(FOUNDING LORE) [Somewhere in Tranquillien a framed parchment hangs on the wall amidst weapons of murder and substances of mass destruction.]
Proclamation of the Superiors of Lordaeron, eminently those of Tirisfal and Quel’Thalas.
Regarding the necessity of a mutual undertaking.
The Superiors of the Isle of Quel’Danas, the Superiors of the Eversong Woods, the Superiors of the Ghostlands, the Superiors of of the Plaguelands, the Superiors of the Tirisfal Glades, the Superiors of the Silverpine Forest, the Superiors of the Hillsbrad Foothills, the Superiors of the Hinterlands and the Superiors of the Arathi ighlands,
in consideration and spirit of communion between the Forsaken and blood elves and in grim determination to withstand deeds of adversary,
declared it necessary to form a novel unit in order to extend their reach of influence to both unlawful events and acts of war. Insiders to the aforementioned shall achieve this goal under the supervision of named superiors.
In these regards the end justifies the means, yet disturbance of the everyday world shall be avoided.
The covenant “Grim Gest” is hereby brought into being.
Issued in Tranquillien.
The parchment bears various sigils of the Forsaken and blood elves at the end.
The Tales of the evil Crown
[PCU] Plot : Cosmic Crown of Terror 🌌
Bloody Guidance
Blood magic Guide 
Once founded upon the cooperation of the Forsaken and Blood Elves in securing their peoples’ security over Tranquillien and the Ghostlands at large, the Grim Gest has since become a thorn in the eyes of politicians and commanders the world over. With their covenant under threat from both the greater Horde and the Alliance, the Grim Gest have become a band of disposessed, bitter souls serving a greater purpose in a hostile world.
Our roleplay revolves around martial and esoteric themes, mostly in Lordaeron and at times Quel’thalas; H.P. Lovecraft’s writings are a longtime inspiration for the members of the good old Gest.
Locations
Historically in Lordaeron and Quel’thalas most of the times, be it abandoned ruins, dungeons or temporary claimed old keeps.
Nowadays, the Grim Gest shall dare more visits in populated places to recruit, spy and make allies.
You can expect campaigns and events to bring us farer and around the world when required.
IC recruitment can be handled in three different ways:
- Dungeon draft: Cast away into the prison dungeons to rot for crimes committed, penal servitude in the Grim Gest brings salvation.
- Individual contract: A walk-up right to strike a deal with the devil.
- Military redeployment: Careers begin and end in the Grim Gest, guardsmen and elites, all must serve.
Potential recruits are invited to whisper to any member for hooks.
To be considered for OOC membership, you have to share the guild’s approach to roleplay and your first character has to be at the current level cap or very close to it already. You will be asked to join the Guild Discord after recruitment, where events and roleplay will be announced and contents shared.
Rules
- No ERP
- No OOC chatter in spatial channels, /s, /e or /y
- IC remains IC, OOC remains OOC. We all like our characters, but we are not our characters.
Races
We don’t recruit Vulperas and Pandaren.
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The true Horde’s banner is black as sin. It is time to fight…
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Beneath the mountain, the catacombs were an ouroboros. Time was stillborn. Thought, an anomaly. Walls pulsed with a dampness not of water, but of memory turned sour.
In this belly of silence, a corpse sat cross-legged—an elf, or the shape of one. Pale as drained moonlight. Hair long, black, heavy with dust. He had gone inward, past thought, past flesh, past names. His mind, peeled free of his skull, drifted among the whispering things and between stars. His body remained behind, as if it had simply been forgotten.
Then came the Wretch.
It moved like a ghoul, hands pawing at the ground, mutt-like. Tall, thin, wrong in the angles. He had once been something else. An Elf, maybe. A man. But the void had sipped at him for years, drop by drop, until only a hunger remained. Hunger with legs.
He found the corpse and fell upon it. Not an act of violence, not at first. Each bite slow, trembling, tongue and lips pressing to skin; akin to a lover. It was soft, and yielded easily in his mouth, the flesh like wet scripture.
Soft meat. Dry sinew. He chewed slowly, reverently. The taste was old magic and the cold ash of decay. Seven days. Seven nights. He stripped the body like a fiend, the feeling of strength returning to his body; an addiction.
Finally engorged; he slept.
In memories; a greenwood. Dusky, a predator in ambush. Armour on his chest, blood in his veins. A name in his mouth—poison. It throbbed like an infected tongue.
But the trees turned enemy. Bark sloughed. Roots twisted like thorns. Everything pulsed. Everything hated.
The Wretch awoke with fat in his teeth and ichor under his nails. The cave’s breath pressed against him again, heavy and wet.
Something rough in his grip.
Cloth. Black. A symbol, faint but sharp: two serpents coiled around each other, biting, becoming.
He stared at it.
Frowned.
Felt nothing.
It meant nothing.
Yet - a name;
His name.
Tyrinar.
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Currently touring ancient Lordaeron, on the hunt for villains, bandits, thieves and all those of ill-repute who may be looking for a home to freely express their darkened desires.
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Six men stood, pale figures clad in dark cloth and darker steel around the summoning circle. The grooves in the dense earth glowed with the faint colouration of deep magic, the air was thick with the anticipation of cruel sorceries.
Watching as his brothers in the Grim Gest prepared themselves to summon the witch, Brokensun pondered the sight, ruminating on what he should be expecting. His attention settled upon the blade dug into the centre of the circle, runes dancing around it. The blade had been found in the Plaguelands, buried within an ancient crypt.
It held the legacies of magic that linked it to a great witch, a crone by the name of Yesha’neth. It was his Commander’s idea to use the blade to scry and divine the location of this witch; to seek her own and listen to her sage and wicked counsel. She was, by his words and lore, a wise and powerful creature with knowledge most keen - and most desirable.
Brokensun’s chin tilted upwards at the thought. He had little faith in ancient powers, particularly that which called itself divine. He had walked with powers most zealous in life, and he found the taste of such religious servitude sour in his mouth. But his service was to his Duke, and he would do as commanded.
It was to him that Brokensun’s attention snapped to now. Duke Xotrios Drak’ash rose his arms up high, and spoke clearly into the night:
“Repeat after me. Speak clearly, for she listens.”
This evening the Grim Gest conducted a dark ritual to commune with the Witch Yesha’neth - a great and powerful crone, ancient and cruel. She spoke of a great many things: of the imprisonment of Baron Morsteth Blightreek; of the rise and downfall of Light’s Rise, the Grim Gest’s ancient antithetical enemy; and of a strange divine presence, an entity of grace that hungers for the end of darkness.
The Witch did not plead or beg for aid, but it became apparent in time that her words came through the barred doors of a prison. Her words were cryptic, no-more than riddles in the dark, but the Gest deducted that her gaol lay in the mountains of Northrend, in the ancient ruins of the Titan’s stone-men.
The Grim Gest now set out on a journey to Northrend, to free this Witch and secure her favour for the trials ahead.
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