[H/RP] <The Jagged Spear> Horde Adventurers

[Steelbreaker-argent-dawn (Steelbreaker)]

The day was already closer to the evening than anything else when the war council finished their meeting in the Razor Hills. The motivational speech was voiced and basic information shared. There was drinking and probably sparrings afterwards, however I didn’t stay for long enough to see it. The group I have joined decided to focus on rather… unusual task. They were to help in recovery of one that introduced himself as Dave.

Paralysed, slightly sassy Undead that apparently draws a lot of satisfaction from well and properly written reports. I managed to meet others too but I still know too little.

The Jagged Spear, how they…. we call ourselves, moved North from the Orgrimmar near boards of the Azshara. There we were to meet peculiar Forsaken dealing with body parts.

The crates and the shallow graves were filled with pieces of the fallen. Those that were our enemies and those that were allies in the battle for Lordaeron. There was no respectful burial, memorials or anything similar, not even properly closed coffins.

We needed to collect entire body in the good state. The Goblin that assisted us was throwing parts around as if she was searching through box full of shopping goods. Others chatted almost idly. Raincaller having more wisdom than any of us set ablaze one of the corpses that still hold taint of the blight over it. Most likely preventing another Laorderon in the middle of Orgrimmar.

So we started collecting body pieces as if we were collecting outfit of sorts that would match. It was disturbing to say the least even if I have dealt with such for years now. Sight of corpses, dismembered bodies is something man of war have seen but it never lose its gruesome and bothering nature. I had no problems disconnecting and connecting parts, checking their state, working with others and yet some sort of uncertainty lingered.

Upon opening yet another crate I felt even more uneasy.

With each opened box I thought about seeing Lars. My dear Lars. His unattached arms, his severed head, his torn to pieces legs… Each part could be one of his and I would have recognised it. Another box, perhaps this time I will find his thin, almost deprived of the skin, thin fingers.

Every since the Siege I was not able to contact him.

If corpses could speak perhaps they would tell me what happened.

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

Hey beautiful people of AD.

A small reminder that recruitment is still open and we are looking for active team players, in particular Troll, Goblin, Pandaren and Nightborne, however if someone has another race that may fill a gap in our ranks we may shift slightly.

We look forward to hearing from you!!!

[Steelbreaker-argent-dawn (Steelbreaker)]

Despite the night enveloping the camp many were still awake celebrating the victory they achieved. However the price was great for such, many have fallen on both sides and many suffered wounds. Including Steelbreaker that was patched up by shadow magic by one of the shadow weavers. He would almost fall to the Dog of the Alliance if it wasn’t for one peculiar Undead Elf. She was singing at night. Her disturbing, hollow songs and shrieks were awakening alliance soldiers. The battle for Azerite on the isle was fierce and despite being outnumbered the Horde fought back, the front line moved back and forth. The Death Knight saw many soldiers, menders and even poens bloodied but relieved, feasting and celebrating victory before going home.

Steelbreaker used one of the portals to Orgrimmar provided by some nightborne spellweaver. It did not take him long to call upon Nyks, grabbing necessary items and retreat somewhere quiet, away from the noises of the City. Founding secluded place he required to calm his mind and take care of himself. As he said to Raincaller he did not need sleep, yet even he required regeneration. After such battle it was necessary and the bones despite shadow mending still caused pain in his upper arm.

Steelbreaker’s hands focused on removing armor, cleaning himself, changing his clothes, making sure that blood, dirt and gore are removed. He would bandage any wounds applying antiseptics, prepared beforehand necrotic miasma was placed into more severe openings. The Death Knight felt drained yet he had to make sure no decay starts to spread. The embalming fluid that he crafted was also applied and he drank one vial as precaution, doing so rather regularly.

The carving dagger, usually hidden around one of his legs, founds its way into his hands as he moved it between his fingers staring somewhere in the distance. He was hungry for the battle that day and his addiction was sated, even more than he could have asked for. Sometimes he believed that he had seen enough wars for one life and yet he couldn’t escape it. His addiction, disgusting, never allowed that. What better target he could chose but enemies of the Horde.

He run his finger over sharpened edge of the weapon and flesh split all the way to the tiny bone of his thumb. Even if he could feel pressure against his body there was no pain nor cold feeling of the dagger, no blood… Steelbreaker eyed the cut realising that he hurt himself and placed thumb against single rune over the blade. Necromantic energies connected split leaving but thin, fading line behind, yet another scar on the body that was unable to regenerate. His skin was unnaturally pale and withered, maybe ten more years and the hand could turn into skeletal one.

His mind trailed to the war against the Burning Legion.

Steelbreaker continued his routine after each battle putting on fresh clothes, keeping himself occupied when he washed his dark hair. The war…

People say that the war against Burning Legion was different, easier. The enemy was out there like from some sort of book, the great evil one, willing to conquer Azeroth. When he hears such he wonders if those people really took part in the battles. So many corrupted by the Legion, drawn by the promise of power or survival. His hands clenched in fists when he remembered felsworn child that they… he had struck down. The innocent one as they say. It never stopped coming back.

He remembered burnt villages and eggs of Araanasi broodmother exploding within bodies of young Tauren. The fights against Sirens and crashing in the Northrend in terrible chase after Dreadlord. Betrayed on the Zeppelin… there were so many, too many. It was not an easy war. He disagreed with the young Tauren that said it “did not count”.

It all counts.

He remembers it all.

Today was victorious but the war continued. This time war against the Alliance.

