Tonight is the night! We deploy to strike out against the Horde once more.
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Bit of a random post, but people keep asking me about it so I will put it out there for people.
People are confusing this guild with another in regards to a RP-PvP campaign in Desolace, that involved a group storming a prison and killing a lot of players. While we do kill people quite often in this case it wasnât this guild, as weâve never been deployed to Desolace! Just wanting to make sure that people arenât confusing us for that one!
Edit: I believe the campaign in question was something that popped up before we formed. 
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Feralas has been great so far, a few hiccups last night but the Commanders handled it well considering the rubbish hand they were dealt.
The Legion is home on shore leave for a week while we undergo trials for both our Aspirants and a few choice Legionnaires pushing for the Corporal position.
Recruitment is open for a week!
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- âIâm truly sorry. I informed the Commander of what happened and will accept any repercussionsâ.
âOh, Iâll show you some bloody repercussions alrightâ, Derrick thought as he sat on the edge of his bed, twirling his boot knife around in his hand, browsing through his journal. Images of the grenade exploding flashed before him and he shuddered, twitching and nearly dropping his knife. He rammed the knife into the wooden bedpost and desperately clawed at the now healing burn wounds, scratching at itches that werenât actually there. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, managing to calm himself down.
Derrick opened the letter again and read it through once more. âThe burns and cuts you received weigh heavily on my conscience.â 'I bloody well hope so", he thought. ââŠand I can only hope you have it in you to forgive me.â He stuffed the letter away in his pocket. âWeâll see about that.â
His gaze drifted off into the distant void and he hugged his right leg, resting his chin on the knee. Images and the voices of his fallen brethren appeared before him and he reached a hand out for them, watching as they faded before him. He rolled a shoulder and grimaced as it cracked and ached. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. âIâll see you again some day,â he thought, âsome day soon.â
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The battle around her fell silent.
âAre you lonely hereâŠ? So far from the restâŠâ
The Nightborneâs voice crooned in her ear. The rush of her blood pounding, defining loud, the scent of flesh burned by arcane acrid on the air.
âGrace! Get out of here!â
The blades withdrew from her flesh. Warmth. The sanguine torrent painted skin, soaked into the shredded tatters of her armor.
Her breaths caught in sharp bursts, each one a pained rasp. Darkness clawed at the edge of her vision as she staggered away from the front, into the building itself.
She fell to her knees, the assassin stood over her, blades glistened in her own blood.
His voice dropped, bare above a whisper as he looked down at her.
âRunâŠplease, just runâŠâ
Grace watched as he faded before her, vanishing from her sight. Bear pawed at her, frantically barking, but the sound echoed lowly, as if heard from the far side of the field, drowned out beneath the screaming protest of her own body. She pressed her hands to her wounds, she pleaded with the light she held no faith in.
⊠pleaseâŠpleaseâŠnot todayâŠ
Void blossomed over her skin, pouring from every wound, every scratch, every burn, every scar.
In the depths of her mind, laughter began.
Grace fell forwards. She crashed into the stone floor, succumbing to her wounds, the soft request playing over as the forces of shadow screamed their victory
ââŠjust runâŠâ
It had been more than a week since that battle at Feathermoon, but it felt as if it could have been a lifetime ago.
Everything before tonight, felt a lifetime ago. Even the day before, the first day of the aspirant trials, the icefall climb, the relief at seeing the secluded stair, the final steps into Frosthold, the fight with Tathe, curling up to sleep with Sanaryn. Even the morning before the second leg, curled under sleeping fursâŠ
In truth everything, right up to the first few stretches of the climb was divided. Everything before the moment shadows consumed her, was a different life.
A life where darkness hadnât flowed through her, where the minion of the void hadnât used her as a vessel, twisted her form to assault her comrades, flooded her mind with powers she couldnât comprehend, left nothing but the screaming fear⊠Only for its exorcism to scour her empty.
A life before she had awoken from one nightmare, into another.
