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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Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The saber’s paws beat a rhythmic pattern upon the ground, moving in a slow cantor that allowed her to sit up tall in the saddle and take in her surroundings. The snow is pristine in its whiteness, like a casting of marble covering the terrain. Heaped in piles so tall, she would otherwise be lost in it, if not for knowing the path which laid hidden behind the sheet like the back of her own hand, bruises and all.
It was a queer sort of familiarity, as if, despite her intimate knowledge of the land, she was still a stranger. A guest, welcome or otherwise. That would depend entirely on the mood of her host.
She traveled around a bend in the path that slopes upwards, leading her to a small clearing, surrounded by a few lone pines that stood in eternal vigil over the cabin that one could have been forgiven to mistake for a particularly large mound of snow, overlooked and passed over by the lost traveller, who strayed too far from the beaten path, searching for shelter.
And well is that, for unless her father had made a complete personality switch over the past seven years (give or take) of no contact, Nythalador would loathe if a stranger happened upon his humble mountain abode, and he’d have to put up with company that was a deal more talkative than your typical frostsaber.
But Saleysea were no stranger, as much as she had convinced herself otherwise. Courageous in face of dangers few could imagine, yet nothing quite as frightening as estranged family. But someone had to check in on the old man, every now and then, and she’d wallow over the missed opportunity, now that paths of a soldier’s duty and a daughter’s obligations intersected.
She left Mush’al to his own accord, trusting in the great cat’s sheer laziness to prevent him from roaming too far from the cabin’s wall, and cleared a path to the door, using her shield in place of a proper shovel to push the densely packed snow aside.
A hand reached out to test the handle and she wasn’t surprised to find the door locked. Of course. Why would he expect her to drop by, despite the likelihood of him already knowing she was about these parts? She had half a mind to kick the damned thing down, but with a frosted sigh, the intrusive notion was quickly dispelled. The proper way it is. Raising a clenched fist, slamming it against the shoddy planķs as if hammering in a nail.
Seconds pass. A minute or two. Agonizing, in how those fleeting moments seemed to drag into an eternity. No response. She knocked again.
Open up already, you damned codger.There was a sudden clamour coming from the inside. As if someone were pushing past an ocean of misplaced furniture, creeping closer and closer towards the door. With a mechanical click, the door creaked open, allowing light to seep inside, illuminating the dishelved looking man on the other end of the threshold. His beard, white as the snow on the ground, had grown in a wild mess. The torn, furry jerkin he wore made him look more akin the beasts he lived and breathed for than an elf. Fierce, in a way, if not for the disarming look of age weighing heavy on his wrinkled features.
“So, you came,” he spoke, his voice hoarse, but assured in tone.
Saleysea met his gaze and shrugged, stiffly. “You sound disappointed.”
No response, though she could detect a grain of guilt in his quivering lips, and the silence was rather telling.
She shook her head, choking the desire to prick his sore spots any further.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
The Bladecrest visited Winterspring recently.
No, not for the sole purpose of their captain visiting their dad, or R&R at the hotsprings (though I suppose that’s a nice, well earned bonus) just needed some excuse to bump the thread with.
We did manage to save a moonkin tribe from extinction, I suppose that’s something.
(Thank you Marthron for fantastic DMing!)
Anyway!
A brief stop in Bel’ameth before it’s onwards to Val’sharah.
If any fellow tree-huggers want to say hello to us there, don’t feel shy about approaching.
Felara doesn’t bite, but Aythae’s spider might.
Stay frosty!
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“The naga killed my captain, ransacked the ship, kidnapped our wisps…”
Larena slammed her fist with every declaration into the captain’s desk, such energy behind each strike as to spread vibrations through the floor, setting off a rattle of every loose item that weighed less than a pound of flesh around the cabin.
The colour of her puffed face appropriately flushed to convey the storm that hung over her.“I have half a mind to throw caution to the wind and sail you straight into their maws, rip through their rotten organs and tear us out on the other end, but-…”
Her head slumped forward, loosened locks of hair dangling next to her cheeks like silver white curtains.“Stormfeather would trust me to not lose myself to blind vengeance. Oh, I will have my dues, Felara, you mark my words. But it will come through the success of your mission.”
She gazed up at the mariner in front of her, expression finally settled in a cold rage.
