[H-RP] 'Duplicitous Conspiracy'

Be it plastered to the walls throughout the Valleys of Orgrimmar, or delivered to the city’s taverns in number to be distributed amongst their patrons, these words have begun to appear around the city in steadily increasing frequency. A rebuttal of recent rumours and gossip that has started to circulate through the streets of Orgrimmar and beyond.

Though distributed by forsaken subjects of the Dark Lady, the officiality of the fliers is unclear and it’s author uncertain.

One thing is sure, it is strongly worded. And a direct attack aimed towards the disingenous individuals and treacherous agents to which the fliers refer:

There has been circulating a rumor that there exists a clandestine operation within the Horde dedicated to the suppression or eradication of dissident elements amongst the people. A baseless and utterly unsubstantiated deception.

This unfounded rumour is nothing more than that - a rumor. It is little more than a fictitious lie constructed by disingenuous individuals in a duplicitous conspiracy to delegitimize the authority of our Warchief, the Dark Lady, Sylvanas Windrunner. And a calculated effort to rot the Horde from within.

This bogus invention serves no purpose other than to validate and justify the treasonous actions of perfidious individuals who scheme, plot and act contrary to the interests of our Warchief and - by extension - the Horde as a greater whole.

Murder, sedition and conspiring with the enemy during a time of war are but a handful of acts perpetrated by these treacherous agents of chaos, turmoil and anarchy who seek nothing more than to weaken the Horde from within through the gross defamation of our Warchief and the vilification of the forsaken people.

Such an endeavour would benefit only the Lion, which brings to light with whom the loyalty of these devious characters truly lies.

They are traitors to the Horde, traitors to your Warchief but most of all traitors to the memory of our warriors - our heroes - who have bled for the Horde, those who have given their lives for the Horde. Protecting the Horde, protecting you, from those who would see ruination and desolation brought to our many peoples.

Remember, people of the Horde. Regardless of kith and kind, it is only together that we might triumph against our hated adversary. It is only together that we might bring the blood red banner of the Horde to all four corners of Azeroth. It is only together that our children and our children’s children may one day know peace.

Lok’tar ogar.

And may Dark Lady watch over you. Always.

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/slowly looks over her shoulder and glances at the horizon, where a very angry Skabb is furiously paddling on a Rotgarde Raft while Lawson is busy being eaten by sharks.

S-suppression of dissidents? Hah! N-no, of course not! Of course there is no suppression! What an idea! Truly a baseless deception, just like the poster says. Move along, citizen.

/starts paddling faster.

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Morfinn takes a deep, rasping breath - not because he needs air, but because of muscle memory, he always takes a deep breath when he feels his anger blooming.

He lowers the sheet brought to him by an acquaintance who is not suspected of treason. He drops the sheet to the ground, and his plate gauntlets and bony hands creak noisily as he clenches his fists.

"Bloody blood-guzzling, banshee-loving, hatemongering… …!

So it’s ‘My way, or the DIE way’, eh?

Anything to keep their world-ending war going…

The audacity!

Our children and our children’s children?

My children - and my granddaughter - were harassed by the Forsaken in Gilneas… My daughter murdered!
And they dare call us traitors?!"

The Forsaken death knight bends to pick up the sheet, and stuffs it in his deathcharger’s saddlebag. He swings himself into the saddle, surprisingly smoothly for such a bony and heavily armored …man.

The undead steed gallops off with the undead rider - as it turns out, searching for some wortless bandit scum to slay.

Edit: Although the Ebon Knight’s main focus was to find worthless scum, he was morosely glad he would not have to clean worts off his swords.

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As aleister enters the broken tusk inn he notices some message on the wall he rips It off , sits at the bar and starts reading

unfounded rumour HA! I wonder whos idiots idea was this! , try to deny something like this and you’ll probably get the opposite results

takes a zip from his drink

this will make things worst and i already have seen many many “worst” in my unlife i could use some bloody! “boring” for a change

HEY! gryshka! get me another one stronger this time i think i’ll need it……

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A young, slender blood elf warlock, looking worse for wear despite the well-kempt appearance and high-quality garment, eyes through the pamphlet he’s given, and his lips curls into a wry little smile.

“I say, the amount of complicated, unpronouncable, multi-syllable words in this pretty little pamphlet is impressing. You know, these extraordinary efforts alone makes me more convinced on the matter.”

His smirk becomes somewhat puzzled now as the Forsaken asks what side he’s on here.

