From the dead walking again to presumed flame druid activity in Hyjal, it’s all proving too much as conflict between the druids become apparent.
Meanwhile… sk’yahf agth huqth N’Zoth qornaus.
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Ashes to Ashes
The Hand of Cenarius, just in their cause and vigilant in their duties, were able to vanquish the fallen Druid Salvenar Ashfang. The Hand succeeded in undoing the worst of his apocalyptic machinations; finally putting the Druid, too twisted by hatred and rage, out of his prolonged misery.
Irelden accepted the staff offered to him by Isalye Foxcrown, a grim affirmation of his brother’s fate. The lonely gravekeeper chose to burn the staff, aware of the irony in his deeds; but decided to mourn the brother he had lost, not the monster he had become. He returned to the peaceful lake surrounding Astranaar each night, mourning their bygone days in the tranquil forest. His thoughts occasionally turned to the lonely girl with amber eyes; and he knew that his warnings not to succumb to the same forces as his brother had most likely fallen upon deaf ears.
Although the Hand ventured to the sacred peak with a noble purpose, division from within proved as lethal as from without. The Hand was hounded at almost every moment about what had become of Melysanna Ravencaller, and the same hatreds that raged within the heart of the corrupt druid stirred within that of Isalye Foxcrown. Isalye, choosing to preserve the profane scrawling of Ashfang, had seemingly chosen to pursue darker fates.
And so, the Hand toppled an attempt by the ever-capricious elementals to carve an empire from northern Kalimdor, just as they had done years ago, and millennia before. They can only pray that others will be so vigilant, as other empires threaten to emerge.
The guild remains an absolute joy to DM for. If you’re looking for quality Night Elf and Worgen RP with a strong ideological influence, this guild is absolutely worth checking out.
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Runescroll is a great DM and any guild can deem themselves lucky to be graced with one of her storylines 
Thanks a lot!
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Most of us are in Moonglade currently, for the three-day Lunar Festival hosted by the Handmaidens of Elune. Very much looking forward to it; I’m sure the activities will be great! If you wish to join, now’s a time of peace – come find us in the woods of Moonglade!
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She hated the undead. The risen humans serving the Horde were the reason for her disability, the reason she had nearly lost all hope of living a life with purpose. Now she had only one hand and could scarcely protect anyone, or even herself. To her, the undead were an affront to nature; walking corpses who defiled the sacred woods with their presence.
Frokna had not taken the news that the Hand would fight alongside a death knight well. But when she had understood that this was one of their own—a former priestess of the Hand who had died fighting for Frokna’s own cause only to be raised against her will—she had felt uncertain. Her Shan’do had deemed it right, and he understood the need to uphold nature’s balance better than anyone she knew.
As the death knight had accompanied the group from a distance, Frokna’s sympathy for the rotting priestess had slowly grown. But the Keeper had been mistaken. This was now clear to her. His judgement had failed, and though their mission had succeeded with the help of the death knight, their order had splintered because of his error. Brother had turned upon sister, and it pained Frokna to think of the heartlessness and cruelty with which some of her companions had acted towards one another. “We are family,” she had thought. “We must stand together.” But when they had finally parted ways, all hope of unity had been destroyed, and Frokna returned to Ashenvale alone.
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Whilst in Moonglade for the festivities, a handful of the druids have bitterly taken on insincere well wishes and smiles – last night’s interactions with Horde festival-goers was great fun to play out. If you’re interested and don’t so easily forgive or forget, seek us out!
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After a tumultuous night within Moonglade, the severed head of a troll death knight is placed on a spike on the long road leading to Timbermaw Hold. A signpost below reads: “The Black Moon does not suffer Horde defilers within Moonglade.”
One or more druids prowl nearby. An attempt to simply remove it might lead to conflict.
The location: https://imgur.com/a/ZmsA0l6
A decent amount of pamphlets are later dropped over Nighthaven by a flock of birds. It calls on all Kaldorei to reject the presence of the Horde at the festival and defend the honor of the Kaldorei if they have to. It also reminds them not to accept food or goods from them, lest they are poisoned or cursed as it already occured before, and that they should not walk the woods alone.
