A group of Horde warmongers/terrorists (depending on your definition) are trying to provoke hostilities with whatever pretext they can think of. The Army of the Black Moon are just an excuse to enact acts of violence on Thunderbraid/the Alliance.
Oh
Goes back to punching holes in Loyalist scoundrelâs
Queteron Charax had retired to his quarters early in the morning, complaining of a persistent stomach ache from the poisoned wine they had been drinking earlier. Wrall Zentar was left alone in the enchanted villa, hidden high in the cliffs above Suramar from prying Nightborne eyes. He felt listless. After all the usual bedtime rituals â donning nightcap and nightshirt, burning a stick of incense to the Goddess for a safe dayâs sleep, drinking a little something to help him sleep better, and finally climbing into the warmth of his sheets â he decided that he wasnât very tired. The terrible news about General Thunderbraid weighed heavy on his mind.
After a few moments of thought, he decided that the time was better passed seeing to unfinished business. He put on his slippers, spoke a few words in the language of magic, and was gone. Teleportation was childâs play in the old Empire: one could easily breakfast on the shores of the South Seas, enjoy a long and boozy lunch in Zin-Azshari, take tea in Galhara and then finish the night with dinner in Shandaral. The hidden pathways which linked all points in space to one another had faded since those glorious times, but a skilled sorcerer could still make use of them.
Wrall was hit at once by a wall of warm, humid jungle air. He found himself standing on the balcony of his old apartment in EldreâThalas. Far below, the wide plazas of the palace-city were deserted. Turning, he padded into the apartment proper. It was remarkably clean for having been abandoned for years, especially given that his housekeeper had been dead for centuries. There was barely a speck of dust in sight. He made his way up creaky wooden stairs and turned to enter his study. At once, he barely suppressed a grin.
Tucked away in the corner of the room, in front of his bookshelves, was an immense bronze statue of a dwarven princess. Her bulbous face was frozen in a demented rictus, her corpulent frame made her elegant chiffon dress look anything but elegant, and yet she looked almost regal standing with legs akimbo and sword held high. Princess Wubules of Anvilmar was a footnote in the annals of dwarven history, the only bride-to-be in the history of the royal family to be returned to sender with her dowry. Wrall took delivery of this awful statue after an off-hand comment to General Thunderbraid at a mutual friendâs wedding that his apartment was looking terribly bare.
Wrall took a moment to cast his gaze around the room and remind himself of his long correspondence with the General. Really, they were old friends, and he was sure both of them had very fond memories of the many adventures they had shared together. They had met in the Krasarang Wilds during a low-level engagement with the Horde. Wrall was, at that point, amassing influence in Alliance military circles by offering his service as a âmilitary advisorâ. In an attempt to seize control of the war effort, he led a late-night coup against General Thunderbraid which led to a joint generalship and, ultimately, what the Horde claimed as a victory. His abortive military career took a nosedive after that, but his friendship with the General endured.
They had exchanged many gifts over the years. A dwarven blunderbuss sat on the mantelpiece, gleaming brilliantly in the daylight. Wrall had always kept it well-polished and in fine working order, although when he received it, it had an unfortunate blockage which would have caused it to blow up in his face if heâd tried to fire it. It was an extraordinarily generous gift, especially since his last gift to the General had never arrived: a mana bomb, which exploded in transit. Still, Wrall made up for it with his next gift, a pterrorwing in a box. The General very kindly stuffed it and sent it back to Wrall, who hung it from the ceiling of his study. The last gift heâd received from the General was a dwarven golem seven feet in height, which unfortunately went berserk and tried to kill him on sight. Still, after he pacified it, it proved to have the ability to make a mean salad.
Wrall paused for a moment in recollection of their long friendship and smiled. But there was little time for idle leisure, and his work was waiting for him. He pulled up a chair and began to rifle through the papers on his desk. A frown crossed his face. These werenât his papers. Cenarion Circle newsletters, advertisements for kabob shops, and a trashy novel about the Wailing Caverns.
âWho are you?â
The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. He looked up. A young elf was standing in the doorway, arms folded, glaring at him.
âDonât gawp at me. I said â who are you?â
Wrall stumbled on his words. âI- I live here!â
âNo, I live here. Now, Iâll ask a third time: who are you?â
The old mage got to his feet, incredulous. âI am Wrall, Lord of Elves, Aetiarch of the Shenâdralar and Procurator of the Magistratesâ Temple.â
The other elf began to laugh. âPull the other one, old man. Wrall Zentar is dead.â
âI beg to differ.â
The smile faded from the young elfâs face. âGood day, then.â He bowed low and hastily gathered his stuff from the desk before running from the room, paper spilling from his arms.
