I’m here just to thank you for the good scrap of tonight! It was real fun!
Aerilen, Kaeralin will seek you out on the battlefield again soon!
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Thank you too for all the interactions!
After a busy week of harassing elves in Feralas, the Path is now back in Thunder Bluff. Now’s a great time to get involved before we start up our next mission …
we are also in dire need of more orcs, after being almost elf-free for months the savage races are getting overwhelmed 
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aerilen better freak out the next time the trees start speaking darnassian 
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Honestly, we have five Elves! These really aren’t the kind of working conditions Zogu can tolerate, something’s gonna have to change…
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He was suffocating. Lights were flickering in and out of view, structures and faces became more blurry by the second, yet it felt like his hearing became better the more his eyesight diminished. Rushing water roared somewhere far away. Maybe a river? Did they pass one on their way to the meeting spot? He thought he vaguely remembered seeing a tent somewhere, so it could just be someone washing something as well.
The whole situation just seemed bizarre; his laughter would have brought him to tears, if he wasn’t crying already and if his laugh didn’t just sound like the wheeze of a man gasping for air. It really was funny: here he was, dangling in the air, his body trying to come to terms with the mounting pressure against his throat, and his brain was occupied with analysing where the sound of water was coming from. These were probably going to be his final moments and all he could think about was something utterly trivial. Funny. At least everything was almost over now. He could no longer make out the orc in front of him, only the strong grey fingers curled around his throat. His thoughts were becoming sluggish, like he was treading water. He closed his eyes. Ready.
Next thing he knew, he was crawling in the dirt. A sharp pain still lingered where he had hit the ground, but he could tell he wasn’t dead. Somewhere above him, Meng heard more-so than saw a tauren grunt and huff. The beast’s movements were followed by raised voices, the sound of an arrow whistling and heavy feet backing away from where the pandaren had just been held. He was in no shape to look back and check, but he figured somebody must’ve stepped in to save him – and they were now facing the consequences.
Once it felt like he was far enough away, Meng stopped to catch his breath and his thoughts immediately began to wander. He had moved like in a daze, driven purely by the instinct to survive and with none of his usual regard for his appearance. His clothes were soiled, his fine robe turned an ugly brown, but his soft paws and feet had kept him from getting any noticeable scraping. That was good. For a moment, he had honestly believed he would be the first to become a part of the new Path of Glory the Warlord had envisioned.
“Thar’zog said I would be lucky to be the first bones to pave the path,” the dwarf had said. “It was a road, made from the bones of the draenei slaughtered on Draenor. The Blackrock orcs led the first Horde responsible for its creation.” Meng never knew where the Path’s name came from – he just assumed it had to do with their journey, something they had to follow to secure the Horde’s future. When Thunderbraid explained the Path of Glory, he was horrified. Shocked. If the elves hadn’t intervened that night, he might have seriously tried to help the dwarf escape. He was no stranger to using dishonourable methods if it got the job done, but glorifying murder in the way this Path of Glory had done was much too far. Not even the Huojin’s philosophy of immediate action seemed able to justify it.
Was it worth dying for someone that still clung to this ideal? Should he follow someone that seemed to want to recreate this massacre, even if it targeted his enemies? He really didn’t know. “You can still live by your philosophy away from the Huojin.” Thunderbraid had wanted him to abandon the Path, which to Meng meant abandoning the Horde as a whole. But the dwarf was right: he could follow the Huojin’s way of life without following their leadership. He could leave, and still remain the same person. They weren’t necessarily connected.
It all came down to what he wanted. And he really had no clue. He still wanted to protect the Horde, but he wouldn’t abide by anything similar to the Path of Glory. So what if he prevented that instead? If he stayed and tried to change the Warlord’s methods? That seemed more reasonable. He would at least make an attempt. As he came back to his senses, he noticed someone had given him a flask at some point. He could still hear everyone else discussing their next move a little ways away. While uttering a silent ‘thank you’ to the flask’s owner, he dropped it at his feet and turned to address the group:
“Would someone care to explain why we’re discussing where to bring the hostages when we still haven’t decided how to capture them?” Meng spoke, his heart swelling with newfound resolve. He was going to give this Path one last try.
posted on the wrong character at first … very cool.
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He looked South. Nothing.
He looked East. Nothing.
He looked West. Nothing.
He scratched his head, pulling out a louse, winced and threw it to the ground.All the trees had began to look the same to him. The tall Feralas ones looked like the ones that occupied the Swamp of Sorrows. The dead ones of the Ghostlands like that of Tol Barad. He had been following them now for what felt like months, waiting for the right moment to make his heroic entrance but kept screwing it up each time. Whether it had been from slipping on a branch or being hit by a rock, every effort he made to help the warband was met with a miss.
