Souls so depraved in life that they had far decayed into monsters. Powerful when harnessed- yet here, they could--without The Harbinger’s presence to drive them back, bring havoc. 

The creature, dark bodied with white pinholes for eyes sat- like a human mimicking a dog. “Our place is shifting, elf.” And he waited. And he waited. Until he knew she could hold their no longer.

Taking a breath, Eilithe sat up in the bath and smeared her hand down her face- like it had been a bad dream. With wet hands she reached for a cigarette and sparked her lighter before she sat back against the back of the tub. 

“It’s never just one thing going to shit, is it?” She asked- to nobody but herself and the cool air of the room. 

@kurel-andiel @xavier-sunshadow @raylendaerthe (for mentions)

[holtandthornetradingco]

[halcyon-wra-blog]

Pyrewood

The sounds of war filled the air. Commanders shouted orders to their units, soldiers marched in formation, and ballistae, trebuchets and catapults alike sung a blood hymn. The siege had taken days.. weeks.. months? How long had they been here? How long had the Forsaken bled them for? It was supposed to have been a quick, lightning blitz as Azurelode and Southpoint had been.. but no. The Forsaken had walled themselves off, and they had been prepared for the Halcyon's advance.

Every advance their footmen made against the Forsaken's hastily constructed palisades had been repelled with rivers of blight, fields of mines, and nigh on invisible pitfalls which sent soldiers to unceremonious graves, only for the Undead to scour the field of the fallen after the fact, resurrecting the Halcyon's chosen into more of their mindless zombies. For every Crusader that fell, another Forsaken rose. There was no mercy; there had been no mercy; there would be no mercy. In the early morning, there had been a great cry: a breach had been made in the palisade. It had collapsed in on itself, crushing dozens of Forsaken. The Halcyon's vanguard had swept in like a tidal wave, foaming and thrashing at the monstrous undead until they had broken through. Fields of decayed, distended wheat, human skulls and fresh entrails greeted them, the stench of rotting corpses invading their senses. It was all a grand show from the Forsaken, specifically designed to demoralize and disgust their living counterparts. 

Line after line of Deathguards took up formation, linking arms, locking their crude, ghastly shields together, forming a secondary shieldwall, a tertiary shieldwall, quaternary.. quinary.. senary...more and more Undead stormed into Pyrewood's streets. With a collective, thunderous roar, the first of the Forsaken lines began to maneuver forwards, the bulwark marching in unison. They formed a half ring around the breach, their swords jabbing outwards, stabbing at the Crusaders, hoping to drive them back whence they came, or better yet, butcher them like cattle. The Forsakens' ghastly lines tightened into formation throughout the narrow causeway. The semi-circle around the breach shunted, convulsing against the press of the plated Crusaders before them. Then, a bright light erupted behind the undead lines. They paused, turning, scattering to the sides, trying to see - and avoid - whatever devilry the Crusaders had concocted. The Forsaken line began to splinter. Behind them, the second line of deathguards were already marching forwards, fresh and ready for battle. Score upon score of tireless, immortal soldiers filled the gaps left by those before them, absorbing shock after shock of an impending assault. The Forsaken line soon buckled under the Halcyon's thrust, undead falling in bodily heaps to the cobblestones below. At last, they buckled completely, and the Forsaken began to march back, retreating as slowly as they possibly could. They paid no heed to the screams of their brothers-in-arms as they were turned into smoldering, sludgy pools from the Halcyon Commander’s holy fire. The second line of Forsaken were practically decimated, and their formation tightened. As one great force, they continued forwards. Their focus was singular now: Kill the one who'd destroyed them so thoroughly. It was almost a perfect pincer, the Forsaken had the Halcyon’s Commander squarely between them, with nowhere to run. The Forsaken backpedaled away as quickly as they could from the Halcyon's onslaught. They scattered, falling back to try and desperately escape the oncoming Crusaders, but time and again, they fell to the charge. The Forsaken were practically in a route now, trying with all their might to- The ground was on fire. Cracks, splinters of golden magic spread far and wide, and with a collective cry, the first bulwark of the Forsaken's defense turned to ash. A bright, purple sword careened and slashed its way through their armor, score after score of deathguards slumping limply to the dirt, with very few remaining in -one- piece. 

The next two Forsaken battalions began to slowly march -backwards- away from the breach, forming a tight, collective line just behind the ruins of two tall townhouses. Their shields rose to meet the crusaders, their helmets ducked behind the macabre barricade. Their new shieldwall, a platoon of archers, had taken up formation. With a rush of snapping string, the sky blackened with dark, feathered arrows. As several Halcyon forces made their way to the unassuming wall, from under the cobblestones there came a click. The three had set off a landmine! Shrapnel, dust and blown stone sprayed in every direction. At the sound of one of their exploding traps, the Forsaken let out a collective guttural cheer, their mocking laughter echoing throughout the township. Arrows nocked against bows and bowstrings, the straining groan of bowstrings being drawn screaming out through the streets. Then,dozens of black, steel-barbed arrows soared into the sky, casting a shadow over the houses and crusaders as they arched their way up.. up.. and then down onto their heads.