Wrall sank back into his chair. What cheek, he thought to himself! If he had walked into his apartment normally, he might have noticed the sign outside saying âSOLD.â But he had only ever used the front door once: when he first bought the apartment. It was far too convenient to teleport.
He had had enough of EldreâThalas, anyway, after only a few minutes in the city. The air was stagnant. The Shenâdralar had rotted in their palaces for ten thousand years, dwindling in numbers as their society ground to a halt. Their liberation had sent them scattering across the world, animated by a new drive to explore and to seek power. Ironforge beckoned now, and in its darkest hour the Dwarven Empire would have need of its Highborne friends. Wrall called to mind the immortal words of his uncle Queteron: âRespect the General!â
NB: Character name is yet to update.
22 Likes
Guess the army of the black moon has to return the violence to senderâŚ
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If only he had more time.
Carcaroth stood by the workdesk in his study, gazing down at the map of Azeroth that had taken up so much of his attention for the past week or so. Next to the map there was a stack of letters and documents, all of which had been read and re-read over and over.
The latest was a report on the situation with Thunderbraid, his lieutenant in the Lionheart, who had been in the hands of hostile agents for several days. The report indicated that he was still alive, and would even be released outside the gates of Ironforge in a few daysâ time.
But there was no more time. Even as much as he wanted to get justice for the former Brigadier-Generalâs capture, he simply could not wait. The opportunity to move against Kazramath was now.
Carcaroth collected the stack of reports in his hand and turned to face the man standing in the doorway. The same man who had written several of the reports that were now in Carcarothâs hand.
âYouâve done well, Raphael,â Carcaroth said. The man dipped his head respectfully and smiled as he scratched his goatee.
âNo need for the flattering words just yet,â he replied. âSave it for when the work is done. Because I assume it is not.â
Carcaroth breathed a brief chuckle. âYou assume correctly. I canât be here to see this through, but you can. I need you to be there to ensure that Thunderbraid is returned safely to the Alliance.â
Raphaelâs smile faded and he nodded, which was the sign Carcaroth needed to be assured that the agent knew what he was signing on for.
âConsider it done.â
The two men exchanged a deep nod of respect to each other before Raphael turned to leave. As soon as he was out of sight, Carcaroth knew that there was no telling where heâd gone next. It was to be expected of a man who worked in Raphaelâs line of work.
Carcaroth brought the stack of reports with him into the dining room. It was still quiet in the manor, being early in the morning before the children awoke and the servants began their daily routines. There was a small fire going in the fireplace, which suited Carcarothâs purposes fine. Looking through the reports one last time, he finally tossed them into the flames and watched them smolder away.
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A LETTER TO ALL CITIZENS OF THE GRAND ALLIANCE AND ITS FRIENDS
The dreadful tidings have no doubt reached you all. One of the brightest lights of our civilisation is flickering. Whether this light is snuffed out by the wretched odour of barbarism, or whether it survives to blaze forth as a guide for us all, is now in our hands.
Brigadier-General Grannd Thunderbraid languishes in irons in the dungeons of the Horde. We all owe our lives â and, whatâs more, our freedom â to this great leader of the Alliance. They plan to deliver him â dead or alive, we do not know â to the gates of Ironforge on Wednesday night.
We will not allow it to be a night of shame and humiliation. We will seize the night and win the day.
All who are concerned for the health and wellbeing of Brigadier-General Grannd Thunderbraid are called to attend a public meeting at 8pm on Tuesday night, in the Military Ward in Ironforge. Your presence will be noted. So shall your absence.
CLOVUS PYREMAW
QUETERON CHARAX
WRALL ZENTAR
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Under the setting sun and the spring twilight, holy knights clad in red, white and gold rode tirelessly southwards at the behest of Highborne allies. They were seen riding through the pass at Dun Algaz shortly before the lighting of the roadside lanterns, banners streaming in their wake.
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Pics or it didn´t happen.
I´m 90% sure you just went to the flight master or took a portal.
90% sure but 100% wrong 
esarus(dot)net only the best travel rp found here
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Scarlets?
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A short response to Queteronâs call:
Mythundis struggled to sleep. The loss of Frokna weighed heavily on him. The Hand had emerged from the Ghostlands victorious, but at a cost. Frokna, his student in life, was now dead â a banshee had sapped her of her life energy but by the time they realized it was already too late.
