We’ll be sure to keep that in mind!
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Now residing further west, but ever quick on their toes, the Lordamere Rangers settle nearer their once glorious homeward treads. The guild continues as it were, on the lookout for some more trusty rangers, still!
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this is great gamers promise
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By the fire sat Emeric, Captain of the Rangers, and recalled the memory of gloomy skies, and an ill, howling wind that had heralded such a bad omen, that perhaps, had the deeply disturbed entity of their haunts come with it’s chiseling shrieks.
From the tower ruins, it had appeared translucent - naught to see save the abhorrence of two pale eyes that bore a malice in them, and whose visage soon illuminated the memory of the flesh that was; marred features, a lipless mouth, a toothless maw, and above a stump where a nose had been. The risen spirit ebbed forth a guttural noise once upon a time reminiscent of speech, though worse than the Gutterspeak of the enemy. Long fingers had pointed to each of the men; the Islander, the Captain, and the Knight, and a curled proclamation came out it’s ghastly mouth alike murder, as the men overcame their fear and closed in on the damned. Two were cautious ere it’s flank, as one spoke by silver’s authority, and the specter, in it’s vagaries formless, let out an agonizing shriek that sundered the ears of all, vanishing then at the tip of the knight’s blade, for the man of Eastweald, afeard and broken in composture to such a visitor, had sought his steel through the ghost. It left them a watery rag, where was donned the ebbed husk-tree of the Lordamere Rangers.
The risen morn summoned forth accursed questions, for this specter of death had been as recognizable as the cursed cloth it left behind. It was Ralf, ranger in the Ghostlands.
The sudden appearance of a vengeful visitor in the night brings the keen rangers’ eyes leering to the East for a most dangerous riddle to yet be answered.
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I like this.
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A night of terror ensued, and brayed honest rangers woken from their faint hours’ slumber. It was the noise of battle, and the wailing of visitors ~ The Undead had come!
Not alike Ralf, the accursed comrade of yore, were these, but wraiths, tall and hooded, draped in dark robes, and wielding shrill black blades. And in their sightless hoods, there echoed evil voices, and shrieks of despair, bidding any Lordamere Ranger who heard it come to them and embrace death. Four of the dark creatures encircled the men of Lordaeron, taunting them to come forth from the fading bonfire of the Purgation Isle, where the tainted weapons of the damned could pierce the souls of all men that stood afeard and ensnare them. The rangers, though numerically superior, knew not the powers set against them. These were the spectral riders of the Dark Crown, who came to find aged blades of power, and would suffer no rival among men, and so the rangers fought them, piercing the invisible specters’ flesh, and banishing those they could to be ebon clouds faded to a hollowness in reality. But a hollow victory it was, for deathless were the ghosts of the long past, and in the darkest hour, no one held any doubt, that these cowled thralls would appear again to claim their due, ever more powerful than before.
As the golden light of morn took distant semblance upon the sky, no rays ferried to the dim rock of the tower-isle, where the rangers lay restless, haunted by the nightmares of wraiths’ hold - for the injuries left by the tainted black blades of the Dark Crown were not to be mended by bandages or any medicine known to the dour bandsmen. Hence, it was by the aid of wizards, and conjurers’ wisdom alone, that these wounded men were ever to wake again.
The Rangers continue their struggles in the broken realms! Now preparing for a dangerous journey to the hostile Ghostlands of the eastern elves, with many obstacles in the way of clearer trails. A cursed sword, an unseen enemy, and the ghosts of a haunted past.
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An entertaining and atmospheric bunch. Great roleplayers.
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If I got it right, you guys dont accept cursed humans? In this case a Gilnean
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Many of the rangers are wary of the curse because of old rooted fears rather, and not out of contempt. We’ve yet to come across a RPer, who is openly afflicted - So only the RP in the future can answer that. Of course, we’d be very happy to see you in the RP world and to see where the RP might lead.
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The Islander’s cursed blade, Miresong, was now lost to the Grey Wanderer’s safe-keeping; for with it they stood not a chance to brave the marshes of The Eastweald unseen. Wraiths in black pursued the rangers of the wild; now battered and tired, yet they had to trudge ever onwards despite the odds. The woodland trail would be long and harsh 'fore they reached journey’s end.
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C’mon man. Sure you said sorry, but don’t recruit in somebody else’s purpose-built recruitment thread. Contact the bloke in game or something.
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Aye, you should delete that post Wilcox. Don’t recruit in other people’s threads.