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Ercia comes across some the pamphlets during her stroll across Nighthaven. There’s some mixed feelings presented by the elf, though ultimately she comes to one decision. There’s been enough bloodshed spread across the recent times, there need not be more. She makes an attempt at clearing up at least of the pamphlets and disposing them away. Out sight, out of mind. Naturally one elf can only do so much.
Loving these little tidbits being presented in the event by the way, though haven’t much of an opportunity to interact with it. Ercia’s spite is towards Sylvanas not so much the entirety of the Horde.
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The Hand of Cenarius enlists the help of Kalendil Silvercrest, a priestess recently returned from her duties at the Temple of the Moon in Val’Sharah.
Saddened by many of her kin’s apparent dereliction of morals and, quite frankly, sanity, she sees the Hand as one of the few remaining orders that would uphold the High Priestess’ - and indeed the Kaldorei’s - true values.
Excited to join the guild properly soon!
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Niámh, on finding the scattered and slipshod leaflets scattered across her path while she runs frantically too and fro preparing for the the final night of the festival, snatches one up and stares down at it, her entire body quivering. She reads and rereads it several times, then abandons what she is doing to gather up every one she can find, bringing the central tavern of Nighthaven and tossing them into the fire.
A disgrace to the Ancestors. A disgrace to the true faces of Elune and not the bastardized version of the Night Warrior they claim to justify their blood lust.
A disgrace to all those trying to rebuild what is left of her people’s way of life…
A disgrace to the innocents who died for nothing…
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The Hand is currently camping in Talonbranch Glade, keeping a good eye on the road to Moonglade and the troll head adorning it. Anyone up for any RP with us is very welcome to seek our members there out, be that friendly or hostile!
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We’re in Felwood still, recuperating at Whisperwind Grove. Tomorrow we’ll be heading to Feralas for [Night Elf & Worgen RP] A Place of Discourse & Controversy - Kaldorei Forum - 13th of March! – The Felled Tree event!
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We’re currently hanging out in Feathermoon until our next campaign with two other great guilds, so come by if you are up for some casual RP or, alternatively, a fistfight and clash of opinions 
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With a recent influx of recruits, recruitment will now be closed for the time being so that the new bloods may settle in and find their place!
We’re still very much open to any kinds of encounters, be they hostile or friendly, and will be staying in Feathermoon Stronghold until the end of the week. Come find us before we leave for the warm sands of southern Kalimdor!
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If I was still a Night Elf main, this would be the guild for me. There can be no better endorsement than this 
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The Hand are currently in the blistering sands of Tanaris, having a not-so-lovely time with the Lionheart as an ever spreading infection swarms.
We can’t catch a break.
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We’re setting off for Val’sharah to host the Blessings of War in Val’sharah over the course of coming days - come find us at the locations of the trials there if you’re interested in roleplaying with us!
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The return from their ritual blessings to the balmy slopes of Hyjal is met with unsettling news; a mysterious, fungal affliction has been brought to the sacred oaks of Ashenvale, carrying with it the insidious taint of the undead. The druids, seeking any help necessary, have tasked anyone willing to help with finding the source, culprit, and cure, as until they do so, they may only react to each new case as they find it.
The Hand of Cenarius turn their gaze to the far-flung lands of the Eastern Kingdoms, and soon find themselves writing the next chapter in a war both new and old.
The Hand of Cenarius begin their next campaign, Until the End of the Earth, tomorrow!
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The Hand of Cenarius once again crossed the seas; this time, they travelled to the blighted regions of the Plaguelands, seeking the cure for a fungal affliction that attacked the oaks of Ashenvale. The Hand found that this was more than a single malicious act; loyalists to the Banshee Queen, believing they had perfected the vision of their Queen, had began an attempt to bring all life, even the forests, into a state of eternal, putrid decay.