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

The gang have landed in Silvermoon for our next campaign. Any of you belf guilds out there, do feel free to come and interact. We stick out like a sore thumb

[Frostherald-argent-dawn]

Rukkha ditched me into Silvermoon and now Kara is lost. Send help.

[Rukkha-argent-dawn (Rukkha)]

Rukkha watched the shoveltusk skull placed between herself and the campfire. The soft flickering light made the etched patterns in the bone move and shift. The Shadow inside it almost seemed to seep out from the empty eye sockets. The presence of the Dark Ranger was a sharp spike of worry in her gut. The implication that there were other shadowy eyes watching, out in the surrounding forest, or within the tower of Tranquillien itself, even. The Dark Ranger, who had seen the Warband’s actions. Had seen them let a Void Elf live. Would it matter to Horde high command that the woman had been corrupted against her will, and had no intent to be their enemy? Worse still, the family who had left Silvermoon to stay with their Void-corrupt father. Whether they’d be seen as traitors or not, and hunted with black arrows through the forest.

And the Jagged Spear was caught in the middle of it. Bloodfang had said time and again that she trusted the warband to make their own decisions, their own judgements on the right things to do in situations like this. But how could there be no consequences for it? Rukkha remembered their conversation at the formation of the unit, how she had told the elder warlord she would not follow orders that took her over the line of decency. Not after Undercity. “Then draw your own line,” the woman had calmly drawled.

The Dark Ranger had shown no inclination to get involved with either altercation with the corrupted Sin’dorei. If she was in the area to investigate the same thing as the Spear, then she was putting in little effort. Simply watching them. And letting them know they are watched.

“We’ll need to be careful,” She mumbled to the skull. Some of the Warband, she knew, held no trust or love for those a Dark Ranger would report to. And had been vocal about it, herself included. That in itself was a problem, when the undead elf had stepped out of the shadows and her instinct had been to destroy her. To destroy a fellow agent of the Horde.

The cracks were starting to show.

Her duty would be what it always was. Keep everyone alive, united, and focussed on the task at hand.

[Margrosh-argent-dawn (Margrosh)]

Bloodfang smiled to herself as she gingerly stepped over the decorations littered down the stairs to her office. How proud she could be of her taskforce. She reached the top, moving for the key to her office a deep growl rumbled. Bloodfang’s old retired Tiger, Ifrit, raised their hackles, glaring at the door to the office that had been left an inch open.

She knew Zizabelle would never leave the office unlocked, even in her most disembodied stupors. There was no sign of tampering around the lock, so someone who knows what they’re doing.

Bloodfang’s smile had faded as she reached for her spear. Ifrit continued to growl as a warning to any intruders while Bloodfang slowly eased the door open with the end of her spear. The room was dark, the candles had burned out. Debris from the festivities strewn about the room.

Ifrit locked his eyes on a hooded figure the other side of her desk. There was no way it didn’t realise the two of them were stood there, but they continued to rifle through her desk all the same.

Bloodfang echoed Ifrit’s growl. “Cease your actions, witch.”

The figure froze, aside from turning their face upwards, revealing their blood red eyes and pallid gray flesh. An elf in a former life, but now only Dark Ranger.

“You have no business here.” Bloodfang spat her words out, which she regretted. Now that she had shown she was not about to immediately attack the Dark Ranger noticeably relaxed. At least now they could talk frankly.

“Of course I have business here. You are a member of the Horde are you not? And it is my charge to ensure that all civilians are safe and well. As is the Dark Lady’s will.” The Dark Ranger donned a fake smile that made Bloodfang sick to her core.

“Though as a civilian, raising a taskforce of elite horde combatants outside of the Horde’s military… Perhaps you do not need protection… Or perhaps–”
“Cease speaking in ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybes’, Witch.” Bloodfang barked at the ranger. “Tell me what you are doing in -my- offices, why you’re rifling around -my- things.”

The Dark Ranger clearly didn’t like this, offended by the interruption she frowned. Standing straight and lifting a single sheet of paper from Bloodfang’s desk. “I have been sent from Horde High Command to investigate ‘The Jagged Spear’, an elite task force that has thus far eluded the command of the Horde Military, thanks to the virtue of your actions in aiding the Horde’s purpose.”

She put the paper down and locked eyes with Bloodfang, with a silent confidence that made Bloodfang anxious for what she was going to say next.

“That was until their most recent forray to Quel’danas… My homeland… Where they allowed in total five traitors to evade their grasp. Fortunately I was there to stop the escape of one particularly threatening warlock… But the others… Well after your taskforce had failed to take the Dusktreaders captive, your taskforce saw fit to stop and interrogate my motives… Instead of pursuing their quarry.”
Bloodfang’s features creased. “So what, you’re here to close us down? You should know you’re not the first–”

“By no means do I wish to cease your operations, Shanzi. No, I just wish to ensure that these mistakes are not made in future… Do you realise the impact of letting just four traitors to the Horde free? It will have a knock on effect, that I simply wish to ensure does not happen again.”

Bloodfang sneered as she’s interrupted. “You’re speaking a lot of ‘I’. Yourself.”
The Dark Ranger smiled keenly, as though she was eagerly awaiting to reveal something. “As is said, it is -my- charge to watch over civilians and ensure their safety. So -I- will be observing your affairs until further notice.”

No… How could this have slipped past my notice

Ifrit expressed Bloodfang’s internal anger growling deeply. “You have no right to follow my people.”

And of course the Dark Ranger was prepared for that too. Producing a scroll from her quiver, a violet ribbon with a wax seal which she delivers to Bloodfang’s hands.

