Lovely lot! Excellent and engaging role-players, and on behalf of the Brigands we had a well and truly blast yesterday, thank you for the bout!
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I enjoy getting shot by this lot the most.
Great fun, thanks a lot! Canât wait for future interactions!
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10/10 would have these people lead us through Lordaeron again.
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STORMWINDâS SCOURGE - PRELUDE II
⌠The dead could not speak, not properly, atleast, though moans and death rattle were in them plenty. The bodies were fresh and unburied, but the dark gifts were unmistakable by the look of evil and empty eyes. An image of the Scourge gone before them, they were, in marchen memory of Morbent Fel and the fear of men. They followed the voices that led them into the lake of the mountain creeks, under the stone cairns, where men fought in miserable happenstance; rangers and brigands.
35-10-01 - Lakeshire
Allies of the Lordamere arrived in the little lake town, called down from the Arathi Highlands at the behest of the ranger captain. The gallants of a holy order and a scarred brotherhood, they were, investigative of those Elwynn tidings delivered unto them in careful warning.
But warnings given are wisely heeded. The company of Margaret Cotter with her Redhall kinsmen and friends of divine disposition had to pass through the provinces, and the forested heartlands to reach the white city, and when they passed under the statuesâ loom in the Valley of Heroes, their words and bloodied countenance told a new tale of dead menâŚ
With the threats of an invisible web looming over a delayed expansion release, we look forward to continuing the epic tale told together with the Holy Order of Lordain, and the Brotherhood of Redhall whom iâd both like to thank for the really cool events of this adventure.
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We fought a bit at some point in Hillsbrad.
Not sure why.
But they certainly looked really dapper in the black. Do recommend this lot.
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STORMWINDâS SCOURGE - PRELUDE III
ABBEYSMOOT
On the seventh day of the tenth month, Year 627 by the Kingâs Calendar, the Abbeysmoot of Northshire, through both irreconcilable rancour and determined accord, gave the scions of the Holy Order, the Redhall riders, and the rangers of Lordamere their dues to ponder workings, invisible and insidious, in the kingdom.
The gathering, such as it was, would enter the Redridge Mountains on the ninth day, seeking sign and source of those who would disturb the sleeping dead, though any clear trail of the corpse-comings seemed near imperceptible. More trouble had surfaced on the way, when a ferine altercation nearly cost the ranger captain his life, and all illusions of safety and peace were cast off the lazy day-to-dark of the Elwynn Forest.
More toil and trouble is to follow, in the troubled tale of the rangers.
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STORMWINDâS SCOURGE - PRELUDE IV
35-10-17 - Elwynn Forest
Great pursuits into the unknown contested the quietness of Elwynn when people, sick from the secret ghoul-bite began to take on the resemblance of those beyond the grave. Rumours of disease began to trouble the fringes, taking the form of evil gossip mumbled in the taverns under the Kingâs eyes. Two groups of armed foreigners, some vermilion and heavily armored, others grey and matted, roamed the Kingâs woods in search of answers and danger unannounced. Something stalked the Nazferiti River, guarding dark Duskwood with malice.
The story takes the Lordamere Rangers further towards Westfall, following rumours and spectral sightings.
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STORMWINDâS SCOURGE - PRELUDE V
35-10-22 - Elwynn Forest
⌠but it was no time to be bitter when the people spoke of dark days ahead, as though a shadow on the walls of Stormwind grew only darker and wider ere the days went by. Though discontented by quarrel, the Ranger Captain of Lordamere, at the riverbank of calm Nazferiti, built himself a small but sturdy boat with which to brave and to ferry over the long river. As Emeric made progress, the grey company drew out of the Kingâs towns, and pursued the fables told true.
The ramblings of a drunken fool lamented his dead wife with yet eyes that saw her living and walking the waters of the long river, calling to him with soft singing. Of this, glimpsed the Ranger Captain, the strangest lights in the water, and for this his brother-vultures ferried to the little tufts of grass and island of earth that rose out of enormous Nazferiti. There they saw their Riverhaunt, the spirit of Minnie Mason, dead for five years. They banished the Banshee with water and blade, one man falling to the black spells that eat at human souls. In their campfire, that night, they burned kingsblood leaf, its smoke believed to ward away the Shadow from mensâ spirits.
Thereâs no such thing as rangers, said the ghost.
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A love lot and, as always, a really nice read.
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STORMWINDâS SCOURGE - PRELUDE VI - WESTFALL
Here follows a tale of heroic and irascible coaction with yet unwavering courage, shoulder to shoulder, when our friends of Lordaeron and the Arathi Highlands came to Westfall on the tenth month of the Kingâs Year 627.
35-10-27 - Crossing Nazferiti
With a toll on the old stone bridge from Westbrook, and lacking the funds to parley their passage, the Lordamere Rangers had to cross the river in subterfuge, at night-time, in their little boat. They followed the channels of Nazferiti, on the twenty-seventh day with the wintry gale howling over the currents and ripples of dark water, yet looking over the Hushed Bank under Duskwoodâs shadow of crown and twig, dead eyes were watching, and waiting in the gloom were rotted peasant bodies of ghoul and rattlecage. The crossing did not carry on peacefully ere the Shadow slowly rose to seize the meager country in its cold grip, and so the Lordameres were faced with corpseling beasts, and drowned hands pulling from the depths. The faces in the water willed them demise, and so fought rangers with oars, swords, and staves; that which was at hand.