Again, the Forsaken howled and hooted with laughter as the Halcyon floundered and staggered. More arrows were nocked.Then, from behind the vanguard, there came a loud, cheering roar. Reinforcements! Through the breach they marched, their shields raised to provide their ailing allies with cover from the volleys of arrows that were overtaking them. A fresh-faced captain poked her head out, gesturing towards the wounded soldiers, "Get your asses in here, boys! We've managed to break through their citadel defenses, now c'mon! We'll get you to - and through - that wall." 

With that, her face dipped back into the column, resiliently marching through the streets, straight towards the Forsaken line. Almost immediately, the Undead’s hollers and hoots were replaced with eerie, snarling silence. The Halcyon crashed against the second shieldwall, the Forsaken shields bending, but unlike the first one, they didn't break. The Undead held firm against the Holy onslaught, however, they hadn't anticipated the magical blades of Light the Halcyon’s Lieutenant Commander hurtled their way, and moments later half of that carefully prepared line crumbled to ash. By the time her magic dissipated, it was as if the Forsaken had never existed to begin with. 

The archers, seeing that half of their defenses were already falling by the wayside, began to backpedal from the fray, until they were pressed against the ring of trees which marked the town's center. Their bowstrings pulled back, and, despite one of their number being "PINGED" squarely in the forehead by a magical hammer, they loosed another volley, right into the Halcyon's back line. The archers weren't expecting the crusaders to breach through so quickly! They saw a crusader charge through the lines, and before they could even begin to reorganize into a defensive posture, their captain had taken an arrow to the eye. A Halcyon archer’s thick shaft pierced him square in the peeper, and he fell to the ground with a clatter, the arrowhead pushing back into his brain from the force of it. 

Meanwhile, his former unit was thrown into disarray, some of them dropping their bows and turning tail to flee, others trying in vain to draw their dirks and daggers, stabbing uselessly at the plated monster in front of them. 

Though eventually they regained their composure, and as a swarm they descended upon the Lieutenant-Commander, dog piling atop her, stabbing ruthlessly with their short knives. The Halcyon's backline might be safe.. but the crusader? She was not so lucky. The Halcyon's reinforcements descended upon the remaining half of the shieldwall like a wave, pinning the deathguards close to the cliffside, even as the Knight Lieutenant slammed them in the rear and stabbed wildly at their backline. Down, down the last of the shieldwall went as they were shunted and pinned against the cliffside, their armor scraping, tarnishing itself.. until finally, with a great heave, the Halcyon's soldiery -crushed- the undead under their own shields. They were dead, once more, and they would not rise again. 

The archers, meanwhile, stabbed fitfully at the Lt. Commander, clawing to get through her armor.. and then the Commander lunged towards them, slaughtering them one by one like cattle. By the time they were done, there wasn't a single Forsaken left standing. The town's center was silent.. completely, dismally silent. Until, at the last, from what could only be considered the town hall, there came a slow, steady "clap. Clap. Clap." 

A single Forsaken stepped from the doorframe, dressed in the finest garments a lord of the Forsaken could have. For those who were attentive, this was the same Forsaken they had spied during their reconnaissance, who had marched so proudly into the town with his guardsmen.

"Well.. done," he crowed out to them in broken, strained common, his cracked lips curling into a smile. "Very well done. As lord of Pyrewood and the Banshee Queen's envoy, I bequeath unto you this town.. and surrender it willingly." His smile widened, eyes narrowing. "Well.. I would, if I didn't have another ploy up my sleeve." With that, he reached for a small, shimmering crystal about his neck, clutching it intently. "You see, one of your own lot managed to do something we'd been having quite a bit of difficulty with. We just.. -couldn't- get him working. Thank you for fixing it for us." 

With a cackle, the Forsaken's grin began to falter. He coughed, spluttered, the "life" draining from his face.. and then, in a slump, he fell lifeless to the ground. Once more, the town was silent- A rumble. A tremor? As a crusader made his way towards the noble, the Forsaken's skin began to take on a sickly shade of green. Ooze began to seep from his lips, and then, with a low gurgle, the corpse -exploded- with an eruption of bile, bone and blood. The tremors grew louder, louder, pounding in the crusaders' ears. On the Lt. Commander's orders, the column of reinforcements spread out into three even groups, all around the town's center. There came a rush, as if a waterfall had just sprung.. and then, from behind the houses, towards the great sea itself, there came a low, guttural groan. 

