[A-RP-PvP] Lordamere Rangers - Bow and Blade đŸč

Argent Dawn
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(Due to the old thread being locked after some months, here is a new one.)

The days of the Year 34, 626 by the King’s Calendar, were begun, and the reign of the Undercity brought low at the whim of war. Thus were left the ruins preserved in memory, made further damaged and decayed, and the barren fields of the long dead in bitter night. Lost to both good and evil, was the City of Men, and men will remember it – Lordaeron!

It was the bloated heartland stabbed by a long knife and then another, and at it’s forlorn divide of east and west, there lay two great bodies of water, one of which, was Lordamere, the vast freshwater lake with whom several of the kingless realms had once aligned. South-and-west; the silver pines, North; the lament of Lordaeron, surrounded by great walls of stone. From the nearest pines, and the patched isles that lay within that freshwater lake; beggars, brigands, and displaced soldiers had endured that monotone drudgery as victims of the Forsaken warmachine, for whom they held a particular burning hatred. Here were hoodlums of the nameless origin; the Rangers of Lordamere for whom the Siege had been rekindled hope. It were the woods, and cavernous cracks; the tainted wilderness, and ruins’ rise, where these men of the land waged their small war. A war that had just begun.

Now that the Fourth War has ended, the Rangers are returning to Lordamere.

The Lordamere Rangers is a RP-PvP guild tailored around a band of kingless rangers that travel about the Eastern Kingdoms, shaped by the conditions of their realm of origin; Lordaeron, and the famous Lordamere Lake that lay dividing many a land of men in the days of the Seven Kingdoms. Moving about from worn hideouts and old enclaves, to sleep under thatched roofs or open skies, the rangers hone their proficiencies to live and survive in the wilds, their skills in archery, and in the keeping of loyal hounds fit to track their deadliest enemies; the Forsaken.

What do we do?

The guild’s main focus will be in seeing its members develop their skills as rangers, and to smite their great enemy; the Horde, be that through devious ambushes or rare-found engagements of open battle. The rangers will more often than not find themselves in hostile domains, where they must tread carefully, or be reduced to mere sacrifices in the great war.

Who can become a Lordamere Ranger?

The Lordamere Rangers is a guild of humans, originating in the lands of Lordaeron. Keeping within such a theme, a person who joins the rangers’ troupe, may be of joined motives, a due hatred of the Horde and the cursed undead, or merely one seeking the lifestyle of a ranger; bereft of fortune and fame.

How to contact us

Seek us out in-game!

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Good to see you guys around again! :slight_smile:

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Where to sign up!

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In the woods, by the campfire

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34-12-03 - Return to Lordamere
The Fourth War was at its end, and with it, the many exhausting struggles over land and sea. Hollow, were victories in Lordaeron, land of memory, for the uncrowned kingdom was become wild and empty. Tired, and brought through delirious adventure, the Rangers returned to Lordamere on the third day that month, guided by lucid dreams, and pursued by a mysterious rival: be that a rogue bowman, or a devil in the guise of Man.

See you in Lordaeron, friends!

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Rouge bowman? I’m not that bad
 I think?

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Good to see these guys back! I know the GM is one of the most solid Guild Masters on the server, check these lads out!

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The Lady in the Water

There is evil in the lake of Lordamere that takes the shape of ineffable beauty, and heart-rending horror just the same. Though once deemed the subject of myth and mysticism in the yarn spun by the lake people, that time was passed long-since; the bearers of the folktale faded like the memory of the ‘Lordamere Phantom’ and all of her wickedness imbued in the deep freshwater; darker by the day. Nary a soul, least of all the simplest of rangers could suspect what watched them from under the water, though the malign multitude of old bones that resurfaced in the fishing ventures ought have been signature enough. By the end of the 11th month, in the year 34, dreams were blessed or cursed with hidden warning, and from one body or trickle of water to the other, there were beggar bowmen searching for what the sacred Green might have told them in their sleep.