Where her fellows didnât look at her with mistrust and loathing.
Where she wasnât lectured on how they had all âknownâ this would happen.
And let it anyway.
Where they didnât declare her weak, and stupid, and foolish.
Where they didnât declare she had chosen the shadows, despite them being inflicted on her in the dark horrors of Nazjatar.
Where the light hadnât abandoned her.
Where an Aspirant wasnât dead.
Because of her.
Her old life had fallen away. And as she lay listening to the others sleep. She stared at the ceiling. Hollow. Empty.
She didnât want this life.
She had traded everything for this.
And now? All of it lay in ruin around her.
Bile rose in her throat. She didnât want this. She slipped from her covers, dropping to the floor below.
She clung to the wall, hobbling and limping she made her way out of the barracks. Crossing the quiet grounds to the lake.
Beneath the pale moonlight she stared at the black waters.
Peaceful.
Still.
Inviting.
She couldnât say how long she stood there, every fiber of her being screaming that she didnât want this life. Not like this.
And yet, each time she went to step into the cool embrace of the water, figures stood beside her. Images of those who had fallen injured, who had risked everything⊠given everything⊠to grant her this life.
Grace stared at the water, and as great heaving sobs wracked her form, she collapsed to her knees.
There she stayed. Trapped between a life she did not want, and a step she could not take.
Knelt in the mud.
Until dawn broke, and they found her.
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The Legion is currently deployed in Stranglethorn while awaiting assignment to their next campaign in Kalimdor. The local troll population however seems to be acting out. A week or two of troll hunting should put them to rest.
Recruitment remains open during out SV downtime. Closing in one week!
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The last days of our small deployment in Stranglethorn are upon us. Soon the full might of the Alliance will be brought against the last hold outs of resistance!
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Give a hoot, donât pollute!
Owling around again?
Seventh Legion are off to the Blood Soaked ShoresâŠ
The battle so far may be won but the war is far from over⊠What other loses will occur?
ââŠya gotchaself a deal!â
Infiltrating the city had been easier than expected, the Renâdorei duo wore the Horde colours, keeping their gaze down and their ears covered, no one paid them much attention other than an Orcess asking how they were not hot. The orange dust of Durotar clung to their boots as they made their way towards the Goblin Slums. It was a stark contrast to the marshlands they had been in three days previous. From Dustwallow to Orgrimmar, seeking information. They had had to stop a few times along the way, first to hide their uniforms and the armour of the Dragonhawks, then up to Ratchet to acquire casual attire, before finding a Sinâdorei who was more than happy to assist them in gaining access to Orgrimmar with clothes and a map.
Now, the duo stood before a rather lavish tent of a Goblin who was famous for being the announcer for the gladiatorial fights within three different arenas. One, was simply for Horde races to prove their prowess, something rather popular within Orgrimmar apparently⊠The other two were for slaves. As the Goblin stepped out of the tent, he peered up at the first elf and then up again at the second.
âBloodyâŠ. Ya tall ainât ya? Whatcha want eh?â
âAre you Fitzgerald?â
âWhoâs askinâ?!â
âMy name is Kel. I am told you have a gladiator by the name of RogâVotak. Some Quelâdorei or something, when is his next fight? We would like to watch.â
The Goblin peered up at them both, they could see the cogs turning, would he give into his suspicions of these two elves who, in his mind, wore way too much clothing for Orgrimmar, or did he given into his desire for more coin. A jangle of coins from the taller elf brought Fitzgerald out of his thoughts. With a slight grin, Fitzgerald wondered how rich these two were.
âIt ainât cheap.â
âWe can pay.â
Shifting his gaze up again to the owner of the jangling coin back, he grinned again, revealing gold teeth, as he paced back and forth. The taller elf was making him uncomfortable, he wasnât really sure why, perhaps his defensive stance just behind the shorter elf, or perhaps it was his hidden features⊠whatever it was, the weight of that coin was going to be worth it.