What is perhaps worse is that she died in wicked, lifeless lands. The Eastern Plaguelands, riddled with an untold amount of diseases, wouldnât be her final resting place. No, Frokna deserved better than these dead forests. Sheâd been a quick learner, an elf truly devoted to natureâs balance. She protected it until she couldnât anymore â until she fell. She deserved the heartlands of Ashenvale as a final resting place, not this.
When the brief flash of a portal illuminated his surroundings, Mythundis snapped out of his wallow. A slender figure stepped out of it: a pasty Highborne with a silken robe that looks like it were tailored perfectly to fit his wiry frame. The garment reminded Mythundis of times long past â of the pomposity of an Empire bygone.
âDruid!â the Highborne called out. âDon Charax has sent you a message.â
The name âCharaxâ didnât stir any sympathy within Mythundis. The demented Highborne had visited him in Moonglade during the Lunar Festival, where he demanded one of the Hand be sent to Suramar to become a spellblade and prattled continuously about the forlorn Empire of old.
Mythundis furrowed a brow. He pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his staff and threw the courier a wary glance. âHow have you found me here?â he asked.
But the courier didnât answer that question. Instead, with a silent stubbornness to him, he offered out a scroll with spidery-thin fingers. âYou should read his message, druid. The Don has your best interests at heart.â
Mythundis reluctantly reached for the scroll and unrolled it. He frowned as he read its contents. âThis is nonsense,â he exclaimed angrily. âHave they forgotten how the Alliance has neglected our people?â
The pale courier did not respond. He stood by silently, perhaps awaiting a final verdict.
The druid huffed, quickly rolling the scroll back up. âYou can return your masters and tell them that I will not come to this âmeetingâ, Highborne. Dwarven generals are not my concern - especially not if they are with the Alliance,â he finished.
Then, Mythundis turned around to deny the courier a chance to respond. He paced into the tower, a haze of concern and anger clouding his mind, to find Nerathion and inform him of the scrollâs contents.
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Nerathion listened to Mythundis quietly, worn and exhausted after the Handâs ventures into Ghostlands. At times, he might not have even looked like he was paying attention. After his efforts that fruitlessly went into saving Frokna, he did not have the energy in him to show his frustrations with the message.
But his thoughts rumbled on, unvoiced - why is he not safe? Grannd Thunderbraid, a dwarf he does not know well or even cared for as much, but still a dwarf he knew to be a strong one, was somehow captured? And people he in the past saw as enemies and was the enemy of now wish to protect him?
He crinkled his nose, adding to the many wrinkles he obtained after trying to heal Frokna. With a soft and tremulous voice, he argued with Mythundis whether he should go or not, or if Mythundis will. In his state, heâs unsure whether heâs even fit to travel longer distances, and his lips thinned and pulled into a scowl when his eyes glanced outside, watching the Highborne courier with distrust.
He did not hide his dislike for portals, or use of Arcane in general. Yet even he conceded if he wanted to go, he would have had to take the courierâs portal to Ironforge.
And yet, he ended up going. After saying his farewells to Mythundis and the Hand, a prayer to the fallen Sister, he hobbled out of the Tower, leaning on his staff. Mythundis will know - if he wonât hear of him in a few days, something will have happened to him. They agree on where Hand will be and where they will travel.
With a grimace, he spoke with the courier, and a portal opened. He drew a haggard breath and stepped through, and Ironforge welcomed him on the other side.
Only then did Nerathion realise he had never been there before. Would the courier direct him? Heâs too tired to fly, or even walk fast - he did not even know the time. Maybe he was already late to a meeting that involved him?
Perhaps he might still find someone to speak to - he needed to know more. What was this even about, why was he in danger? After all, he didnât even know the charges against him - the troll did not die by his hand.
Heâs innocent, surely.
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Mages from all walks of life gathered together this night in order to prepare for the potential battle of tomorrow, six strong were they and each journeyed into the snow of Khaz Modan, together they created a powerful magical ward that thrummed with power as it came to, only to then silence itself.
Those who knew nothing of their plan would struggle to even sense its strength, even whilst in the center of it, though a Demon Hunter may see the arcane with their spectral eyes.
From the bridge that passed the river, to the mountaintop, magical transportation was made impossible, even for those who had taken part in this sorcery.
