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!
If I was still a Night Elf main, this would be the guild for me. There can be no better endorsement than this 
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.
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!
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!
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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