âAlright bub, weâll come to an agreement, but ya knowâŠ. Whatcha after ainât cheap because a lotta people want it. Ya know? Itâs gunna cost yaâŠ. Lemme do the calculations, prime seats for a good view, food? Probably food, drinks and of course yaâll probably want a backstage view of what happens to the winners and losers, right? So in totââŠâ
Fitzgerald was interrupted by the taller elf and scowled at him.
âHow much.â
âEh⊠I was getting to thatâŠ.â
âHow. Much.â
âI think⊠eight hundred gold pieces should do it.â
âDeal.â
âWait⊠what? I mean⊠sure bub, sure⊠ya gotchaself a deal!â
The Goblin made the trade, taking the gold with glee and giving them two tickets with all the trims attached, as he re-entered his tent and the two elves left with directions and instructions he threw himself into a large seat and chuckled.
âWhat a pair of mooks⊠Who pays eight hundred gold for my Silent Quelâdorei.â
He cackles a bit as he tilts his chair back, watching the coins being counted out by Candy, his assistant. He frowned a little as she counted and hoped they hadnât tried to double cross him, it would be the last thing they did if they had. Given they were headed to -his- arena.
âEight hundred and two gold pieces, Boss.â
Fitzgerald laughed so hard his seat tipped backwards and he barreled out of it, still laughing as Candy came to his aid. She helped him back up and he moved to the coins, stacking them up into slightly wonky towers. His gold toothy grin revealed itself once more as he muttered.
âThose idiotsâŠâ
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The Legion continue their operations in Kalimdor, fighting through the dark marshes. They face down the Grimtotem tribe.
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I guess that campaign in Dustwallow Marsh is about to become a little more important. The White Pawn is inbound.
Recruitment is now open, all sons and daughters of the Alliance are to report for duty.
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ruh roh raggy.
Tomorrow as of 20:00 we will be pushing from Dustwallow Marsh and up towards the Barrens.
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âWho is your brother?â
As the duo made their way through Orgrimmar, staying close together as they weaved their way through the dusty orange streets, still undisturbed within their disguise. They approached their destination, the sheer size of it made them stare for a moment. âHuhâŠ.â they both said in union, before making their way to the ticket office. Offering their ticket over at the door they were greeted with surprise and bowed heads.
âRight this way fellas, we gotcha the best seats in the house! As ordered by Fitzgerald.â
They are then led into the arena, through corridors and passageways until they are finally ushered onto a balcony overhanging the pit below. A few more goblins appear, each with varying goods, food, drink, survouneirs, even a large foam thumb for the thumbs up or down that occurs during the fights.
âMake yaselves comfy, fightinâ starts soon!â
âThank you.â
The goblins usher themselves out and the duo are left alone again. Shifting, Kelâshara moves to the food, eating and drinking as Raiyen moves to the edge and peers over.
âAre ya⊠enjoyinâ that?â
âAinât saying no to free food!â
ââCourse notâŠâ
Moving over to the edge with his stash of food, Kelâshara peers over the edge and curses slightly.
âLong way downâŠâ
âIndeed⊠Lets âope this Quelâdorei is easy tâ spot.â
With that the gong was rung, the peal of it ringing out across the arena, causing the crowd to fall into silence.
âLaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadies and Gentlemen! Today is gunna be a little different. Ya see, we is gunna âave ourselves a little show. Ya might be aware that the Alliance think they can win against our mighty Horde!â
The outcry was loud, the duo glanced at one another and frowned, Raiyen shifted his attention to their surroundings, calculating the escape routes as he nods and turns his attention back to the goblin announcer, it wasnât Fitzgerald. Whatever was happening, wasnât what was planned.