Crooked roads and twisting pathways unravelled the long legend, against the better nature, and the better wishes, a reality not sooner neglected than surreal. From the journals of deceased men, and the arrows that killed them, a tale was pieced together; of a monster, or enchantress, trapped in the lake, whose deceitful powers ensnared the foolhardy to blood-spilling servitude and thralldom. Far from an untruism - the people would hear, and be cautioned of the Lady in the Water.

Once more, the rangers can be found roaming the realms, eager for the trading of fireside tales, and respite from dangers ill-chosen.

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Of Steel and Savages.

Letters flew across the kingless realms, as another foul incursion threatened the menfolk of Lordamere and beyond. Moots were held, and matters discussed, as Ebon fiends stalked the followers of Morsteth Blightreek across the Plaguelands - a mighty clash of thralls.

Attention thereafter drifted towards hunters of another breed, a most despicable host of Orc and Troll, also pursuing the deathless baron. Even with the unliving fleeing beyond yonder seas, this savage warband sought ambush upon the beggar bowmen and their allies in the steep passage known as Plaguemist Ravine.

Narrow was the path, fueling the intensity of the fight. Ground had to be sacrificed, a careful retreat beckoned, towards the glistening Darrowmere - Only the roots of the very ground itself kept the vile warhost at bay; called forth by a vengeful son of Teldrassil. Even raging as far as the accursed Caer Darrow; isle of the evil dead, this exchange of hatreds sparked anew, as the Orcs came again. Far-flung Trolls, abundant in gold that glittered, served as the bulk of the roaming enemy. They fared naught better than their savage companions, clashing and breaking 'pon the old bridge of Darrowmere.

Realizing that they had gone a bridge too far; the Orcs fled back through the very-same ravine. A sigh of relief swept the battered yet standing ranks of men, Gnomes and Elves; another tragedy prevented. Welcome gratitude was shared between the men of Lordamere and her stalwart brothers-in-arms; not least towards the courageous Assemblage of Uld. They parted ways with their allies of the Alliance, awaiting the next brood to dare intrude on kingless land.

For many days throughout this time, the rangers had dispersed themselves, to tepidly travel across the Eastern Kingdoms on separate errands. As a great hawk soared above in the clouds, an old schemer with a green smile was retained, friend was thought fiend, and the good nature of trust suffered the fearful mind of Man.

Where could they go but west? - Westward 'ho - to Lordamere; the freshwater where evil made home.

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The Shadows of Deep Elem

Great and grey, the hawk soared with its feathered wings. Westwards 'ho, indeed, to Lordamere. Trails of guidance were pursued upon wide and forlorn tracts, as the rangers delved into the mountains of Deep Elem. Within those fells, a vagrant could not have known what might’ve occurred, though it was said that terrible wails had haunted the wealds of Silverpine that fateful night. The wails, the vagrant could’ve sworn, came from the lake; for there, he saw a gleaming lady in the waters.

Battered, the rangers were at a loss.

A brother had been lost.

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The Passing of a Year

It were the days of the Year 34, 626 by the King’s Calendar, when the reign of the Undercity was brought low at the whim of war, and a branch of rangers in Lordaeron rekindled from a lost decade to wield blade, bow, and fire in the defense of men. To and fro the moss and the fen, the wandering archers had roved in tarnished lands, full of monsters and bedlamites. They started in the marshes of bluegill and black, into the kingless realms and beyond them; where creatures fell and fae sung of danger, wonder, and doom. They lent will and weapons to the Alliance, to fight for the stolen throne, under the gaze of the City of Men, lost to all – evil and good.

Now the lake is home to a witch in white, a ranger brother writhes in her cruel trap, and the glint of a long-remembered brand is returned to the beggars of the bow. As the journey continues, so ends that fateful year.

2019 has been a great first year for the Lordamere Rangers :bow_and_arrow: with a myriad of stories and dynamic rp-pvp always looming in the corner. Many thanks to all who have endeavoured to be a part of the ranger adventures, and I look fondly forward to seing you all in 2020.

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Having endured the feasts and festivities of the holidays we are oncemore back in the lost realms of Man! Seeking the fae forests, making dubious deals and seeking the salvation of a branded brother.