From the river-bank, they fled to the ill-reputed patch of tiller-land known in hopeless abandon as Dead Acre where they boarded up doors and windows, lit the hearth with blaze, and awaited the gentle coming of dawn while perusing midnight smoke.
35-10-29 - Dead Acre
It was the noise that drew the grody, or perhaps it was the light. In the still morn awaiting a black nightfall there was quiet in that region, as if the empty breadbasket of Westfall was holding in its breath. At nighttime, there was a knock and a grunt, and a muffled cry. There were those still living, and those who were dead, but men all knew death, and in all of that country south of the Sentinel Hill the live times were done. The Undead were coming, and they set upon that lonely hovel of wanderers with such a malice that it could not stand on beams, timber, and thatch alone. Losing wits, weapons, and sustaining grave injuries, the rangers made flight, like grey-swathed crows hastening past the dust plumes of open country with a gaggle of the ghoul-dead hot on their heels. Into the Dagger Hills they ran, finding shelter in the crown of the very tallest Westfall tree from where they watched, awaiting the dawn.
â MOONBROOK â
18 days quarantined
âCouple of weeks. Coughs turn into fevers, fevers turn into death.â
~ Jeremiah West, of the Militia
35-11-02 - Moonbrook
Three days passed since the flight to the Dagger Hills. The days were soft, and the nights were filled with grisly gnashings; the slavering toil of distant evil set to work in culling the lone farms on the Westfall fringes. To go unnoticed, there was value in silence, so our ranger friends affirmed when they entered Moonbrook on the dusk hour that eleventh month. The vagrant grey-goers had suffered at the hands of ghoul more than once, but never had the Ranger Captain thought to see such aberrations of the Olde Lordaeron in the land below the Khaz fortresses. By the time they got to the outskirts, darkness lay over Moonbrook with all the calm and quiet of a very deep, held breath.
All the little lanes were empty, and all the homes of Moonbrook stood dark like frail shadows of timber, all barred and boarded up, and without any presence of light to draw the dead men that roamed the square under the gaze of an old stone font over which there was a roughcast statue whose stone face had corroded into obscurity. From a better age, maybe it had been, long before the famine and the orcish plight. A figure stalked the streets, and in the unseen distance, another, walking hunched like all the ghast-servants of evil. The rangers hid in the cover of their night-cloaks, and gripped their remaining weapons tight. The fright of a split moment broke as Alurius Redcroft of Dalaran pierced an unwary deadling skull with an arrow of head and shaft, so accurately placed that it died with barely a sound or shriek. They continued with soft-heeled steps into the town.
A figure from the rooftops intercepted, one head amongst the many that hid over the tiles with weapons in their hands. It was a militia that dispatched the second ghoul of the Moonbrook square, and by these survivors and peasant-soldiers, our hooded vagrants were ushered to the town hall, where visitors and strangers were searched for signs of the sickness. There, the company of Maggie the Red, in no better state than our battered ranger-brothers, were met with concealed relief, for the bands had parted each the other with indecorous minds. They let themselves rest under the guarded roof of the town inn, to be regaled with dark tales by the frightened locals.
35-11-03 - The Deadmines
Deeds and decisions would wait until morning when the necromantic powers waned and slithered beneath the earth to avoid the gazing sun. In Moonbrook, the town tales were brooding, and the frightened folk spoke fearfully each for their neighbour. For weeks, it was said, they had barricaded every house and hovel not yet torn down, and those who fell to the sickness of the contagious bite were sent into the mines to disappear, and so they festered, lost in that labyrinth, until they knew naught of beloved memory, or even kin. This conduct, the townsfolk carried out, begrudgingly, for many moons, each day worse than the other. The honest and light-fearing Mister Pent, gravekeeper in Elwynn, it was said, had bidden the blacksmith of the town to hammer a piece of rare and blessed metal into a holy icon. This, he brought with him as he ventured into the Deadmines, and was never seen again. The gravekeeper of Moonbrook had been lost even earlier, and the graveyard was off-limits.
When the sun was up, they, the Rangers of the North, the Paladins of Lordain, and the Red Riders of the Highlands would delve through the droves of sick in the cavernous Deadmines. They went with the light of torches, and the flare of a wizardâs crystal mounted on the fairy staff of Wayfaren the Many-Named. Their lights would rouse the monsters in droves, and so the party threw all notions of caution to the wind, and made ready to do bold battle. They led themselves into the deepest mines, hewing the ghoul-kin as they went, until a dark voice called out to them in tongues of evil gutter. His name was Abraham Dickson, and he was gravekeeper in Moonbrook.