âToday! We will see âow the Horde win against the Alliance with our very own Champion RogâVotak! Now I know whatcha thinkinâ âow can we use him! Well ya see âe is a Quelâdorei and will be representinâ the Alliance in this battle, âe will be up against Throthu! Our Orc! Fitzgerald ainât âere so âe canât stop me from makinâ this fight âappen.â
Both of the champions are brought out into the arena and their introductions are done properly. However, something isnât right. Raiyen shifts a little, leaning closer and curses loudly.
âWhat?â
ââeâs been injured⊠Look at way âes âoldinâ âimself. If I were to make a wager, Iâd say âe has at least two broken ribs.â
âThose bastards!â
Kelâshara sits on the small wall that surrounds the balcony and peers over the edge.
âWe could make that jump, run to him, rift him out.â
âNaw⊠too risky with all the Horde.â
âMhmâŠ.â
ââave to wait ând âope that âe can win or some distraction makes itself known.â
Swinging his legs over the edge, Kelâshara sits and waits. Watching the fight unfold with Raiyen at his side. Even with broken ribs and whatever other injuries the Horde had inflicted upon the Quelâdorei he was good, fast and agile, his glaive slid through the air with precision, unfortunately, the Orc seemed to know he was injured and where. As such, he was using that to his advantage.
The fight lasted over an hour, both fighters were exhausted and worn, but the Quelâdorei was clearly in a worse state. The crowd within the arena was silent, no one was happy, no one was cheering. They had watched this Quelâdorei fight for three years and now he was being used, all of them knew he was at a disadvantage, the announcer was angry at their silence but knew they could turn on him if he spoke now.
As the Quelâdorei fell to his knees and struggled to get back up, Raiyen and Kelâshara crouched on the side of the balcony, ready. The Orc towered over him but stopped, looking up to the announcer for their decision. The goblin clapped his hands, a second Quelâdorei wearing a simple silken robe of sorts was dragged out onto the arena floor and thrown down next to the other.
âYa âbodyguardâ âas fallen! Yaâll watch âim bleed out âere on this floor, with the rest of ya mooks who think Fitzgerald can keep a Champion for three years and not ruffle feathers!â
The uproar of the crowd came but was nothing compared to the warhorn. It rang out over Orgrimmar. Kelâshara and Raiyen glanced at one another as the entire arena rose, talking amongst themselves before rushing out of the arena, their footfalls moving towards the front gates of Orgrimmar as the horn blew again, some remained behind, lurking within the seating area to observe what would happen with the champions now.
âLeave âim to die, lads. Letâs go. The Warchief is callinâ us.â
With that the announcer left and Raiyen and Kelâshara dropped over the edge, slowing their fall slightly with Void before touching the ground below and running towards the two Quelâdorei, the Orc stood over them still and chuckled.
âTold you, you would lose. Iâll have your prize as my chew toy when I get back.â
âNot likelyâŠâ
The duo spoke and acted in unison, slamming their blades into the Orcâs ribs and upwards on either side, before Kel shifted and slit the back of the Orcâs knees, causing the beast to fall with a thud into the dirt.
âYour turn to bleed outâŠâ
Moving to the Quelâdorei, Raiyen raised his hands to seal the wounds and reduce the swelling from the hits taken by the gladiator, as the other watched in confusion, no voice escaped his lips as he made gentle noises with his tongue and mouth, which apparently the gladiator could understand.
âWhoâŠare youâŠ?â
âRaiyen Valadian.â
âKelâshara Dawnsong.â
âWe were sent by Commander Theon Morningstar to get the alliance out of the arena, that means you two. Unless there are others, I donât think there are any others left in the City but you neverââŠâ
âMorningstarâŠ?â
âAye. Seventh Legion, Sixth Cohort.â
âTheon?â
âAyeâŠ? â Kel turns to Raiyen who was still tending the Quelâdoreiâs wounds and frowns, âDo you think he was hit harder than we thought? Or is he just a bit⊠brokenâŠâ
Raiyen simply shrugs as blood drips from an old scar that is ripped open from his shadow mending, before he would aim to help the two Quelâdorei to their feet. When back on their feet, the silent one moves to support RogâVotak the gladiator. Raiyen, shifts his attention to the arena walls as he looks for an exit, with a slight frown he speaks but doesnât face those he talks to.