He looked at the hand drawn map and frowned, scratching his head once more. Maybe this was a sign, that he wasn’t made out for this. No, of course that’s not the case, right? Right?
He looked North. “That will do.”
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Recently had a skirmish or two against these folks in the Badlands, very good sports and very good RPers.
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Thorn laid back into the hammock, resting his hands behind his head with a grin from knife-ear to knife-ear. The fact his face was still covered in elf blood and his hair was all the more dirty didn’t seem to bother him at all. In fact, it made him all the more happy.
He looked to the armless troll sleeping to his left, then to the drooling vulpira at his right, and exhaled with satisfaction. He had made it. His mission was a success. After months of running around Azeroth he had finally caught up. He was now part of “the squad".
Today was a good day.
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These people are a joy to interact with, truly!
Recommended. 
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“Three petals of Akunda’s Bite, a pinch of Siren’s Pollen, root of Anchor Weed. Cactus water of course, sands from Vol’dun and the shock of lightning. Always important, that last one.”
Mihro had mixed this a dozen times before, too many, he thought to himself, yet he still repeated the recipe as he made the broth.
Of course he hadn’t intended to gaze into the sands again, it was always bad luck to gaze into your own future. He knew that, he had been taught it. Ingrained into the fibre of his very being ever since he was a kit. Yet as he lay there in his hammock, Sathien’s soft breathing above him, Vol’dai’s snores from the corner of the room, he felt the need. The itch that had become all too familiar since the loss of his caravan.
“I already know my own death. I must secure my vengeance.” It was his mantra, oft repeated to himself. Over and over until the words had become a habit. Just one more vision, that’s all he needed.
Taking a deep breath, Mihro raised the bowl to his mouth, drinking the still-crackling mixture beneath the night sky. Almost immediately the claustrophobic view of Grizzly Hills was replaced with a wide open desert, and within that desert, things started taking shape.
As always the entire vision was shaped from the sands he had taken into himself. Tall spires raised before him. The hills, perhaps? He thought to himself. Amongst those spires, a battle took shape, and at the centre of it all, a Vulpera, about to recieve a mortal arrow. This was not himself, this was another Vulpera, masked and with tattered ears, still struggling from a wound. His cape was blood red, standing out within the dream.
Muzai. The cloak. He must not wear red. This is what I had to see.
Hoping against hope as always, Mihro turned away, wanting to wake.
He was not so fortunate. The vision behind him was a familiar face by now. Himself, choking on his own blood. My death. Once again he looked younger than before, slightly more tan replacing the grey within his fur, his eyes a little more filled with vigor. This was the cost of his vision, his burden to bear, each one bringing his death ever closer.
The cost of vengeance.
Mihro woke on the balcony of Conquest Hold. His fires long burnt out, shivering from the cold. Sands, it’s cold here. He gathered what was left of his ritual ingredients and returned to his bunk, sparing only a moment to check for red cloaks within Muzai’s bags before returning to his hammock, falling asleep to the gentle sound of Sathien’s breathing above him.
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Thumbs up for the second best war mongers.
We’ve been hanging around Grizzly Hills the past few days, fighting night elves and worgen and just generally preparing for Trautfizzle’s campaign (that starts TODAY even). Exciting stuff all around! maybe the forums will actually show me as being in this guild one of these days also
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The tears had come unbidden, but out here, atop Conquest Hold they flowed freely. For days now, Mihro had been drifting in and out of reality, his mind constantly returning to the battle in the hills.
And the nightmares, despite it having only been two nights ago, they felt relentless. It was different to his visions, and death was no stranger to him. But the nightmares were far more visceral, more caricatured, and yet more real.
He watched Thorn stabbed through the chest by a Night Elf, her visage twisted in a mockery of a snarl, lips stretching beyond what was natural with rows of razor teeth lining her mouth. The elf then turned on Aeini, choking the life from her as she cried out his name. He fled past Coa’s body, ripped from groin to sternum, and Mawi slumped against a tree with a thousand knife wounds in his throat. Sathien lay in the grass, her ribcage crushed and crumpled in on itself. Muzai and Vol’dai were further down the path, both with laughter still lining their faces, both riddled with arrows. And at the end of the river of blood, he found Itzama’tul, his greatsword broken in two, his body lying beneath the pike upon which his head was mounted.
This was the nightmare that would not leave him. And now, after the dead had swarmed both the Caravan and the Alliance outside Silverbrook, it entered his mind yet again.