“Royal decree from Horde high command.” She said as matter of fact, with a blank expression. Bloodfang did not need to read the decree to know she spoke truth. What benefit would there be to lying about it.

“You mean Forsaken high command.” She growled, though no words she spoke could reverse the command.

“Yes, but they are one in the same… No matter how your kind protest.” the Dark Ranger offered one final smile before whisking away.

“I’ll be in touch” the words lingered in the office, as the scroll crumpled in Bloodfang’s clenched fist.

[Daelthos-argent-dawn]

The book smelled old. Not musty or unpleasant, that dried up moldy smell that could often be found consuming these kind of timeworn tomes – vaguely sour and stale to the senses. It was a magical kind of old. Deep-rooted arcane and lingering rich mana. Familiar. There was history and ethereal knowledge and all of it basted with a mild sense of fel that made Daelthos’ ears twitch just a little at the tip. The book reminded him of Aethos in many ways; the scent, the familiarity and homeliness. It was comforting to work on whilst he figured out his bearings and his standing among his new companions. Like having a friend in the room.

He tipped his head to the left a little, as his finger ran down the twisted, broken spine of the book. The damage was on the more severe end of the spectrum, but no so bad that it could not be adequately repaired. It just needed a little attentive care, a little extra time. In truth, Dael found himself quietly welcome for the distraction the elven mage had given him. There was only so much more rumour hunting and research into long-distance scrying he could stomach in such a short period. His more nurturing hobby – and a little self-reflection on his present – was most definitely what the doctor had ordered.

With an exorbitant amount of care, Daelthos pressed the sharp scalpel into the book, just a little past where the spine met the hinges of the pages. It was slow, but calming work, a pastime he had pursued casually for several decades almost as an alternative to his more usual meditations. Rarely did it fail to put his mind in a cheerful mood in days so frequently encumbered with broody angst, sorrow and loneliness.

Dael’s thoughts wandered to the Spear as he worked. The two elves – Aethos and “Thorn” – so opposite in nature and behaviour, but to whom Daelthos both quickly and genuinely found himself enjoying the company of. Much of the credit to his current comfort in the Spears after only a short span of time went to these two and he could only hope the fondness was mutual. In Rukkha he could see the potential for a steadfast friend, though he would be the first to admit he was initially worried about how she would perceive him. As one by one the multitude of stories on his corruption and supposedly selfless acts of sacrifice tumbled out of him, he found himself grateful for her positive response when it eventually came. Sancen was another that came to mind. Daelthos was growing fond of her too, even if she was quite confusing to him. He found her difficult to read and half the time wondered if he was an irritation to her but nonetheless enjoyed her presence and hoped to get to know her better in time.

As the ruined spine was parted from the rest of the book, he pushed it aside and began to inspect the cloth binding for repair, pleased to see that the hinges were in useable condition. He had already prepared a replacement spine, so began the easier job of removing the left over securing of the previous binding, tongue half sticking out as he concentrated. For the first time in a long time, he was not thinking about the Initiative. Daelthos was just happy.

[Blõodfang-argent-dawn (Blõodfang)]

Here is the intro story into our next campaign…

In The Eyes

The pair locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, one set a faded golden hue, the other brown and full of angst.

Although Larsador stood there in all his elven glory, radiating Light and not looking a day older than he was all those years ago, Bloodfang looked quite the opposite. Age and war had withered the Orc into a fragile looking woman, her face carved with wrinkles and dark circles alike. Although her face showed a wartorn matriarch, her demeanor still brimmed with confidence, and she held herself strong.

“You look well,” Spoke the elf, his voice breaking the silence.

“As do you, Larsador.”

The Sin’dorei stood tall behind his desk as his golden eyes settled on the large tiger at Bloodfangs side.

“I see he is getting old.” Larsador gestured towards the beast who seemed to huff in return. “And still just as arrogant.”

Bloodfang broke a smirk. “Maybe that is why the two of you never got on. Too much in common.”

“Dor Ano! Harsh words!” The elf’s face broke into a smile as he exclaimed, and the air between them eased.

“This new unit of yours. They did well. You seem to have them on the right track.” Larsador’s tone was nonchalant as he pulled an expensive looking bottle of whisky from his drawer and poured himself a glass. He offered the bottle out to Bloodfang.

“I’m glad they impressed you. They have taken to it all quickly and it is a pleasure to see.” She waved her hand at the bottle in refusal.

Larsador placed the drink back in the draw before responding.“Bringing back memories?”

Bloodfang frowned in at that, averting her gaze from his.

“Sorry. I meant fond ones.”

“No, no. I understand.”

A brittle silence settled between the two.

“Larsador, there is a situation and I need your help.”Bloodfang blurted out. Larsador raised an eyebrow in response.

“The Forsaken High Command have sent a Dark Ranger to watch over the unit. She is attempting to clamp down on how I run things in The Spear. Up until now we have been able to avoid being forced to take on tasks we don’t agree with, but now…now it’s becoming difficult to work around.” Worry washed over Bloodfang’s eyes.

Larsador walked over to the door of his office and slowly closed it, sealing the room from the outside world. The mood of the room shifted.

“This Dark Ranger, what has she done so far?” Larsador spoke, his voice more direct than before.

“Nothing yet. She just looms there, watching. She hasn’t taken action but every move is being observed.I feel like a prisoner”

“And are you doing anything for her to have concern about?”

“No, of course not, but that isn’t the point Larsador. It’s not about what we are doing but about what she will make us do. Surely you understand this?”