The Hand succeeded in their task, but it was a pyrrhic victory, at best. The loyalists responsible were brought to the justice of the Goddess, but in the final confrontation, the life of Frokna Wolfheart was claimed. She had been possessed by the banshee Aethelora, who steadily sapped away at her life essence and vitality; and over the night, her body had grown weaker and weaker, her skin paling, her eyes fading, and warmth drained, until it was too late for her to recover. Mythundis Clawheart had been able to remove the spirit from her body, but Frokna, greatly weakened from her possession, perished as they attempted to return her to safety. The Hand gave their farewells to her body within the hallowed towers of the Plaguelands, and asked that her body be preserved, until she could be taken home to the forests of Ashenvale.
Mythundis performed his duty with solemnity, returning the spirit of the broken arrow to the forest with a heavy heart. He left their gathering in silence, grateful to return home; though irked others had attempted to summon him, for trivial matters of which he had little care for. The elderly druid was burdened, as many are, by the knowledge that success is often born of sacrifice, and his mind drew to those he had lost before. The venerable druid wept to know that, for the second time, one who named themselves of his order, placing themselves into his care, had fallen. Frokna’s death was a righteous one, in search of justice, and he knew the Night Warrior would take pride in it. It did little to comfort him, as he sat in the shade of a mighty oak, and simply allowed himself to mourn.
Dalthir had first travelled to the disturbence within Ashenvale, because of Frokna. She was the one within the Hand he had spoken with most often, and as they left the Ghostlands, he had carried Frokna to the relative safety of the Eastern Plaguelands, hoping the hallowed towers could offer any degree of aid. When he felt her grow limp in his arms, he ran to safety, seeking any aid that could be offered, but he knew it was too late. He wept at her death; the stoic, aspiring druid had been his closest companion in the past weeks. He offered to take her body back to her homeland, and took a small amount of solace to know her spirit protected the forests, even if she was not alive to do so.
Nerathion ventured to the Plaguelands to fulfil his duty; for many years, he had roamed with the preservation of nature’s balance as his calling, and it was natural that he would seek to end anything that dared intervene in this sacred task. When the Hand left the Ghostlands, Nerathion did so in unusually low spirits; the druid’s common cheeriness and optimism replaced with a gnawing sense of dread. He knew that Frokna lived on borrowed time, paid for with his own life essence, and desperately prayed it was enough to save her. His thoughts, however, came to pass, as Frokna perished, regardless of his desperate hope. When Nerathion returned to Ashenvale, his mind felt a slight amount of ease, to know at least some of the Banshee puppets had been thwarted. It did little to abate the burden he felt, however, as the druid was left weary and gloomy, as he felt the heavy burden of his nine hundred years of life upon his body and mind.
Ivy had travelled to the Plaguelands for her own revenge; the worgen carrying with her a hatred of those who had taken her home from her. She had used up all but a few of the thundering, magical arrows she had been granted weeks prior, claiming the life of the fleshcrafter Gutrick, as the Hand confronted the loyalists within Deatholme. Ivy, much like Dalthir, had been close to the aspiring druid; although the two women had their differences, Frokna had nonetheless been the means that Ivy was introduced to the culture of the Night Elves, and Ivy had fond memories of their hunting trips together, even as Frokna ceased to partake in them, and as they began to grow apart. The worgen knew that Frokna had cared for her; and with her death, Ivy wondered if she even wished to return to Kalimdor, for any time longer than to honour her passing.
Norrin had joined the Hand of Cenarius in their journey, carrying with him a personal vendetta against the Scourge. The discovery that those who had brazenly attacked his homeland sought to recreate their horrors ignited a fire in the Claw Druid’s heart, soothed only when a fraction of his hatreds against them were realised. His final act within the Ghostlands was to plunge claws he carried with him into the corpse of the man responsible; a symbolic gesture for the fate of those who dabbled in the profane. The act offered him what closure it could, and as Norrin recovered from the toxic spores he had been assaulted with, he turned his eyes to the future. He wondered what awaited him, and took an odd comfort in the fact he did not know. He suspected he was simply glad to have one.
And so, the Hand of Cenarius proved that none could escape the Black Moon’s justice; not even if they fled to the end of the earth.
Screenshots from the event finale; https://imgur.com/a/urfFhdf
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