â⊠What were the âorn signifyinâ?â
âWarâŠâ
ââere?â
âMust beâŠâ
The duo look at one another again before nodding, they had to get out and fast, finding their way to the Commander now, with two Quelâdorei, one that didnât talk and one that was injured would be bloody difficult, they couldnât risk rifting if the entire horde was on alert. It would take a moment to open the rift at least and that time they just couldnât afford. Especially as those within the arena seating areas were watching them closely, at present it just looked like two Sinâdorei were aiding the Champion⊠if they rifted⊠well it wouldnât look like that anymore.
âTake meâŠ. To my brotherâŠâ
Kelâshara made a face to Raiyen that signified he thought the Quelâdorei was crazy before stepping closer and asking him the question, he thought shouldnât need asking as the damn Quelâdorei should stop being so damn cryptic⊠or⊠was he actually broken? Who knows what the Horde did to him in the years he had been hereâŠ
âWho is your brother?â
âMy name⊠is⊠Kaeleb Morningstar⊠My brother is your CommanderâŠâ
A Life of a Soldier
Once the Cohort has taken up camp within the former camp of the Northwatch, Abraham can only wonder how his fate led him to the same place where once Alliance stood ground against the Horde threat. He himself sweating, droplets of sweat rolling down his face. For his back was struck by a stray arcane missile from the enemy, adding more to his already charred armour and war torn clothing. Burned back. One simple look at him, you could see this is what a soldier on the frontline truly looks, torn, burned, dented armour, dry blood covering his armour and weapons, and tired mentally, which can be clearly seen by the bags which rest under his pair of azure eyes. His hair greasy from the all the battles, unable to take a proper shower, how he awaits that bath quite eagerly, for now he is bathed in smell of ash. As well adding to his arsenal were few more scars where one was a large deep wound received by him being cut down by an Orcish Death Knight and the other from a stray arcane missile, one on his stomach and one on his back, to which he wonders how he never earned them during the battles against the Scourge, yet he finds himself here injured as days go by. Is it because of him experiencing what it means to be on the front lines truly? Or perhaps due to his mind wavering on his brother, Noah, from time to time? All questions which remained unanswered. Though, his pondering was ended quickly, as the sound of War quickly echoed in his ears, swiftly the medics were called and swiftly he went on to set up a place for the Medics. Swiftly he went to do his job, easing himself from his thoughts and keeping his nerves in check.
When he finished a patient, exhausted, still his wound remained untreated telling himself to tend to others first. Suddenly, a call from Barrowcliff came, urging him to come and see to the wounds of Corporal Croft, he came running. There he saw Sergeant Havenbleach tending to her wounds as best as he knew how, pressing the wound and covering it with bandages to stop the bleeding as much as he can. Swiftly Abraham changed the Sergeantâs position, taking on the role he was needed to do. Luckily for him, Corporal Croftâs wound wasnât too serious, only needing to mostly tend to her blood loss. While he is treating the Corporal, Sergeant calls out for the annual meeting, by his side was John Morrow, a Legionary with many gadgets in his opinion as well as a skilled sniper, while behind Abraham was Zarek Magnum, the man who enjoys battle and he commented that his behaviour sometimes reminds him that of an Orc, but alas, while he spoke little words with him he found himself admiring the man. Sergeant went on to inform the Cohort of what is happening, but however he listens and treats the Corporal, his thoughts linger elsewhere, that to Legionary Bridgewell, the one he promised would protect him on the battlefield while he was treating his wounds, a thought lingered in his mind; âWhat an empty promise that wasâŠâ, as well to his mentor, the man who taught him and still is teaching him how to use a sword properly, Corporal Thodim, he even failed to aid his own superior, his mind still saddened by the thought of losing a dear friend and teacher. Then his thoughts linger to Barrowcliff, another dear man he managed to exchange quite a few words with, alongside his other mentor, Derric Moore, the one who perhaps give him the most wholesome lecture during the Campaign, although some gorilla tactics were used during the lecture. Shaking his head, Abraham snaps back to reality, looking towards the Corporal as he finishes patching her up, a thought lingers; âI must get stronger and wiser, for all our sakes⊠I must become more experiencedâŠâ.