“The ship took heavy damage in the storm, but it will bear you to Val’sharah’s coast. From there, you’ll have to make your own way ashore. Me and the crew will hold down the Curiosity, and repel any further attacks. You continue with your task. I do have one personal request, however…”
She stopped to take a breath, relaxing her fist, fingers splaying over the dent she had made on the table.
“Our Gilnean deckhand, miss Victoria… Take her with you to the mainland.”
Touching down in Val’sharah next week to work on bringing vengeance to the scalies.
Also we have our ship, complete with crew, because what sentinel cadre wouldn’t want their own mobile deployment station.
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The Bladecrest claimed a triumphant victory over our current antagonists, the Terrorcoil naga, liberating the Gilnean town of Bradensbrook in the process.
Still a bit left of the ongoing campaign in Val’sharah, but going on an event break during the holidays. We can still be found around Lorlathil for some time yet into the new year if anyone fancies swinging by to say hello.
Happy holidays, night elf enthusiasts! 
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Lady Terrorcoil had over the years accumulated a reputation of ruthless ambition. From an understudy of the formidable and influential Aethiss, all the way to leading her own off-branch of the Hatecoil band; her mistress’ namesake. Many had opposed her rise to power, yet none alive to tell about it.
There was no reason to think these sentinels would be any different, yet ever since word of her champion’s demise end at their steel, she had been plagued by a sense so foreign to her it felt as though her scales were being viciously torn by a flock of ravenous couatls.
Even now, as she prepared the final trap, that feeling haunted her every movement. From the way she stiffly traced the runes upon the windchimes, to her ushering the wisps she had so painstakingly warped to her will into their new hosts.
She thought back to one of Aethiss’ many lectures - each more tiresome than the last - of the price of overreaching. The allegory of the great sea serpent that, in its insatiable hunger to grow, devoured itself.
What if this was it?
What if she had so greedily chased down the remedy to her curse that, in her hurry, she had not thought to look before sinking her fangs into her own tail?
What if this was to be her final stand?No. It cannot be so.
She had come too far to be stopped now.
Damned be the elves who turned their backs on their own all those long nights ago.
This was her hour.
Not theirs.
Coming out the gates of 2025 swinging with a campaign finale before lingering in Val’sharah for a bit to chill with the druids.
Druids are pretty cool.
Especially the shoe-wearing kind.
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Everybody
Rock your body
Bladecrest’s back
Less’gooooooooooooo!
Ok, so we never really left. Just had a lengthy break to cope with January. The sentinels have enjoyed some shore leave after their recent success in defending Val’sharah from a naga invasion. With roll of drum these sea serpents were soundly beaten back and from the carcass of their leader was salvaged the fabled Windchimes of Aessina.
There are many more night elf relics and keepsakes out there longing to be returned into rightful ownership, but first a missing sentinel cadre needs rescuing.
To that end, the Bladecrest along with their sisses and bros of the legendary Nightblades are due to convene in Hallowfall.
How will they fare In Moonlight’s Absence?
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“We did it, gang! We saved the Duskfeathers!”
The Duskfeathers: 
After a venture into Azj-Kahet that saw our poor Outrunners adequately traumatized from the Nerubians and, most of all, the madness within that came to surface after too much time languishing In Moonlight’s Absence, the Bladecrest Sentinels are in for a well earned break.
During this time, we can be found around Night Elf hubs, mainly Bel’ameth and other locales on Amirdrassil and beyond.
The captain have some strong words for the higher ups, our Outrunners are in dire need of therapy to (hopefully) encourage fostering stronger bonds between them over the mental scars they now share, and there is also some unresolved affairs from previous missions that might show up at their door, soon.
Big thanks to the Nightblade Sentinels for joining us on this campaign, the Irregulars and much love to the Co-DM! (you know who you are 
)
Looking forward to mingling with the wider night elf scene once more until the next big operation!
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After inflicting an exorbitant amount of property damage on a Horde outpost that was deemed to extend just half an inch or so past the Ashenvale border to justify it being a target for TOTAL ANNIHILATION, the Bladecrest will likely remain on Kalimdor for a while.
Hoping we can catch up with the regulars while we’re here!
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If they don’t trespass, they don’t risk Catching the Dead. Simples!
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The Greenskins asked for it !
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This will be highly dependant on whether your secretary manages to forward any messages sent Captain Featherwind’s way, but there will likely be regulars in Ashenvale to vibe with.
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Wait whomst?