Larsador said nothing, averting his gaze. She narrowed her eyes at him, taking his silence for an answer.

“What do I do?” Bloodfang asked.

The elf ran his finger around the rim of his glass, his eyes on the amber liquid inside.

“You solidify your roots within the Horde.”

Bloodfang raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you not think that is what I have been doing?”

“Yes, but not fast enough.” His eyes finally met hers. “Having your unit here made something clear to me. You have something good there with those fighters, but you have gotten soft and slow in your age, two qualities that make you easy to push aside when the time comes.”

Bloodfang snarled at him. She knew his words were true.

“That’s not fair for you to say.”

“Fair? It doesn’t matter what is fair. It’s about what is the truth.”

“You don’t know what the truth is. We haven’t seen each other for over three years.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“You think it’s mine?-”
“Yes, I do. What happened to the hunter I ventured across Northrend with? The orc I watched lead the Horde to countless victories? Where is she?”

“I…”

“She couldn’t even be bothered to accompany her unit out of Orgrimmar to-”

“I was ashamed!”

Her voice cut Larsador off, echoing around the room. The large tiger flared up. “I brought shame to the Horde. To you. To all of you. How could I show my face again? How?”

Bloodfang’s voice cracked on her final word, her eyes glinting with a rage. In contrast, Larsador smiled at her as he swirled his glass, pointing a finger at her.

“There’s that warrior I remember you as.” Bloodfang huffed at him in response. “What’s done is done Shanzi, you have to let that go. Use it to drive this unit to success and not make the same mistakes. I know you want to work alone and protect this unit from the outside threats, but alone you will be pushed aside and manipulated with ease.”

Larsador made his way over to the old orc who turned herself away from him. He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“You need more followers. More support from the people that follow your cause. The more support you have, the stronger you stand and the harder you are to push over.”

“But who? I cut my ties with most of the military after I stepped down and they have mocked me ever since. They won’t give me their support and trust ”

Larsador paused, gently turning her, forcing her to meet his golden eyes. “They may not, but you know three people who will…”

A silence settled as the thought played across Bloodfang’s mind. “Do you think they will listen?”

“Some will be harder than others to convince, granted, but you won me over didn’t you? And I’m the most stubborn all of us. Your words, of course”

She scowled back at him and he smirked at her.

“If you want this unit to stand as strong and firm as your last you will need the same connections and support you had back then. They will look beyond your past mistakes if your unit can show them the better future you invision.”

Their eyes stayed fixed on each other. Larsador’s glowing a brilliant gold, and Bloodfang’s with a new fire ignited behind them.

“Then it seems I have some friends to contact.”

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

This is a serious guild, we promise…

It is a well known fact that all Blood Elves take pride in their hair. It is part of who they are, a part of their genetic makeup that summarises their whole being. A Sin’dorei without hair is a Sin’dorei no more. So the day that he was forced out of Quel’thalas and into the fields of the Eastern Kingdoms was the day that he cut his long elven hair from his head, renouncing his name and leaving his life as Lysandres behind to become “Thorn”.

To him it was more than just the action of cutting hair, it was a symbol of him letting go of his past mistakes and starting fresh on a new journey. A journey to becoming a better person, and because of this he took pride in making his hair as different as he could from his other elven brethren. He ensured that it was kept short and was thick and matted rather than soft and wavy. He made sure it had a wiry texture by not washing it for days, weeks, months on end. Shampoo and hair care were foreign words to him now. He had even began to grow fond of the lice that inhabited his locks, giving the most familiar ones individual names. Samson. Delilah. And even though others would frequently comment on his hair and how revolting it was, he didn’t care as to him it made him who he was today and separated him from who he was back then.

But not anymore. The young elf sat underneath a large leaf deep within the Tangled Cleft, and whether it was to hid from the local druids or to hide from his comrades, he sat there hidden in a shadowy veil. The rain pouring from the leaf waterfalled off in front of him, and it echoed the water still dripping from his hair that fell over his face. Smooth, clean, shiny hair that matched that of one of Silvermoon’s finest. All he had built up had been stripped away in a matter of minutes as he was pinned down and abused, not by the enemy, but by his own friends. They had stripped him of who he was, and he was too weak to stop them.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, his hands locked in front of them. He looked towards his hands and opened them, revealing a tiny louse that wriggled in his palm. Samson. A brief smile crosses the elf’s face as the rumble of thunder crashes overhead.

[Rukkha-argent-dawn (Rukkha)]

A week ago~

The makeshift heap of furs was good enough. The shaman had left her body behind in far worse places than this before. After the hike up the mountain, it was practically welcoming. She took a few slow breaths, feeling her heartbeat begin to slow. Her aunt had once told her that in this state her pulse only moved once or twice a minute, like a beast in deep hibernation. Not something the orcish body was built for, but it hadn’t killed her yet.

Feeling her mind begin to float free, Rukkha focussed on setting her destination. Either a person or place that she had a strong bond to. She wanted Bloodfang, but for all the new spark of loyalty she was growing for the older woman, picking out the ex-warlord’s soul among thousands was beyond her as yet. Orgrimmar, though. Orgrimmar was easy. She pictured the shape of its valleys spread below her, points of light and memory marking a constellation of thought. A crowded leatherworking shop, bright with love and yelling. The shores of the Southfury winding beyond the city walls. A small hut in the Cleft, where she’d never thought she’d be happy, but was. The Wyvern’s Tail, memories of long nights drinking with comrades layered over each other like the shadows of a hundred night’s campfires.