Abraham decides to partake on a gathering mission, of his own accord, gathering as much of herbs of his could, just to keep his thoughts away from the conflict which strives within him, regarding his family, regarding his duty, regarding his weakness, regarding his doubts. The walk was pleasant, a stroll within the battlefield, taking in the scenery of the Echo Isles, it seemed as a tropical paradise if he wasnât only in the enemy territory. Only managing to find few herbs, but enough to keep him going through the campaign, enough to heal plenty of soldiers. As the judgement day is soon upon them. As he enters the camp and informs the Sergeant of what is happening, his Sergeant speaks of how he is near to becoming a Legionary. To which he is surprised, thanking the man, but thinking ; âWhy me? What have I done to deserve such? I am not as good as the rest, I have yet to prove my worth, I am far from a good Legionary?â his negative thoughts devour him again, as he shakes those thoughts. Giving his usual smile to the Sergeant as he is dismissed, not giving anyone yet of the Cohort knowledge to his dark thoughts, not yet fully opening up to all of them. Before going away the Sergeant says; âGet some rest Knotley, tomorrow is a big day.â , he looks at his Sergeant nodding, but only thing he may do to truly rest is work, as he replies; âLet me just⊠Make a few potions, Sergeant .â , to where his superior chuckled. He smiles, but also happy that he is found worthy by such a man, two thoughts fighting against each other. Dark and Light. Void and Light. As for the home they are fighting for, for Azeroth.
Once he finishes making the potions, another call out for him is needed, as he hears with the corner of his ears that Barrowcliff requires him on a scouting mission, he swiftly turns and ready to go with him. Alongside Blackmantle, Gladerunner, Arthâtesse and James Hawkins. Venturing into the Druidic caverns, they were faced with many odd happenings, including the ill pond which oozed of danger. No one dared to cross, yet at the end they did thanks to the groups effort. While they ventured deeper, they found a dark hexxar, a troll. Fragile by appearance, but not by ability. To where he thought this time he would not fail to protect anyone! Managing to get a few hits on the troll, but no damage done to him in reality. As a haywire spell manages to crush the cave onto the party. He had hopes he wouldâve ended the dark troll alongside his many âchildrenâ. But to no avail, the troll Warlock rained fel and brimstone on them, adding only more to his burned armour and torn clothing, only to escape at the end from the cave, calling for his master, a female. Unsure if demon or humanoid, yet. Perhaps both? A new enemy has risen for the Cohort to face⊠While also hearing the sound of the injured comrade. Sweaty from running, Abraham was, exhausted, now as well unsatisfied that he failed yet again. Only to get teleported back later on by Arthâtesse. Back to the camp where he treated the wounds of Hawkins, mending once more another injured comrade. Cursing at his failure in his mind, while exhaustion caught up to him.
âRestâ said Hawkins, before Abraham listened to what he said. Nodding, as he lay down, resting his back against the boxes, only a step away from where he treated his patients. Covering himself with his cloak, as hugging his fatherâs aegis. The Aegis of Issac. A most precious momento. Rugged, and torn, large bags under his eyes, charred armour, covered in blood and now dust as well. â Tomorrow is a big day." , with those words from Hawkins, Abraham drifts off to sleep, ready for the final battle, awaiting for the dawn to rise on the shores of Durotar.
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These lot are a great guild! Theyâve been absolute stars during the present Siege campaign and a thrill to RP alongside. Highly recommend them! 
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