“Why, I stand with the Warchief, of course.”

The warlock narrows his eyes, still smirking but now more condescendingly, at the next question.

“‘What Warchief?’, are you serious? I never thought I’d hear a Forsaken suggest there was more than one Warchief. If you’d excuse me, I have matters to attend to and I’m sure you have more pamphlets to hand out. Thank you for this information, it was most reassuring. Dark Lady watch over you.”

He bows respectfully, if stiffly, and wanders off in the direction of Valley of Spirits.

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(Written under the name of Inkeri because for some reason I can’t change character)

Ayasha stares at the Forsaken flatly as she puts down her mug with a click and grunts unhappily as she took the flier with a disinterested look.

“Treason, rumours, plots,” Ayasha grumbles to herself as she read the flier before pinning Forsaken with a look. “You are interrupting my moment of peace for this? The only time I am not surrounded by reckless idiots that seem determined to kill themselves in messy and annoying ways? My only relief from their complaints about the fact I have the gall to heal them when they could be killing things and themselves? Haven’t you already littered every street in Orgrimmar and beyound? Do you really have to start handing it out to people?”

The Forsaken didn’t even have a chance to defend themselves before she pins them with a flat look as she glared at them with flinty blue eyes

“I wish to finish my tea before another idiot comes stumbling my way with their guts almost hanging out! Praise be the Warchief and all that! I want my damn tea still hot when I drink it!”

The Forsaken, wisely, decides to retreat as the Tauren pointedly picks up her mug of tea and glares at the Forsaken before taking a sip and scowling–it had cooled almost too much to be drinkable

“Unforgiveable,” Ayasha says almost to herself as she stares down at her mug and scowls harder as she thinks to herself for a moment. “What was that goblin’s name again? Lex? Lexi Steel-something? Harumph, let’s hope she and her friends have more consideration when it comes to tea-time.”

With another dissatisfied scowl, the tall Tauren pushed herself to her feet and grabs her twin weapons, it was obvious Orgrimmar was no longer a place to have a peaceful tea-time.

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A grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as she reads the pamphlet, spreading wider until even her eyes catch a twinkle of it. She raises her gaze to the woman handing them out, her back already some ways down the road towards some new unsuspecting pedestrian.
Raizka grunts softly and folds the note up. As much as it’s filled with kododung you could probably squeeze a drop of information or two from it, like a choice of word, the phrasing or some kind of hint between the lines.
Even as far as propaganda goes this was pretty desperate, and she doubted anyone not already loyal would be reassured by these words, if that was the true intention of this little stunt to begin with. Most who read it would probably have a hard time even understanding some of these words, even less the implications behind it.
“They should get a gold star for trying, at least,” she muses as she puts the note away into one of her many concealed pockets, almost jauntily walking down the steps of the inn, feeling loose and relaxed and in a pretty good mood.
That someone is trying this hard probably says more than the words themselves. It seemed to her that something somewhere might not be going so well, and maybe that spelled opportunity to someone who knew where to look.

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Barely a week has passed since strongly worded fliers refuting the rumor of a clandestine organization, dedicated to the silencing and suppression of dissident elements, had begun circulating the city of Orgrimmar.

Over the passing days they have appeared throughout the heart of the Horde with increasing abundance, distrubuted by small groups of Forsaken during the latests hours of the evening to the earliest hours of the morning.

They appear to be soldiers, military personnel, though within what outfit and under whose command they serve cannot be determined. They sport no colours, insignias or emblems to suggest under whose orders they carry out this distrubution of propaganda.

If questioned, they dance around inquiries without providing any definitive answers. If interrupted or otherwise obscructed in their work, they react with hostility and drawn blades but never are the first to strike.

Uncouth and unsavory characters, their mannerism is more akin to that of loutish thugs than well drilled, well disciplined soldiers. Regardless, they are well armed, perhaps more so than the average Forsaken soldier. Their arms, armor and armaments made of finer stuff compared to the common Deathguard.

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On a certain rock floating through infinite darkness, two elves who appear very different but in the long run are very much the same meet over a glass of the finest Thalassian wine.

“So, this new situation in Orgrimmar… Shall we place our bets on who is responsible for it?”

Linaria shrugs. She avoids the inquisitive gaze of her companion and stares off into the abyss, far beyond the reaches of the Rift.