It was the Barracks she needed. The crashing of blades on the wooden dummies, soldiers lined up and waiting, waiting for the Legionnaire to put them through another fresh hell. Your Will, my hands. Reattaching a severed finger as blood splashes against her mouth. Never tell them you’re not good at reattachments, just promise it will be fine. Punching Draggak in the face, because his nose had set wrong and it was the easiest fix. The staircase she’d walked up, run up, trudged up in despair, in eagerness for a new battle-
Her boots touched wood. The walls painted themselves into being around her, and she was there. Bloodfang’s office door before her.

“Warlord, are you in?” Rukkha called out, since knocking would be useless.
The door was opened by the goblin Zizzabelle, barely looking up from some garishly coloured magazine and sucking a popsicle. Idly glancing over her shoulder to wave Rukkha inside, she dropped the magazine and fled with a shriek down the stairwell. The shaman could not hold back a laugh, which died as she met the gaze of ex-Warlord Shanzi Bloodfang sat at the desk before her. The elder showed no alarm at the translucent apparition of the orc before her, merely raising one eyebrow quizzically. The tiger curled under the desk was another story, his fur standing on end with a growl rumbling from his jaws. Bloodfang leaned down to rub his ears.

“Come now, Ifrit, it’s only Raincaller. Although perhaps less of her than we are used to seeing. A projection?”

Rukkha nodded impatiently, approaching the desk. She leaned her hands against the surface by habit, remembering halfway to not let her spirit form phase through the surface. There was no danger in it, but it tended to worry people.

“Yes. It’s about the Whiteclaw movement, you must have heard of it? It’s time we talked about that.”

Bloodfang sighed softly through her chipped tusks, steepling her fingers. Her warm brown eyes watched the ghost of her shaman, unreadable.
“What I have heard is a bundle of half-rumours of trouble stirring. Secret meetings of rebels, some have said. Not the sort of thing I condone, and not the sort of talk I want anywhere near the Spear. You know as well as I that we are watched.”

Rukkha grinned cockily. “Yes, by that Dark Ranger. Who is miles from here, stalking us through Highmountain, so here and now, we can talk freely. It’s not a rebellion, but a momentum- to aid the Horde. To lift us higher. Which is what you wanted, and what you promised us when we signed on.”

Bloodfang rose to her feet, moving faster than the younger orc would have thought possible. She stepped around the desk, stopping when they were a foot apart to look steadily into Rukkha’s eyes. The long years of war had not bowed her shoulders, the shaman having to tilt her chin upward to meet her gaze.

“I hope you are not this flippant with matters in the field.” She paused for a moment. “If our Warband’s name were to become tainted with anything untoward, we would be powerless in moments. There would be no further good we could do the Horde, and we will all have been wasting our time. We are not in a position to isolate ourselves by choosing the wrong enemies. Those which cannot be toppled. You know this.”

“Just- hear it for yourself. Not from me. There’s a meeting on Saturday, in Stonetalon. Sunrock Retreat.”

Bloodfang narrowed her eyes, and nodded a fraction.

[Steelbreaker-argent-dawn (Steelbreaker)]

The darkness surrounded him and none expected such, the smoke of some strange magical properties have clouded his vision and mind alike. When he has awaken in different place he realised that for a long time he had felt fear again. It was not the usual worry that he sometimes had about success of mission or others to not get themselves killed. It was different and Steelbreaker believed that fear was gone for good. Like long time ago on the beaches of the Stranglethorn, now his own essence, his own magic that kept him going was surpassed by chains.

The chains. If there was one thing that could push Steelbreaker back to savage berserker state that he tried to fight against for so long then it were chains. He did not feel the cold touch of the metal but he knew the shape of loops and pressure it would make if he pulled them. It was natural that he tried to free himself, however the binding did not break, the Steelbreaker was not able to break the steel this time, ironically. It was enough of the time wasted for the Troll priestess to surge shadow magics.

With one swift motion she has slit Steelbreaker’s throat. He did not expect more than damage tissue, she could butcher him as much as she wanted but the pain he would feel couldn’t break him. However the shadow magic that followed made him change his mind very quickly.

It made him feel alive… and he regretted it so much second after as the pain of throat being cut surged through his head. As if someone was killing him over again. Steelbreaker struggled against chains and managed to break them thanks to mechanical arm he had, yet his enemy continued and shadows surged through his heart this time.

The pain was real, even if the wound was not there physically. The images flashed in front of him when he hung against chains shivering. The man standing at the shores cackling maniacally, the avalanche and blade of the other Death Knight.

Then the blind rage. He couldn’t remember much afterwards, when he started to register everything again he saw ashes of the troll Troll left between his fingers.

None will chain him.

Steelbreaker shook his head trying to threw any memories out of his head, now safe in the camp he was trying to steady himself during meditation. The berserker from the past was not him anymore, or so he tried to convince himself. He run fingers against cloth that bound wound on the neck, despite applying unholy miasma to connect tissues it will probably take day or two, and the scar will remain. He wondered how bad it must have been for others, he could hear Aethos screams and Rakka’Tikki barely made it out.

It seems that the Spears are easy to find themselves in troubles. And yet Steelbreaker was not the person to avoid action.

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

Had an awesome random interaction with the Hand of Agony yesterday as the Spear travel through the Eastern Kingdoms. Thank you again for letting us jump in :).

Recruitment is still just about open and we are very much looking for some troll mons, so do get in contact if you are interested.

