Heya!
Recruitment is still open. Feel free to give us a poke or come roleplay around with us and we’ll take it from there!
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Sure thing! Where / when should I come over?
After a visitation to Ashenvale, the Bladecrest are set to return to Bel’ameth. Hoping to find where we misplaced our sea legs for a mission to Kul Tiras.
If there are any roleplayers who make good use of Boralus as a hub, feel free to hit me up in game. Would love to interact with our naval friends!
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Where are the attempts ? 
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It happened.
That’s right!
We’re currently busy with the Taloncrest, surviving, killing and chilling in Panda land (though there are significantly more lizard people than pandas, what gives?)
We’ll be back on home shores next week!
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On the tracks of a kaldorei relic and a Kul Tiran trade lord who’ supposedly in possession of it, the Bladecrest will be making landfall in Boralus tonight!
If someone fancies interacting with some… not lost, but maybe slightly out-of-place elves as they try to navigate the lovely city, feel free to give us a poke!
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Anders Murkwater was a liar. A cheat. A scoundrel.
The Ashnai woman had been more right about him than she knew, and that should have given him enough reason to worry. Should have. He went to see his father, that night, after the sit down with the sentinels from Kalimdor. Not for company. Not for advice. Tidemother knew, the old man was good for neither of these things, but a concerned son must play his part. For appearances sake, if nothing else.
“Who’s there?” the craggy voice called out, as he entered the master’s suite. Chair still locked in front of the fireplace, where he had left him, before the chaos of the evening had unfurled. The bowl of stew had been left untouched, and perhaps that was for the best. Wouldn’t want to return and find him choking on a stray chunk of venison. He had barred anyone but himself and Bernard from entering. Servants couldn’t be trusted with the intimate affairs of close family.
“It’s me, pops,” Anders answered, locking the door behind him.
“Bernard?”
“No. Your son.”
Silence. On a good day, Arthur Murkwater remembered his living relatives. This was decidedly not one of those days. The quiet dragged on, filled in by the crackling logs as the flames settled. Anders heaved a sigh and dragged a stool out of the corner, slumping down next to the old man, who barely stirred underneath his three layers of fur blankets.“Your stew could probably do with some warmth too, you know,” Anders remarked with a wry smirk.
“What do you want?” his father snapped back, coldly. “Where is Bernard?”
Anders’ levity faded, quickly. “I’ll send him up here soon. He’ll make sure you get some of that in you, before tucking you in. There’s something I’ve got to take care of, tonight. Before turning in, myself.”
His father regarded him with an uncomfortable, dead stare. Anders had been hardened to it, by now, but tonight’s stress still weighed heavy on him, and he couldn’t bare to meet the old man’s gaze. His own eyes fixated on the waning fire.“I find myself in way over my head, pops,” he heard himself saying. Not that he had to worry any words spoken would leave this room. The old man probably didn’t even recall the conversation about almond milk they had that morning.
“Some clashing interest with a few clients of ours,” he went on, to keep the silence from becoming overbearing.
“I fear pleasing one will displease the other, potentially with fatal consequences.”
He thought back to the conversation with the sentinels, and their admiral companion. Seasoned killers, without a doubt. He wasn’t lying, when he had praised their combat abilities. Yet on the other hand, there was his friends in the sea. Business partners whose very existence was a secret he trusted only a handful with.“I know which option is the most profitable, in the long run, but…” he paused, shifting in his seat, pulling one leg up over his knee. “It isn’t exactly the most honorable one.”
He knew what those ‘friends’ of his would ask of him, when he inevitably revealed who had come looking for the coveted windchimes, and the supposed powers they contained. And he knew he would - as he always have - find an alternative mean to save whatever was left of his damned soul.
Anders Murkwater may have been a liar and a cheat, but he was no murderer.
To be continued…?
The plot thinnens.
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An overwhelming stench of brine and stale flesh hung around the naga, thick water droplets clinging to their scales - making them appear like sparkling gems under the night’s sky. Anders was not unaccustomed to the scent of the sea, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit off as he approached them with the windchimes. Their webbed claws clasped greedily for them. The creatures nostrils flared from the tingle of magic swirling around the artifact, growled softly, and slithered back to his mistress’ side while others flanking him remained anchored where they stood; staring down Anders with a look of disgust. He wondered briefly if the way he felt now was the same his servants did, when he addressed them, but he made an effort not to showcase his fear. He was here as the nagas equal.
“You have done well, little lord,” came a feminine voice from the back of the formation of serpentine creatures. The ‘tide priestess, he had heard the others call her, though she often sent heralds in her place. The windchimes must have been sufficient reason for her to crawl out from the murky depths.
His throat grumbled. “…I take it our bargain stands. You’ll carry on as ye did before?”
The tide priestess gave him a piercing stare. “Not yet. There is still the matter of the night elves you mentioned.”
He knew this was coming. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he croaked; “What would you have me do? They came in good faith.”
“Oh, I bet they did,” the priestess laughed, her voice a pleasant melody that belied her grotesque malformities. “All the same, I do not take competition lightly. You should not have received them as you did to begin with. They will find out you no longer possess the relic, and you will face their wrath. It is in… both our interest that they are dealt with, and from where I’m standing, it is your mess to clean up.”
“I… I will not kill my own guests.”
The priestess raised a single shoulder, tilting her head in a coy, almost playful fashion. “You said it, not me,” she sighed. With a snap of her fingers, her escort gradually began to break formation and slither back towards the waterline, her in tow. “One way or another,” she called out, voice barely intelligble from the sound of ebbing tides “you will deal with the night elves if you wish to see your precious sea lanes unmolested.”
The naga eventually disappeared from his sight, swallowed up by the waves. Anders stood alone on the desolate beach; his own men waiting somewhere along the jagged ridges above them. ‘Deal’ with them, she had said.
That was good. Perhaps blood needn’t be spilled, after all, and he had enough ammunition to remove the meddling sentinels from the equation through other means.
Anders was, after all, not a murderer.
The plot slimmens.
Wrapping up our Kul Tiras shenanigans before attending the Moonson War campaign!
See you at home, fellow long eared enthusiasts…
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After Kalimdor’s troops took a heroic victory of the Monsoon War, the Bladecrest are staying in Feathermoon Stronghold for a while, to lick our wounds and gather our strength for the next mission. Come say hello, we’re friendly! Really!
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