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wow what a fantastic guild

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35-01-06 - Pyrewood

“The world of stray men is either a caravan, or an empty wild.”
-The Ranger Captain

There dwelt of fen and moss, the men come out of empty lands bearing healing herbs and evil treasure, and in the dilapidated village of Pyrewood, they found the glint of light inside barred windows, paired alongside homeless voices, with each their different tale. There were faces of old, and faces unknown; a landless noble consigned to disquiet, and a warlord, with his hungry droves, whose fallen lair belched breathless and cursed creatures; sickeningly wiry and fat, to thwart his return. The rangers made their stay for a few days, in the village of larrikins and strays.

The Lordamere Rangers have been staying in the Silverpine Forest, prominently around the ruined settlement of Pyrewood, where a varied bunch of travellers, and rowdy bands of adventuring folk have collected of late. Find your ranger today in this domain of the desolate! :bow_and_arrow:

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Really cool guild, shame my PC died and I cannot continue my RP. Recommend them wholeheartedly for anyone looking for a hunter guild.

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MIRESONG

“Perhaps I should tell you a story, Tom, of a very foolish fellow, wielding a very dark blade, one that drew the attention of all sorts of shadowy assailants, the harbingers of my long-time nemesis, that nearly had him killed for it.”
-A Man of Many Names.

35-01-08
It had been a long and difficult year since they fought atop the tower on the isle, when the servants of a crowned devil, with their shrill cries and tainted black blades, had come to claim a brand of bewitchment from the vagrants in grey. Though the Riders did not seize Miresong - sword of wonder and doom, the certainty of their relentlessness incurred the hands of helpful beings, to hide away that dark steel from the world for a time. Then, at the passing of a year, the enchanted brand found itself once more out in the open, where it shimmered under sun and moon, and drew unto it, the attention of all things that walk and fly. Thrice in the known era, had the blade switched hands, yet again placed in the those of the Lordamere Rangers - a gift of otherness, as well as a curse upon the entire fellowship, and in the scabbard of Eadmaer Conmara, who had been its wielder for many a gnarled year, it lay, a burden heavier on his mind than his body.

As this brandished song of steel and fen resurfaced, so too, did the fear of untimely pursuit; of shadows that ride, and other deadly adversaries. The sword must away, and be turned into an instrument of good, or be destroyed, and so the Rangers agreed that they would bring it into a dark forest far beyond the mountains of Tyr, erelong secret pathways unknown to men; a land of enchanted trees and strange beauty where the eldest trees dwelt, and ancient wisdom far from mortal fathom held root. Under promise of secrecy, Wayfaren the Wizard would take part in the long trek, to follow the archers’ company erelong the hidden pathway, beyond and into the dwelling of forgotten groves and fairy voice, for he had guarded the sword of wonder and doom for nearly a year, and would have continued, if not for destiny’s purloining hands at work.

“They don’t know. They don’t know anything at all.”
-The Voice of Miresong

35-01-11
After a brief tale of Words and Knives, the rangers and the wizard left the dilapidated village of Pyrewood, on their way to the forest of many whispers, and following the northern road, into Tirisfal, there were chance encounters of those starved and bold - Conleth; a young man of shrouded origins and humble exterior, and Sir Ruagaire Maitland; a friend of friends. By the whim and will of predestination, they struck upon the road together, until there was none, and the untrodden path was all there was to follow; a climb of mountains and a trek through sylvan land, until they were at last come upon the dark thicket of whispers, with its Nameless Lake brooding deep.

The Forest slept, until the fae song awoke it, that all the rangers and their allies; guests and trespassers both, were beholden to the fae and the fell that dwelt there. Invocations of fear and wonder tempted them outside the circle of fungal thrumming, and eldritch grace, and only the bidding of reason, and urging of the taunting trees, steeped in mockery, was there to bid them remain. Hierden, ranger of the Green, succumbed to the ghastly visions in the valley, and descended into the deep thickets. As the song died down, the way all good paeans do, the Ranger Captain called out the name of the eldest tree they knew - Aranthu, whose wisdom was oft lost upon the idling likes of men, and before the ancient treeman they unravelled the bewitched steel, to plead the Forest’s patronage. The price was unsparing; a bargain struck through centuries by stray figures, until they knew naught but leaves and wonders. After fulfilling the ancient rite, the colossal treeman called upon his strength and spirit, to shatter the blade that had brought such woe to the human spirit. In one fell swoop, all the dark magic of the wicked brand was driven out into the far thicket, by the destruction of Miresong.