[Daelthos-argent-dawn]

The silence of Duskwood was surprisingly satisfying. Though eerie and unpleasant through most of the hurried march in the haunted forest, once the safety of the shroud of shadows had been reached it had changed. For Daelthos, at least. Whilst the shamans grit their teeth, clenched their jaws and pushed back against the wards they hid within, it had been something that Dael had quite quickly relaxed into. It was familiar. Not quite homely and in truth a little stifling, but there was a feeling of safety that came with the familiarity of his kind of magic – and safe was a nice feeling right now. It helped as well that he could observe physical proof of the protections in action, as he watched a local zombie sway slightly in front of him.

Daelthos was sat on the cold grassy ground of the graveyard, only about a meter away from the undead. The creature couldn’t see him and seemed content to loiter passively for a while, which gave Dael the opportunity to just quietly observe it. A former human, that much was clear from the rusting armor that hung heavily from its skeletal body. He couldn’t help but wonder who this shambling horror of Duskwood used to be. Though years of erosion from the ground and from undeath had done its best to erase this former soul of identity, it still managed to endure in subtle ways. There was a wedding band, partially consumed by the rotting flesh it surrounded. A few symbols of the holy Light were discernible on parts of the plate by the remaining pauldrons. A paladin of some kind perhaps? Former resident of Brightwood? Daelthos sighed quietly and shifted his gaze down to the small trinket he was idly rolling around the fingers of his right hand, the very same symbol present upon it – carved into the wood.

Sancen was still absent, as she had every right to be. Daelthos could not even begin to imagine what she must be going through right now. Such revelations of memories long lost… They could not be easy to adapt to. He only wished he could have helped in some way, or gotten some assurances from anyone in Arathi that they’d make sure she stayed safe. Just a friendly eye to ensure she didn’t wander into Stromgarde suicidal. He mused briefly on perhaps returning to the warfront once they finished their business in Duskwood, but eventually concluded that she would not appreciate being babysat like a helpless child, so chose to do something else instead. With a brief pause of hesitation, Daelthos lifted the blessed carving up to his lips and quietly began to pray.

There was a lot he could wish for and ask and even as his mind pointedly pondered on how stupid he was currently being, the flickers of selfish demands floated past him. Redemption, perhaps. Healing. A fix for the fel rooted within him. Daelthos frowned at his inherent greed and self-centered thoughts and forcefully dispelled them; Sancen should be the one to benefit from this, a hopeful believer such as herself it was only right. He murmured his pleas for her and in her name into the little trinket, that she would be kept safe, find the peace she needed and come home soon.

The undead on the other side of the shroud looked at him, although not really. It’s mindless gaze went right through, observing nothing but empty space. Still, Daelthos took it as a hopeful sign, that perhaps that remnant of a paladin heard his wishes. That it might work. With a small nod, he pushed himself up to his feet and left the undead alone. It was time he went back to keeping everyone else in the Spear safe.

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

Thank you all for all the submissions. Recruitment is now CLOSED again.

[Merrin-argent-dawn (Merrin)]

Sounds like a fun guild!

[Blõodfang-argent-dawn (Blõodfang)]

The latest story in our Jagged Spear Adventures!!

The Mistress

“Look!. Look at me! I can’t even walk!”

The door to the offices swung open as Vivian was pushed in on a wheelchair, flailing about in angst. The wheel chair itself was being pushed by a young orc who looked as if he hadn’t slept in days and had sat through hours of her complaining. The orc brought the wheelchair to an abrupt stop causing Vivian to jolt forward with a grunt.

“Are you trying to kill me? Be careful!”

Bloodfang looked up from her desk, the shrill of Vivian’s voice seeming to have lost its effect on her a long time ago. Ifrit however seemed more affected and he growled at her dramatic entrance.

“You made it then?” Bloodfang calmly claimed as she closed the file in front her and took her glasses off.

“Of course I did. Why do you sound so surprised?” Vivian spat in response.

Bloodfang folded her arms, still sat in her chair. “Because you were in the heart of Alliance lands during the height of war. It’s not unreasonable to think that you may not have made it.”

“Well you misjudge my skills then Shanzi. Some of us don’t need to rely on beasts to keep us alive as we get older.” Vivian gestures to Ifrit who snorts in response.

“No, instead you rely on demons.” Bloodfang responded calmly, a hint of irony in her voice which caused Vivian to snarl back.

“That’s completely different. I don’t rely on them to keep me safe like you do with that beast. I use them as workers, subjects. I can fully defend myself.”

“But that didn’t happen Vivian, did it? My unit had to come and act as your bodyguards” Bloodfang pulled herself forward as she spoke.

Vivian followed suit in pulling herself forward in her chair. “Bodyguards? Then why am I like this? Huh? Some bodyguards. I nearly died Shanzi!”

“You are alive are you not?” Bloodfang responded sternly. “Look Vivian, you were foolish enough to camp out in Alliance lands. It was only a matter of time before you got caught. You are lucky my unit were there to get you out. If it wasn’t for them you wouldn’t be here now.”

“No. They got in the way.” Vivian shot back.

Bloodfang raised an eyebrow at her. “You really believe that.”

Vivian goes to protest but catches her self and pauses for a moment. “Okay, no I don’t, but still…”

“But still what?” This time Bloodfang’s voice rung out louder causing Ifrit to jolt up. “You are sounding very ungrateful right now. My unit helped you in your experiments, even though for many of them it went against what they stand for, but they trusted your intentions. They settled in dangerous enemy territory and dived headfirst into Silvercrook’s headquarters to save you. There is no “but still” about it.”