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Anatheia had been glad when she heard about the armistice between Alliance and Horde. She had been out of the loop concerning the recent faction conflict through a mix of Alliance captivity and the now resolved issue of her father leaving her both physically and mentally drained. She read the pamphlet handed to her in the streets of Orgrimmar and sighed.
âThis gesture wonât stop them. If itâs those stuck up Night Elves and their feral friends looking for vengeance, returning a Dwarven leader wonât cool their desire for blood,â she said to herself.
Placing the pamphlet in her satchel, she continued about her day. She had an appointment to keep and couldnât take the time to really ponder what was going to happen. All she could do was hope the prisoner hand off would go without issue. She did not look forward to another escalation of hostilities between the two sides. This was not due to any sympathy for the Alliance, whose betrayal of her people still stung, but rather due to care and concern for one of its citizens. It was a thought she couldnât shake from her mind.
Lyra. I hope youâre staying far away from this situationâŚ
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By all rights he should keep the dwarfâs weapon, it was a work of art. Azerite flawlessly rippled through the warhammerâs head, catching the cool blue light and reflecting shades of orange back. It was a strong weapon and he felt strong simply carrying it around, owning a weapon imbued with azerite would be a priceless boon.
The dwarven craftsmanship was superb, beyond anything humanity could produce for sure. But even so, he wasnât going to keep it. Aerilen was no thief and he was certainly no battlefield brigand. Instead he was in this nightborne womanâs workshop as she loomed over the azerite weaponry with some intricate rod. Weaving and imbuing magic into it. Working tirelessly for several gold coins.
They may not be killing the dwarf, but Aerilen will see him dead. The weapon will fail him some day, perhaps a month from now.
Or a year.
Maybe two years.
But the haft will snap or its head will come loose and soar through the air. Time for the mace will only accelerate and get faster. Rust will set in. It will corrode. It will rot. It will become a burden. And the best part was that this enchantment should remain hidden among the numerous magics already weaved into the warhammer.
It was nothing personal, he had no real grievance with this dwarf. Aerilen simply hated loose ends. âAzerheimâ will be its ownerâs bane some day, but tomorrow it will be returned to him.
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As he sat hidden in the trees that overlooked the warbandâs camp below, Thorn picked at his gloved hand in boredom. It felt like he had been stalking them across all of Azeroth for weeks, jumping last minute through portals from one end of the Eastern Kingdoms to the other. He watched from a distance as they captured the dwarf General, lost him to a group of elves, to then gain him again all in the space of a week.
This drama excited him.
Something about the way the warband worked seemed familiar.Since his last warband had disbanded he had been bored out of his mind. Peace meant no work, and no work meant boredom, something he had never dealt with well. He made stupid choices when bored. A lonely troll from the Valley of Wisdom knew this all too well, but that was by-the-byâŚ
Having heard mention of this new rising warband Thorn set out to do what he does best and watch their every move, waiting for the moment to make his âheroicâ entrance. He had no interest in this dwarf. Sure he had seen the General in action during conflicts with the Alliance, but he had no personal vendetta. He simply wanted a job, and if to get that job he needed to hate this particular dwarf, then it was definitely this dwarf that killed his entire family during the Third War and called his mother a rabid gnoll.
Yes, it was one hundred percent him.
Could he go against the Horde/Alliance peace treaty?
"Sure, peace is a poor manâs game.â
Could he potentially become an enemy of the Horde?
"Meh, the Horde was always overrated.âHe just needed this job, and hearing that the warband were having an epic full scale attack on Ironforge, or so he had concluded from listening to half conversations, this was his chance to save the day and prove himself. Take down a whole platoon of dwarves, single handedly save the whole warband whilst walking away from an exploding Ironforge. They would practically beg him to join.
Now if only they knew who he wasâŚ
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A certain Silver Hand Paladin, seeming to be an officer judging by his gear and visage, was seen patrolling around Ironforge, briefing various forces on the situation, mustering them to be ready for any possible incursion, infiltration and violence which may happen. The cry âFOR IRONFOOOORGE!!!â can be heard after each briefing, inspiring for the Sons and Daughters of the Mountain.
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As the sun rose over Dun Morogh the forge of Kharanos roared and the anvil sung, several Dwarves and a Human fit new horse shoes to plate-clad steeds. As the early afternoon came around a group of crusaders in red and white begin to clear the snow from the roads leading to Ironforge using shovels and torches.
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//Iâd really like to contribute to this, but how do you get the text inside those boxes?