If you could either send me an in-game mail, or give me your tauren’s OOC name, I’ll sign you up for the team.
We currently have 2 more spots open, capping off at 10 roleplayers in total.
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A short update on our recruitment status.
I’ve decided to close off recruitment for time being, even while not filling out our 10 available spots. This due to the fact, that 1) I want to be able to shape individual stories with our current members, and to do so, bloating this roster with a whole 10 members, might complicate things too much, and 2) the hand of card system has proven quite effective, however, it is also complex and needs time for the roleplayers to adjust to it. Having too many unfamiliar with the system at the same time, would make combat slow down too much.
We’ll still be accepting applications, however, and as soon as recruitment opens again (likely after our current storyline), I will see to those who have applied.
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Yesterday night Saur’s Fang finally had the potentional to create rivalry. Through wicked voodoo they had to face one another in combat. Those who were amongst the first to attack surely will inspire ire. We tested the limits of our combat system to its full and let me say that it was great fun. Especially because my team won. Praise the sun! Now just to find that two-timing voodoo caster troll that has incurred this behaviour.
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Name: Lord Vynrad Morrowsun
Race: Sin’dorei
Specialization: Warlock, demonologist
Weapon of choice: Staff
Proficient with: Staff, blade.
Military record:
Service in the Farstriders: Promoted to ranger-lieutenant for actions against the Amani Tribe. Declared MIA during the fall of Quel’danas. Only to return to service during the dark days, resigned with honour.
Association with the Coven of the Crimson Circle: (Details unknown)
Service with the Section Twelve: (Details vague) Section Twelve part of the Spire, internal security apparatus. Reports state involvement in hunting and persecution of Cultists.
Service with Section Six : (Details vague) Section Six, part of Spire. Attached main Sin’dorei force assisting the rebellion. Rumored to have been involved in the death of several dark-shamans.
Service in the Sunsworn: Fought the burning Legion in Talador, later seconded to the Vol’jin’s headhunters in Tanaan.
Personality traits:
According to reports, a strange figure of a sin’dorei, often content to spend more time around other races than his own kind, with a particular fondness for orcs. However a firm dislike for trolls has been noted, a deep and bitter hatred as one described. To those who have fought with him, they spoke of a grim determination, and a calculating hatred for the foe.
Miscellaneous facts:
Known to be a collector, according to reports, he seems content to work though agents to inquire all manner of ancient pieces. Of recent his interest in ancient orcish clans has been noted.
Known to have a fluent knowledge of orcish, both written and spoken.
“The crippled lord.’’ seems to be a name attached to him amongst Sin’dorei society.
Short description: A Maimed elf, one of his ears entirely gone, another mostly missing. Reports tell of a face carved with a crude scar of a smile, and teeth barely more than stubs. Several fingers seem to be missing to.
Witnesses of his deeds:
Report compiled by Operative Blackmaw, collaborated with various horde agents.
Note: The Sin’dorei have been particularly tight lipped about this individual. To gather this much information required a though search and interviews with the few who might have known him.
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The first storyline of Will of the Warlords (WotW) is soon coming to an end. The good champions of the Horde have done well, uncovering the mystery of a Bronze Dragon’s sudden death in Brackenwall Village. Using both guile and a fair share of dumb luck, they prepare their final steps of this journey.
That means, we’re opening up for recruitment once more in WotW.
We have a total of 2 spots to fill.
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A dossier lies unopened upon the Legionnaire’s desk. No need to read it, he knows what’s there. The files of her latest exploits likely go unheeded.
Rukkha sat upon the jetty and dangled her feet in the Southfury’s cool waters. Orgrimmar loomed behind, its peaks and spikes stabbing up into the belly of the bright spring sky. Feralas and back had been a long ride, and in a dark corner of her heart she wasn’t certain it had been worth it.
The Whiteclaw had been kind, and honourable -of course. Their stated mission, to guard the Horde’s lesser settlements and uphold its old values, was noble. Worth doing. But fending off ogre attacks and splattering giant insects in some far jungle was doing nothing to keep hold of most of the Horde’s spirit.
Like the tauren warrior she had met last night. He’d stood boldly in Wyvern’s Tail, proclaiming the Forsaken as abominations, as less than people. The Banshee hag’s actions were causing a rift, poisoning the city with bile. And if everyone with the nerve to challenge such things exiled themselves, what then?
“You know who can make changes? Champions.” Words thrown down flatly before her by Legionnaire Tazkram. The old soldier had always been careful not to put his own feeling into things, letting others fill in the blanks as they wished. Did he really long for the change and hope that she did, or did he just need a mender for his unit and know her well enough to push her buttons?
The orc wiggled her toes against the river’s flow.