“You don’t know the half of what I have put on the line for this. You have no-” Vivian’s voice is cut off as she attempts to stand from the chair, causing her feet to collapse underneath her and she falls to the ground in a fragile heap.

In an instant Bloodfang dashes from behind the desk and towards the forsaken in an attempt to soften the fall, beating the now panicking young orc to her aid. He knew he would be getting fired for this.

“Don’t! I’m fine. I can do it myself.” Vivian waved in protest at Bloodfang’s help.

“No. Stop it. Put your pride aside. You are injured and you will accept the help.” Bloodfang spoke sternly to Vivian who grunted in response.

Silence set in the room as Bloodfang helped Vivian back into the chair, whilst the young orc shifted awkwardly. She made her way back to her desk, this time leaning on the front of it. She set her eyes on the forsaken infront of her who looked weak and helpless, the woman who she had bickered with endlessly for years now old and frail, being forced to strip herself of her pride. She began to think, was this what all forsaken were like? Fragile skeletons that hold onto their pride as it is all the have left? For the first time in her life she felt the smallest of understanding towards the Warchief’s questionable actions. She was holding onto that pride.

“What do you want then? Pay?” Vivian spoke avoiding eye contact, her voice now less aggressive and more horse.

Bloodfang furrowed her brow. “I don’t want your money. I want you back with us. Like it was before.”

Vivian snorts.

“I know we never saw eye to eye, but you can’t deny we got the job done. TheSpear have made a good start at creating a solid foundation, but you are the missing puzzle piece. We need the knowledge and support of the Forsaken. Your Forsaken.”

Vivian brought her gaze up to meet Bloodfang’s. “Aren’t you against the Forsaken like everyone else?”

“No.” Bloodfang spoke firmly. “The Forsaken are and always will be part of the Horde. I may not agree with all of your Warchief’s actions, but I know she doesn’t speak for all the Forsaken.”

Vivian tilts her head. “Well you know my thoughts on the matter” Her facial expression saying it all. “Okay. So say that I am in. What do you hope to gain from just me? I may have influence within the Forsaken but am little use outside of that.”

A grin spreads across Bloodfang’s face.

“Oh, but it isn’t just you.”

[Steelbreaker-argent-dawn (Steelbreaker)]

Steelbreaker during his stay in Orgrimmar would circle mail box quite some time before he finally makes decision to send the message. The scroll secured by wax without any marks and tied with simple, black ribbon. The words are written in Forsaken language in elegant yet very simple way. The letter is adressed to Sancen Sleepgrove.

Dear Sancen,

The time will come when you will understand that what happened to you is not a curse. One day in the darkness you will understand that despite everything there is light even in creatures like us. There is no coming back from where we are and I understand you. I may not know how you feel exactly but I once was in your position. The time will help you, it is your best ally, it will numb the pain.

In time you will become stronger, I want to believe in that. You will find who you truly are amd that doesn’t mean finding your surname or ashed of the past. You become the one you want, your actions will determine who you are. Even if there are still questions I ask you to not lose hope. Stay strong because, in time, you will come in terms with your own existence. It is not easy and it won’t be pleasant walk forward, our existence is constant struggle with ourselves. We fight despite all odds. Imagine what sort of willpower you have just by pressing forward and on top of that you have not lost your faith in the right actions.

There will be questions and if you find the answers it will bring you pain, it all has for us. Finding out that our families are either gone or hating us, the Undead. That is why some call themselves Forsaken, abandoned even by their closest, forgotten by the world. However, seek the answers because they will help you understand who you truly are and eventually bring you peace. Do not give up so easily, as I have seen flames in your eyes.

In time, I hope, you will return and return stronger.

Signed:
Steelbreaker

[Thõrn-argent-dawn (Thõrn)]

A teaser story for our next campaign where we will be travelling to the frozen plains of Northrend.
Written by Margrosh and Rukkha.

A Team Meeting
The festivities of the Kosh’Harg buzzed healthily in the background as the plains of Nagrand rolled before Bloodfang. How she longed to race across them on the back of a wolf once more, spear in hand. Ifrit was out there somewhere chasing talbuk, but her old bones could never have kept up with the tiger.

The clank of metal rang harmlessly behind her as someone approached. “Half expected them to confiscate my sword. They must know it’s worth more than this entire mud-hut village.” Larsador smiled as he gently nudged Bloodfang with an elbow, but her wistful gaze could not be removed from the plains. “Feeling nostalgic, Shanzi?” he added, looking out to the fields too. Bloodfang hummed peacefully in response.

“It’s been some time since I’ve even been outside of Orgrimmar. And now I come to the very place I was raised. I can’t help but feel something.” She turned to show Larsador a smile. “And I’m glad I could see it with old friends.” As a response Larsador moved a hand around his comrade, giving her a sidelong hug. The old orc’s bones creaked under the pressure, but she appreciated it all the same.

It wasn’t too long until a familiar troll appeared. Rakka’tikki squatted lazily by their side as he swirled an exotic looking concoction held in a coconut. Bloodfang glanced briefly to him to acknowledge his presence before gazing out at the fields again. Typical for Larsador, he offered wit instead. “Could it be, the renowned Blood Guard? Shadow Hunter Raka’tikki? Relaxing at a festival?”

The troll huffed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah. Funny mon.” He sipped from a twirled straw sticking out of the coconut. “As it happens, my cousin told me dere were gon’ be a few wayward trolls up here that ah should have words wit’. And dem from Zandalar. So despite appearances, am busy as always.”