Not a nightmare. My failure.
The cruel thought floated throughout his mind. Had he only looked for ways to protect his friends, he may have saved them all a great deal of pain, and so many of them would not have almost died that night.
Swiping viciously at his own face, Mihro tried to stand once more, only to be greeted by another wave of sobs. His chest heaving, gasping for air, the faces of the Undead and the Alliance laughing, mocking him for his weakness. He had to be stronger, more loyal. He had to look for the future of his friends in the sands, not just his own vengeance.
Another excuse, anything to feed the urge. To scratch that itch.
Too weak to learn real magic, so you rely on cursed visions.
The sands will be your doom.
A final sniff, another angry sob, a punch at the metal floor, and a curse at his own stupidity as he rubbed at his now-pained fist, and Mihro pushed himself to his feet.
“Today is not the day I die.”
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Blood.
So much blood.
It was a wonder how much blood one troll could produce. But no matter how much he tried, Thorn couldnt move to help. He was crippled. His mind too weak to hold off the mental maipulation and he had no option but to watch his comrade twist in pain.The troll that was laying before him began to change.
His ears became shorter. His skin paler. His eyes a glowing green.
His features began to change until he was a troll no more . He was no longer in the fields of Northrend but in a lavash Silvermoon bedroom where the smells of nature had been replaced with sulphur and perfume. All sadness and frustration vanished from Thorn’s mind, his rational though dissapearing and being replaced with seething anger as he stood above his sleeping father.He then stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again.
A mindless rage taking over him.
Blood splattering up his face as his daggers slashed through flesh, organ and bone alike, carving the elves chest into a concaved mess. The only thought in his head was the burning need to end the life below him.
He needed to die.
He stabbed faster, with each twist aiming to be more deadly than the last.
Each stab releasing years of torment and abuse.
Time became but a distant consept as he stabbed for what felt like hours, his head filled with voices of rage and anger…until there was no more.
Just a deadly silence.
And blood.
So much blood.Thorn blinked, the fields outside Conquest Hold coming back into vision as a tear fell down his blood stained cheek.
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He felt the direhorn impale his side. His eyes didn’t quite believe the sight at first. It had pierced his body clean. His consciousness escaped him.
When he opened his eyes once more, he gasped. The grounds of the Necropolis spanned before him, darkened as Nazmir always was. He glanced down at his own form. Spectral. Something urged him to move forwards. He could only comply. The entrance drew ever closer. It suddenly dawned upon him that he knew what it meant. He was dead. Of course. It all made sense now.
He wondered how the others were doing on the banks of the Grizzly Hill shoreline. But his thoughts were interrupted as he passed into the dark entryway of the Necropolis. He was amazed by the place. Truly, this was a place he could spend his afterlife in peacefully.
A voice called to him. He wasn’t sure what it said. Then the words entered his mind.
“You’re bein’ called back. Consider yourself lucky, devotee o’ mine.”
He had heard the voice before. He knew what it meant. Then he felt his spirit ripped from the place.
He opened his eyes. He could taste blood. A Zandalari knelt before him, cheering and jeering at his sudden awakening. He was back in the world of the living. He was back in Grizzly Hills.
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Elder Bag’rok felt guilty for being unable to save the Vulpera, Mihro. It’s been a while since he saw a loss like this, or rather, what remained in his memory.
After long he had fought in a battle alongside soldiers, which led to captives and losses. This one, and being told that Loyalists took him, reminded him of Gul’dan and his betrayal when the Horde was about to strike at Lordaeron in Second War. Seeing Thar’zog, it reminded him further of those old days.“The Hand of Fate will enact revenge, one way or another. No blood remains in vain, and the traitors will fall. For the Horde.”
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I loved it when i killed you, much respect to this guy.
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Rly good RP from these guys
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The old Warlord stood in the back, supported by Bag’rok. Despite the pain coursing through his body he’d insisted on seeing Mihro’s funeral - his cremation.
The embers had consumed the vulpera Soothsayer’s body, and yet he could not take his gaze off of him. The all too familiar feeling of rage filled the orc’s body once again.
A voodoo doll attuned to a certain dwarven Thane was the temporary focus of this rage. The thumb of the Warlord pressed into the chest, holding it in for a couple of agonising seconds. Then he released, and spoke.
“Loyalist. Alliance. They brought us here.”
“They will all die for this.”
BIG thumbs up to the loyalists we fought earlier. We took a heavy beating and a big loss…
But know that we’ll come back to repay that tenfold!
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Its been very cool to fight against you people in the campaign, thanks alot of an epic time
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