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If you are able to contact myself or any other WotW member online in the coming days, I will initiate the process to become a member. Otherwise check your mailbox in-game.
And with Kukulza, Rukkha and a yet-to-be-revealed here applicant, we’re closing for recruitment once more. Thank you for the interest!
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Chains
Gragorn WormgutWritten by Tazkram
Wormgut pushed the great wooden gate open and marched inside. The other three had already arrived, but as he came in, they grew silent, they dared not speak openly in front of him. With every step he took through the hall, they watched closely, judging him. “What?” Wormgut snapped at them. “What is it?”
Steelgrin raised a brow and shrugged, Ironfoot lowered his head, but Axehorn could hardly contain himself. He jumped from his chair. “I told, I told you this would happen, Wormgut! I told you, but you would not listen to me. Look at us now. We appear fools in the eyes of the humans, fools dressed in fancy clothes and plate, but nevertheless fools!”
Axehorn, the old git, always mouthing off. Lecturing all who would and would not listen. The ships, the sea, the lakes and even the rain filled puddles. No one was safe. Wormgut cringed at the sailor, then turned to walk alongside the wall.
There they hung, great and mighty. The warlord portraits. One of each of them. A pandaren artist had coloured his, the broad strokes nearly had him smiling. It was not a pretty depiction, he thought, but the point of portraits was not for the artistic expression. It was to show those powerful and mighty. Nobody ever drew the weak and undeserving. One next to another the warlords glared down, except for one empty spot in-between Ironfoot and Steelgrin. Where once had hung a portrait of Wolfshadow, was now a spotlessly clean square. Wormgut went and touched it. He shivered in excitement. The glare of the wolf had gone, and with it, he had broken the chains put on him. Soon all the council’s power would be his, and with it, his jailor would find a fitting end.
“The lap dog, the brown noser, the elf. The elf,” Axehorn underlined, as he continued ranting. “You and Wolfshadow, this is all your fault. Your stupid spat over nothing. This council was safe from the Banshee Queen’s direct influence. But now? An elf is coming, not just to watch over us, but to be part of our vote.” Axehorn slammed his fist down onto the table. His admiral’s hat nearly tilted off his head.
“I thought you were one for progress.” Wormgut remarked snidely, turning to face Axehorn. “Was it not you, who put the question of the clans to a vote?”
“This, this is not progress. It is destruction of our sanctity, of our autonomy, of our free-will.” The old sailor slapped his mug across the halfmoon-shaped table. As it hit the ground, the grog spilled out.
“Enough of this charade!” Steelgrin bellowed from his seat, spittle flying across the room. “We are not here to make new enemies, are we? We’re here to forge a greater future for the Horde. So calm yourselves.”
Silence fell upon the room once more. Axehorn’s resentment cooled little, but he sat back down in his chair. Wormgut could not help but feel a hint of amusement. He went and picked up the fallen mug from the floor, then made his way to his seat finally.
The old sailor sat opposite Wormgut at the table. Axehorn’s eyes peaked out underneath his hat, and lingered upon him, as he flipped the mug upside down and from hand to hand. Next to Wormgut sat Ironfoot, clutching his old and twisted cane. He too had turned his attention at Wormgut. The crippled, fat and weak-spirited warlord. Wormgut shivered at just the thought. How he had not been left in a ditch long ago, was a question nobody could answer. His beady little eyes followed the cup’s movement, as if he was entranced by it.
“Stop glaring,” Wormgut ordered.
“Yes, Wormgut,” Ironfoot replied modestly.
The only good thing to come from Ironfoot was his obedience. He had never spoken much, but the last year, he had grown even more docile during the council meetings. Wormgut loved it. No matter how much disdain Ironfoot had for him, he always backed him up in the end. How could he not? In fact, it was rare that Wormgut did not get his will through, now that Wolfshadow had been jailed for good. Steelgrin remained the only issue. The warlord who betrayed the Horde, had found it in him, to rise to the occasion, and play the voice of reason, even more than he did before Wolfshadow’s arrest. He had grown to be more than an annoyance recently, but it was only a matter of time, until Wormgut could sink his claws deeply into him. He had already made a case to Rottweld, and the overseer had approved. Once a traitor of the Horde, always a traitor. One conclusive vote against Steelgrin, and he would be removed from his position. And the best part? Steelgrin had no voice in the vote. It was only a question of time, before this council was under Wormgut’s control, and then, it could finally deal with shadow that loomed over the Horde.
“The new warlord.” Steelgrin started. “He has quite the resumé. Played an instrumental role in the downfall of the Amani Empire, by sketching out all the trolls’ movements, and singlehandedly taking down one of the greater Forest trolls. And in Northrend, without losing a single scout, he traced down both-“
Wormgut groaned loudly, interrupting Steelgrin. “His accomplishments in the past do not matter, it is what he brings to the forging of the future, right?”