The fate of noble Mister Pent was harsh in its revelation, for he was stitched in abomination frayings with others, to produce a giant so mighty, it could kill a fully armored knight with but one swing of its deadly cleaver. At the whim of its master, the creature attacked, together with the droves of the damned. All of courage and strength it took to meet the monster, all the while an invisible battle of wills tipped the scales back and forth between a necromancer sworn to the dark tithes, and a wizard of the veiled fire. Man fought monster and cabal; good and evil.
Now, the gentle sun shines, a tortured soul is put to rest, and a shadowy cabal, somewhere in the unknown, hears the tale of a lost acolyte, thwarted by the scions of the northern kingdoms.
Minor impediments, for the dark masters. The city will fall.
Here, we conclude our Westfall adventure, with a lot of good memories to carry with us into the, soon approaching, pre-patch event. This story has been told between the Lordamere Rangers, The Holy Order of Lordain, and the Red Riders. A healthy number of people have been involved in the storytelling, both coordinating and helping out with villains and villagers. Many thanks to Maggie, Redorian, Edwin, Lawrence, Elyza, Hangart, Ortellus, Nathanael, Deity, Ewin, Eadmaer, Alurius, and others.
Iâll end this post with a nice album from the events, courtesy of Maggie:
https://imgur.com/a/1GyQqO9
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Epic times ahead with Pre-patch shenanigans and the launch of Shadowlands. Looking forward to the stories to come from the new lore & the potential of an unphased Kul Tiras. Heartily recommend anyone interested to seek us out ingame.
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Though great toll and gratitude came to our ranger friends in the region of Westfall, their contentment was short-lived, for the work of the unseen masters was far from undone.
Now the city was riven, its streets swept by a terrible plague turning the populace into bloodthirsty undead.
The scourging had begun.
The Lordamere Rangers have taken up in the Cathedral of Light, lending bow and blade to thwart the terrible schemes of their deadliest enemies. If you havenât had a chance to, find your ranger today!
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Join the rangers now for a front seat to the next big realmwide campaign!
If not for that, tag along for awesome storytelling, detailed roleplay and a genuinely good time.
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. . . Year 36 (628 by the Kingâs Calendar) the sun set over the new year and the Eastern Kingdoms gave a sigh in Winter. The land of the Undead had quietened, made emptier by the wars that toppled its Banshee despot and scattered many of her thralls in the festering woods. Such desolate lands proved ever dangerous and brimming with the unexpected. Hearken to the tales told beyond the old walls of Thoradin. There, at the forlorn divide of East and West, lay there two bodies of water, one of which was Lordamere, the lake, begotten moss and fen, with whom several of the kingless realms had once aligned. Here, where the bog beasts once ruled, there were hovels rotting and stone castles sinking. There were squat villages of murloc, and sickly thickets of thinning, dark trees.
The Rangers of Lordamere had been away for too long, that their homes were inhabited by the enemy, and the dark powers of the mere had grown strong again. A ferryman without a father brought them across the watery graves of Eilawenâs lake where, from a rotten keep, they ousted looters without souls, and fletched arrows with dark feathers. Thus, on the second day of the first month in the Year 628, the rangerhood had come back home . . .
Very excited for the roleplay opportunities weâll be seeing in 2021. The Lordamere Rangers are starting the year on their home front with stories old and new. Now is a very good time to journey up to Lordamere Lake!
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Lordamere Lake Blues
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ALDUSA 36-01-12
It had been a long and bloody year since the rangers first discovered the chained spirit tethered in the mountains that men call Deep Elem. She who, in bright shackles, tattled riddles in the dark, and she was clairvoyant of such secrets coveted by any who sought the demise of cruel Eilawen whose accursed slaves guarded the secretkeeper day and night. There was much dread in returning to Deep Elem through the mines and narrow passages, then beyond the threshold into the hollow village under whose roof someone may have lived, long ago. They would need soft treads and prone luck, and they had to wait until the Lost Rangers were abroad, or else doom would confine them, too, in Deep Elem.
In the hands of the ranger Egan, Miresong rang with magic clamour, and in cahoots with the imprisoned one, by a bargain struck the previous year, he struck the chains so that they broke, and the music of the metal sang all through the hollows in the vale. The spirit, Aldusa, was freed.
âThee seeks to undo the Lady in the waters. Her evil presence taints the Lordamere. Yes, it is true. Seek the northward road â brave the trail into the Glades. Seek a vigilant tower of stone, guarding Terenasâ shore. A learned man with a middling career at Menethilâs court, the man known as Urcheon is surrounded by a shadowy court of his very own making. He shall guide you on your trail. I ⌠I must go, farewell.â
-Aldusa 36-01-12
After a year, plots thicken, and the secret cloaks of Lordamere come unfurled with new events and rp storylines. The rangers have taken up a long vigil over their namesame, the Lordamere Lake. We are looking forward to meeting everyone, once again, attending the upcoming RP-PvP story The Black Horizon.
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I shall personally ensure a fitting welcoming party.
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Weâll be sure to add you to the list of fanatics slain by badass rangers. 
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A lovely read as always! Canât wait to read more of it soon.
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