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Ventured, did they, through the dark of the Ghostlands, under the ever-looming shadow of the Deatholme. A handful of the bold rangers daring the treacherous ruins of the elven high home from the cover of the tall grass. Their passage would not prove easy, however, for amidst the Dead Scar left in the wake of the old war, and the undead cruelty, there were elves, clad in the finest arms of Silvermoon City, who watched their borders with keen gazes, and held in them the pride and prowess of all their race. The rangers’ way bore heed of stealth, and quick heels, little sound escaping the ragged men of Lordaeron as they pressed through to the river north.
Ralf’s mound appeared to them, its headstone but an old and etched wooden stake of due size, dug into a mound that was a mound no longer, for the earth had been moved, by spade and by hand, to yield for a darker purpose, the bones of the gentle ranger of the Ghostlands, taken for evil devices, to be the bane of Lordamere’s folk, and haunt them in their darkest hours to come. - A Necromancer of the hidden ways.
As they turned, there rang the clear voices of Thalassian Elves, and appearing before them was none other than the Sunwarden himself, Arantheal - and with him the weaver of terrible power in words of ice and cold sorcery, Lan’aeden. A skirmish broke out over the Dead Scar, where the mighty elves fell, the Sunwarden presumed dead, and the mage returning to his people in defeat - though none could say what grudges they would hold against the blunt Men of the Lordamere, for not all was as it seemed with the Sunwarden’s demise.
South, the rangers go, to aid their newest comrade, and fellow bandsman, the somber Benjamin Hallwell of the worgen ilk, in his hunt for bandits and poachers. Pledging to the aid of their newest companion, for the debt of saving two rangers’ lives from the risen dead, the stout bowmen press to keep their pledge, and carve out their names in the dusty ebb of time, and hope anew for the kingdom that was long ago.
A big thanks to the elves of the Eternal Sun, who stood firm to intercept us, as we intruded upon the borders of the High Home. An awesome encounter with some great people. The Rangers continue on their lice-ridden path with determination.
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Lit in ten characters.
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Sounds pretty neat! Best of luck with the guild! If I come across you lot, I’ll be sure to interact.
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Many leagues, did the rangers cross erelong their journey through the Eastweald, that seen were many dim sites of the old kingdom left to linger in a stasis of comfortless shudder, the plaguewood expanding like a great sheet of festering rot. Days grew by, and were spent between the crumbling woodwork of rotting hamlets, and the pride of shining white towers that stood vigil over many shadowy tracts in those Plaguelands. Here were monsters long-dead, walking still amongst the living, and old warriors spent, either risen from their graves, or gone rabid yet in life. And some, saw Lordamere’s folk, yielded cursed weapons when they died.
At the Chapel of Alonsus, the grey wanderers would come into the humble possession of yet a faint light - a single box of vials containing holy water, the surplus left behind by crusaders’ past, when Stratholme’s need was dire, but less a ruin.
Fearing the reappearance of old wounds sustained in the battle at the Purgation Isle, the Lordamere Rangers sought at last their leave of those lands of the Darrowmere for the refuge of a green haven where their counsel shared would be undisturbed, and their wounds would heal by ancient practices of the healing art and medicine. It was the lodge of Quel’Danil - named ‘Highvale’ in the common tongue.
Still going strong, the Lordamere Rangers will be encamped along the green refuge of Quel’Danil for a time, licking their wounds for new adventures to come, and plotting their next move, in vigil over a ravaged land.
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Rivendell hype.
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I have seen you on the forums, I must admit I like the cut of your jibb.
Anyway just wanted to extend an invite to the Alliance Military Discord, if you are interested or have any questions reach out to me here!
Discord: Irishpeacockz#2164
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From the Wetlands rose a warning as far as Quel’Danil, and it spoke of a slaughter. Two dwindling souls had disappeared into the bog at night, never to return, and come the morning, the Men of Menethil Harbor had uncovered dark things in the shallows, with the marred sight of ten watchmen butchered like cattle, their bodies partially devoured by things never meant for this world, cruelly left to lie as an offering to those most terrible depths in that Sundown Marsh, where oozes and bog beasts made their homes…
For all its evil enormity, the circumstances to have stolen the lives of the bold militia would not make itself known, that it may have been some fiend unknown to those who lived above the filth of the mire, or a party of some ill repute snuck past Stromgarde’s vigil, to wreak havoc among the frail folk of the marshes, in the name of a Warchief.
On the lookout for either some terrible bog beast of an older world risen out of the marshes, or a raiding party of the enemy, the Lordamere Rangers prepare to turn their course for the Wetlands, for alas, their respite at the elven home draws to an end.
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