"Grrrrgghghghghgh.." It was wet; fleshy, and hungry. Atop the town hall, a gigantic, stone hand gripped the shingles, sending them scattering and flailing in every direction. A second hand rose up to the opposing side of the structure, and with a great heave, whatever -it- was pulled itself from the ocean. Like a child leaving a bathtub, water splashed -high- over the town hall, splattering, cascading down across the streets, mingling with blood and bile. The support beams of the building buckled, snapped, and broke. The bell tower collapsed in on the hall, crashing in a metallic heap, giving way to the towering golem that had used it so carelessly. It was gigantic, standing well above the tops of the highest trees. Not since the likes of Thaddius of Naxxramas had any living mortal seen such a creation of stitched flesh and metalworking.

  It was clad in armor, a tattered cloak falling far behind its back, with a wispy white beard and -burning- blue eyes. Upon its head was a crown, and those of Lordaeron would be able to recognize it immediately: the monster's face was a bearded caricature of Terenas. Slowly, the monster marched out from the bay, his wide legs smashing through the ruins of the town hall, reducing it to little more than rubble.. and he just -stared- at the gathering. A Knight Captain’s hammer throttled towards its forehead, clashing against its metal frame with a loud, resounding "P-tink!" but the creature barely even winced from it. It did, however, get its attention. It began to move forwards.. and then, lacing around its right arm, their Lt. Commander’ golden chains wrapped up, past its bicep, almost to its shoulder. 

It gave the colossus pause, its monstrous head turning towards the chains. With a shrug, the Light shattered, crashing into a thousand tiny pieces. Its attention turned towards the Halcyon again, and with two heavy footfalls, it reached them. A Crusader’s magic sailed towards its arm, and once again, the beast took it without complaint. If they didn't know any better, the Halcyon would be forgiven for thinking it was immune to such magic. Its litchfire eyes blazed, a deep, guttural roar emanating from its core, and its left fist rose high above its head. It snarled, and with a rush of air, the fist swung down -hard- towards the Captain. The colossus' fist crashed into the pavement, creating a crater in the ground. It let out a loud, angry yowl as a Crusader began his channeling of magic, its burning gaze turning away from its makeshift pothole towards him. Its callous lips contorted into a sneer, and its right hand reached out, sweeping away at all the crusaders that stood between it and its target. Its body contorted with the motion, its left fist rising up off the ground, leaving a crushed Captain and a smushed battle-mender in its wake. 

The wispy, light blue rune atop the monster's head blazed brightly as a Crusader attempted to siphon the magic away. But even -that- seemed to falter. The rune began to blaze a deep shade of red, completely opposing its original setting.. and the Terenas Mk. 2's eyes morphed, shifting from their lichfire blue to a bloody red. They had made it angry.

  Once its sweep was complete, it stomped its way towards the Crusader, reaching out with its left hand to attempt to lift him up off the ground. The colossus didn't have the time nor patience to realize that an archer was nocking a veritable fireball onto his bowstring. There was a twang, the head jerking momentarily to see what the noise was. The monster let out a bellowing yell, staggering, letting its grip on the Crusader go. It stumbled, faltered, and with a crash, it tumbled backwards, right into the path that it had previously swept. 

The colossus dove where a Captain had been mere moments earlier, and let out a pitiful wail of pain as a Lieutenant’s sword dug into its neck, the soldier having leapt up onto the giant and climbed onto its shoulders. The creature once more rose up to its feet, thrashing, flailing, trying to shake him off its shoulders once more. Cannons fired, trebuchets launched their stones, catapults snapped their loads, and a hail storm of projectiles careened through the sky towards the towering monster. Rocks slammed against its face, crushing its one good eye, distending its jaw, its nose.. everything. It staggered back, beginning to slow down, to stop.. and then, with one, clean, "Ftwip!" one of the Halcyon’s archers’ arrows landed squarely in the center of its rune. Its arms fell to its sides, and like a tin soldier, it began to fall backwards. The colossus landed in a heap in the center of the township, limp and dead. They had done it. Pyrewood was conquered.

[cedrickholtstories]

“Longing”

There he lay, thoughts of the day running rampant through his head. Venreena and the others, and then the bickering with Natharen.

As if the thought of his kidnapped wife and cousins was not enough. 

The nerve of his family drove him even closer to the brink of self-destruction, closer than he had ever been. He felt betrayed, stabbed in the back. They were cold, harsh, and disrespectful. Despite the fact that Cedrick proved a point, Natharen refused to acknowledge what he had done was wrong, and instead created more excuses to cover it up. 

“The nerve of some people, darling.” Cedrick begins, his hand to his mouth, the matching ring he had given Venreena in place. It would look as if he was speaking into it, “Can you believe he would not even admit his wrong doings? And instead of acknowledging it, he used the poor girl as an excuse for his nonsense?” The nobleman scoffs, “Outrageous...--” He pauses, emeralds lowering to the ring he had been speaking into. 

It’s twin rested in his palm.

Cedrick’s fist tightens around the ring, his eyes close, and his lower lip slowly begins to quiver. Carefully he sits up on the bed and hunches over, elbows resting atop the corresponding knee, free hand pressing against his forehead.

It would not take long for the man to begin to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” He chokes, “I’m so sorry.”

@venreenaholt @householt