Larsador politely showed an interest in his goings on, but what started as small talk quickly fell into their old pattern of two friends sharing their tales and exploits. Bloodfang felt warmed by the background chatter, letting it wash over her. Dreaming of a simpler time. She closed her eyes as she basked in the breeze of her homeland and the presence of her comrades.

The impact of a hand falling upon Bloodfang’s shoulder pulled her out of her meditation. She looked up to meet the eyes of Winnoa and instinctively reached out and pulled her in to another sidelong embrace, as if their confrontation after what happened in Highmountain never was. Something bumped against her leg, and Bloodfang looked down to see her own reflection in Vivian’s goggles, still sat in a wheelchair. Bloodfang cupped her face affectionately too, to show appreciation for her presence.

“You seem at peace, Shanzi. It is a good look on you,” The tauren rumbled softly. The five of them were an island of stillness amidst the festival’s rowdy joy.

“I missed you all. Our time together.” Bloodfang watched an eagle circle overhead, exhaling softly. “After Argus, I felt so alone. Now, perhaps not.”

“Don’t let that lot hear you. They’ll think you’re soft.” Larsador nodded as a handful of the Jagged Spear raced past, whooping. The elf at their head seemed barely dressed only in feathers and paint.

“Dem ones look like dey beyond ‘tinking any’ting.” Rakka’tikki rolled his eyes.

Vivian cackled. “They remind me of Ironcleaver. Axe first into everything with a smile on his face. He would have enjoyed this place, too.”

“Ironcleaver,” Muttered Rakka’tikki, pouring a measure of his bright drink into the ground.

“Perhaps their revelry and your peace is premature, Shanzi.” Winnoa’s tone was dark as she gestured to the crowd. A single dark figure cut through the festival, striding towards the gathered comrades with glowing eyes under a dark hood. Blightwind. Bloodfang felt her face twist into a grimace of disgust as her companions fell silent. Raka’tikki stood straight and saluted the elf. The others remained motionless.

Bloodfang’s glare spoke her true thoughts, practically growling. She reached for her weapon, but felt the hand of Larsador on her wrist. The Sin’dorei seemed very still and calm. “You dare to show your face? Here of all places?” she hissed.

Celesia bowed her head. Some fake display of submission and respect. Liar. “I do not mean to intrude on the festivities,” Celesia uttered “As frivolous as it is to waste time while the Alliance advance in the war. But there has b-”

Vivian croaked like a grumpy frog. “Oh cram some mud down your throat, Elf. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that for the living, frivolity amongst your peers releases chemicals that promote trust and companionship- Aspects that are of utmost importance when it comes to determining chance of group survival on the field! And besides, if the Alliance had made some huge advance on the Horde we’d know about it.” She huffed, crossing her arms. Her wheelchair creaked defiantly.

“War is not won by huge decisive victories, Vivian. It is a constant battle, requiring constant vigilance.” The Dark Ranger reached behind herself as she spoke. Larsador released Bloodfang’s wrist, the old orc’s spear swiftly in her hands as she took a defensive stance in front of her friends. A hush fell across the surrounding festival goers. An attack at the festival would be a violation of Horde custom. Bloodfang would not be the first to strike, but she’d not be defenceless, either.

Celesia held out a white palm to keep Bloodfang at bay, as she revealed a thin file, which she presented. “I do not lack that vigilance. I have been watching Silvercrook closely after our repeated encounters with him and his underlings.” She handed the file to Raka’tikki, who started to look through it. Bloodfang watched Celesia silently, awaiting what she had to say.

“Silvercrook has put a lot of resources into heading North. Large expeditions will be being sent to the Borean Tundra and Howling Fjord in search for something. Something powerful.” She turned to look at Larsador, who frowned in return. “I’m sure I do not need to stress my concern, given his last excursion.” Larsador frowned a little harder, dipping his head.

“So what are they searching for? Spit it out.” Bloodfang demanded. Celesia simply motioned to Raka’tikki who had lifted his mask to read the notes. His eyes widening a little as he utters. “De Diviner… ”

Lifting one of the pages in the report, he looked at the reverse, then peered at Celesia. “Dis it? Where’s de rest?!”

“As I have not had any contribution in this task by the rest of you, there is little information about the nature or the whereabouts of this. Only what is there, and the fact that I have no doubt it will change the course of history, if it falls into the hands of the enemy… We must take immediate action. “

Bloodfang snarled. The witch thinks to instruct us on what we ‘must’ do. But all the same, Silvercrook had proven time and time again to be devious. If it was worth his investment, then the Horde would need to stop it. Looking Celesia up and down once, she grunted. The enemy of my enemy, she thought.

“They’ll need funding.” Larsador spoke with a matter of fact frown. Raka’tikki had already pulled a map of Northrend from his belongings, folding it over his hand, using his two fingers to track distance.

Celesia nodded. “I will be happy to discuss what resources are needed for the services of the Jagged Spear. On a more official basis” To which Larsador nodded.

“Then it will wait until the festival’s end.” Bloodfang stated. Celesia bowed her head once more, compromising. “We will contact High Executor Rotlip when we are ready to discuss this further.” To this, Celesia frowned. Bloodfang could tell that she wanted to offer rebuttal, but as the orc stared her down, with her companions at her side, Blightwind knew not to. Instead she nodded and took her leave silently, melting back into the crowd.

[Kump-argent-dawn]

Lok’tar! Saw Very good attitude from the members of this guild, a good bunch

Best of luck!