But lo! the loathsomeness had not been dispersed, and only bidden to reveal itself. Across the Great Sea, in the ancient land of Drustvar, they were Berthgyth, and Eoforhild. To the rangers, they were the Curse of Miresong. Creatures of a transmuted flesh, they were, wielding terrible magicks, woven with fingers of wilt; a dark art that could withstand even the fae flames of Wayfaren. At the dregs of men, they laughed and crooned, for the ancient laws permitted no weapon of iron or steel to be carried into the forest. It was in the midst of their gloating, that the Woods awoke from sleep once more, and the witches from across the sea were subject to the wrath of Aranthu, who called upon all things of root, branch, and bone, for against all the powers of Fae and Fell, the witches could only flee to whence they came, taking on the shape of two black crows that vanished into the west.

At the burial of disenchanted Miresong, in pieces, the Heirs of the Green were privy the counsel of the old treeman, for while their fellowship was freed from the twisted devices of their keepsake, the evil long harboured, had been released into the world, purposed for great calamity.

“You will return. Too soon for my liking. But you will return, return for the blade. And the blade will be their bane.”
-Aranthu, the First to Wake

As they departed the fae forest, there was yet much to do, for a ranger strode alone amidst enchanted trees, and another was lost to a white witch under darkly waters. They would search in the night, for Hierden – and set course for Gilneas.

In Western Lordaeron, the rangers :bow_and_arrow: roam, grasping at answers in the nightly dark, and inviting all wandering folk, to share bread and tale by their campfires :fire:

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Time had ceased to matter in the forest where the sun never rose and the shadows whispered terrible truths and terrible lies. He had seen blood spilt in ancient pacts with the green and the dark, both promising great power and demanding greater sacrifise. He had fallen upon the bones of men dead in a wholly different age, and he had stood with them in the flesh. He was guided by the Green but he knew not where, even as shadows hunted him through evershifting trails in the forest. He followed a dancing light forever taunting him through the next thicket even as thorns drank of his blood, he followed it with faith.

It has now been a week since Hierden left the protection of the fae circle during the calling of the ancients. The dire warnings have proven true as he’s been lost to the world and time. Who knows what man, if any, will come back from the ordeal.

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35-01-14
The Lost Rangers were cunning adversaries, their deadliness enhanced further by the black magicks of Eilawen, their Lady in the Water, who they served with knives and ears. Portended by the great grey hawk, and the warning words of a shackled ghost, battle would ensue, for the rescue of a ranger brother, between these accursed men of yore, and the vagrants from Lordamere, joined by a familiar face, in Sir Stuart Evans, knight of the Broken Tower, whose chance meet upon the road from the Silverpine Forest indulged a commonness between men to rid the way of the foul and the fell. While the grey wanderers and their knighted ally triumphed that day, the tribulations of Redcroft were only just begun.

35-01-21
There were times of misdoubt and disaccord amongst the grey wanderers of Lordamere. Though, they had rescued their brother-in-arms, Alurius Redcroft, the phantom hold upon the marked ranger was eating away at his reason, and led him only further astray the frayed fellowship as days slipped by. Before long, he struck out on his own, northwards unto yonder lands, deterring the quest for the Blackwald wisdom, amidst its wiry trees and red thorns.

With two good rangers lost to unknown destiny, in the haunted lands of Lordaeron, the beggar bowmen would spread into yonder directions, to find their threadbare brethren. All the while, tensions spark between old allies, and distrusted neighbours, over the death of a repudiated lord. There omits yet again to vagrant ears, a bitter tale of Words and Knives.

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Heard about this guild from my alt char in the guild, decided to join. Really good.