“Considering the level of sheer idiocy that Alliance leadership has been presenting these days, I wouldn’t put it past some pudding-brained SI:7 officer who had once heard the term ‘reverse psychology’ and is now trying to be very shrewd,” she says dryly before finally looking into the void elf’s eyes. “Speaking of… it’s not your doing, is it?”

He graces her with a sly smirk. “My lady, your cruel words wound me. I assure you that I have nothing to do with the propaganda posters currently littering the streets of Orgrimmar. In fact, I could just as easily call it a heavy-handed deception that Sylvanas’ opponents are using. After all, the Horde is just dense enough to take this letter at face value; as a laughably incompetent attempt at covering up said clandestine operations, which itself implies the group’s existence.”

Linaria looks away again. “That is also a possibility. The Alliance does not have a monopoly on stupidity,” she mutters darkly.

“Although,” her companion says airily as he pours himself more wine, “if the culprit truly is a rebel hoping to expose the truth then I believe it’s only fair we give them some credit for their understanding of how the lesser minds work.”

“And if the culprit is a rebel merely attempting to sow fear and uncertainty amongst the loyalists, then I imagine they are going to be very surprised to discover that such clandestine organization not only exists, but also comes in several different flavours.”

“Hah.”

Linaria sips on the wine, eyes still focused on the abyss. There’s something hypnotic about its endless expanse. Beautiful, in a way. And terrifying.

“So your bet is on the rebels, Sariel?” she mutters thoughtfully, and a second later frowns when she hears her companion snort in amusement.

“Not at all, my lady,” the void elf says. “I’m quietly entertaining the idea that the main culprit here might be the Twilight Hammer. Or perhaps one of its allied groups.”

Linaria lifts her eyebrow and gives him a side glance.

“A repeat of what they attempted during the Shattering?”

“Indeed.”

Linaria hums thoughtfully, mulling over the idea as she sips on the wine. Normally she would dismiss it right away, firm in her belief that only a fool would attempt the same deception twice… But on the Horde it might just work, because the Horde doesn’t learn.

“Or maybe it’s the loyalists. Potentially even the group in question, or thugs hired by it,” she says absentmindedly. “Give out that nonsense just to watch the reactions and single out the… unique ones.”

“An interesting concept.”

“Mmhm.”

Linaria drinks her wine and thinks. Something about the Rift makes it easier to focus. Maybe because standing next to infinity takes the edge off mortal emotions and limitations, making it easier to think in larger scope.

Of course she doesn’t even consider the possibility that the propaganda letter might be an authentic work of one of Dark Lady’s clerks tasked with calming down the denizens of Orgrimmar. As much as she despises lady Windrunner’s shambling carcass—Sunwell, what an insult to a hero’s memory that disgusting corpse is—Linaria likes to think that an elf, even an undead one, would possess at least a bare minimum of competence.

What can she say? She’s charitable like that.

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Outside of Borstan’s Firepit in the upper Drag, a handful of plainclothes adventurers mills about a handful of discarded crates used as outdoor tables. Conversation is subdued in the midday sun, and a number of patrons appear to have the itis. Ral’rush rises to take his turn clearing off the makeshift table and making a run to the refuse bin, leaving his companions behind for a moment. He stops when he notices a short signpost nearby. He says nothing, but he stiffens up enough such that his companions stop their conversation for a moment.

“Who the hell is still postin these things around?” he asks rhetorically while tearing the propaganda pamphlet off of the signpost. His voice is quiet but acidic enough that a few locals passing by quickened their pace.

One of his friends, an off-duty peon, smiles and looks down. “Probably just left over from before,” the pudgy green laborer says, trying to defuse a potential time bomb. Instead of responding immediately, Rush tears the entire signpost out of the ground, including the chunk of cement which had held it in the rocky soil, and throws it all in the refuse bin. “Rush, that belonged to Borstan.”

“No it didn’t,” the proprietor yells from inside, having spied the conversation.

“Damned Banshee loyalist bastards!” Rush mutters, searching the crawl space between the meat house and the cliffside wall as if there would be a loyalist waiting behind there.

“Give it a rest, Rush,” says his peon friend. “Come on. Sit. Drink.”

Rush follows his friends’ advice, but not before crumpling the propaganda pamphlet in his hands, tearing it to pieces with his tusks, and eating the paper, much to the amusement of his friends. “It not be funny,” he mutters again, his acrimony apparent but not directed at them. “I’m gonna cut the nose off of whoever I find still postin these.”

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