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STROMGARDE - OF WORDS AND KNIVES

Here follows account of bitter quarrel in the Year 627 by the King’s Calendar, where broiled the rivalry and bad blood. Here waned the heart and the trust for concords forgone, set aside for animosity, and the grudges of men. Here was a bitter tale – Of Words and Knives.

“Nay, feuds can’t be put to rest so easily; that much is true. Though if I am ‘neath the ground, I cannot see vengeance done for my murdered friend. Others will take my place, hound sir Ortellus for all his days. Such is the way of Men, to squabble.”
-The Kraken in the Woods

35-01-21
Moonlight fell over the grey world of night, where all lands befogged to darkish colour, and the faintest, failing light flickered in the fenland thereunder the silent wall that stood, a monument to grievance and contempt. Beyond that wall, under its open mouth, there passed the rangers - penniless and flinty, on a quest to locate wayward brethren who had lost their way. They stopped by the marshes’ encampment that night, where dwelt droves at a deathly doorstep; the warring band of larrikins who served by the feet of a kraken in the woods. Unto Vorian Von Sterren, Lord of the Moat, and his retinue, the grey ones of Lordamere made their visit, and they heard him, a man whose mind was rent in twain - between his lair that belched monsters, wiry and fat, and the loss of his friend; an advent stirring him to vengefulness and dispute with the Order of Avalon, his former ally.

Willas Archibald, the Repudiated, he who was stripped of all rank and title within the fair kingdom below, to live as an exile under Von Sterren’s protection with his Northcrest, was killed by the Order; either an act of murder most injudicious, a botched arrest, or the simple execution of a brigand. Regardless of its nature, the red deed was done and the ensuing quarrel ruptured the bonds between men; a tale where there be dirges, and division. Upon hearing dark plots, and tempestuous streaks of intent, the Lordamere Rangers departed the bogside outpost. Haste, they brought with them, and mud – mud and message to Stromgarde.

35-01-22
The bowmen rode, until morning, over the enduring road through the Hillsbrad Foothills, and the very next day there was, high and low, the cradle of man laden with great grass hills before them. Cooly wind blew across the highland, and the skies of daylight were that of an unvarying grey as the rangers rode under Thoradin’s Wall - the immense edifice on the northern border of King Trollbane’s domain. But lo. Forthwith their peregrinating into the Arathi Highlands, they were set upon, at the site that history knew to be Galen’s Fall, by old enemies. The Undead - wearing the venomous crests of a feared and toothy jaw. To reach their destination, they had to take flight over and under open highlands, until thorny bushes and great weeds underhill could shelter the poorly prepared rangers from their pursuers. A scouting party of the Rotgarde, it were, whose dark ilk were rumoured to concoct maddening schemes, exiled to the frozen shores beyond the Sea. And there they reigned from the ruins of a black citadel fallen from the sky; to toil for an altogether evil purpose.

Such was the fate of the Lordamere Rangers – ‘The Crows in the Rafters’, to bring black tidings. They entered Stromgarde, battered and beaten, beholden to see the ancient foundations of stone paired with newly laden craft, for the great city had been rebuilt, at the behest of the Arathi King’s return. Proud it stood, though all of its walls were weathered from siege; the blackened site of ruined Ar’gorok lay afore it, to mark Danath’s decisive victory. There they sought refuge, and met with the likes of Ortellus Falheim, to bring him news of Vorian’s enmities, and the sightings of the hated queensguard. Ruminations over the drear dispute had produced a letter filled with warning words signed by the Order and the enigmatic Justicars, Phineas Flamecog, and Clovus Pyremaw, soon followed by the warlord’s own retort, and before long - all the men of contempt met at the gates of Trollbane’s city; many words spoken of haught and wrath, then reciprocated with the same. More than blustery words were there not, and the inclined settlement of a duel between the red-handed. The Kraken was then away to do battle with dark creatures in his moat; a battle with destiny, from whence he would not return in this life.

A charged amount of story, with many different characters, guilds, and plots has been banded between the Arathi Highlands, and Silverpine Forest, in these last few days. It’s great to see the scene alive and kicking!

The :bow_and_arrow: Lordamere Rangers :crossed_swords: have been seeking new adventures throughout – together and apart. Find your ranger today.

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