“Don’t interrupt me, when I’m speaking.” Steelgrin replied sternly.
“What was his name? The elf, that is.” Axehorn had at last calmed from his earlier aneurysm.
“Did you not read the documents?” Steelgrin shook his head and gestured to the five pieces of paper before him. “It was only this little text.”
“The sea’s calling does not allow for such trifling matters.” Axehorn snorted, raising his head high.
“There’s nothing more important, than getting to know your new colleague.” Steelgrin picked one of his metal tusks. He always did that, when he was getting annoyed. “You must know of him, if you’re too work with him. One of the first things we must see to, is to accommodate his blindness.”
Blindness? Wormgut thought, still fidgeting with the mug. This cannot be the truth.
“You don’t seriously mean that, do you?” Wormgut questioned in a snarky tone.
“Of course I do, it says so in-“
Once more Wormgut interrupted. “You must be jesting. The Horde’s strained. The Alliance ready to pounce at us at every opportune moment, as if we are nothing but weak prey. And if not the Alliance, then infighting will tear us apart. We need strong leaders, whom can shoulder this heavy burden, not another bloody cripple. The Banshee Queen is playing us for fools, if she thinks this council will willingly accept one more obstacle.”
Ironfoot raised his gaze, but soon after lowered it again in defeat. Axehorn grunted and Steelgrin looked befuddled.
“Am I the only one who read the documents?” Steelgrin inquired around the table. First looking to Axehorn, who swiftly looked aside. Then to Wormgut, who glared back with his red piercing eyes. Lastly to Ironfoot, who finally confessed. “I did. I read them too.”
“What a surprise.” Wormgut said mockingly, then nudged Ironfoot’s shoulder. The warlord of paper, of course he had read it. He looked over the crippled man, then a smile spread across his lips. Maybe the blindness wasn’t so bad after all? One cripple was already easy enough to control, another, and a bit of Axehorn’s goodwill, then Steelgrin was out in the cold. Oh, I do suddenly feel all giddy , he thought. The new warlord could not make his entrance swiftly enough.
The gate creaked open, and in stepped a rotting figure. Rottweld was anything but pleasant to look at, and his smell was even worse, but at least he did not vomit out green nor purple bile. The rumour was, that his tongue had been taken from him, by a ragged group of bandits, before they had killed him for poor jokes and jests. Wormgut could hardly believe that this overseer, appointed to watch over the mighty warlord council, had been a fool in his former life. A fool he was though, easy to convince, if he felt it furthered his Queen’s interests.
Rottweld walked stiffly to the center of the room, standing right beneath the great chandelier that lit the room. The four warlords peered curiously at him. Perhaps the elf had died in transit across the sea, and he came bearing the pitiful news.
“I knew it,” Wormgut said facetiously. “The cripple’s constitution was not good enough for the harsh weather. He’s dead, is he not?”
“I am afraid not.” Rottweld glared bemusedly at Wormgut, then stepped aside to reveal three elves standing by the gate. The two, who stood guarding each side of the central figure, dressed as the spellbreakers of Silvermoon. The one in the center moved ahead of the others. His attire was not much different from the others, except it was more pompous, the colours of red and gold contrasting far greater than his kin’s armour. He appeared ceremonious, but for a black and ragged linen blindfold, which edged around his head, until it vanished underneath his shining blonde hair. “I don’t hope you four gambled too much on that.”
The elf moved up slowly, without even the hint of a smile. In his hand he held a white marble cane, guiding his path. Wormgut noticed, that the cane was topped off with a jade-looking bird head. From a wolf to a bird , he thought, how my ancestors must be smiling at me . As the elf came up beside Rottweld he stopped, as if the mute was about to break his vow of silence and introduce him. But instead of introducing, the undead skulked off to the side, leaning up against the spotless square, where Wolfshadow’s portrait had hung.
“Gentlemen, I am Kethoras Summercloud,” Kethoras started humbly. “Recently appointed to the vacant warlord seat between you.”
The four orcs all turned their attention to Wolfshadow’s former seat. She had sat in the center. Wormgut despised it. The central figurehead should have been him. Now an elf was threatening to take his rightful place. It doesn’t matter , Wormgut thought. I don’t need a seat in the center to display my power, just you wait, elf.
“Welcome to Orgrimmar,” Steelgrin rose from his seat, extending his hand toward the blind elf. When Steelgrin realized his error, the hand quickly slipped back down beside him. “I take your journey across the sea was a pleasant one. I am sure warlord Axehorn saw to that.”
“I am afraid I cannot tell you. I came in on zeppelin.” Kethoras bowed his head respectfully. “I had no choice in the matter. They said the seas were dangerous, that the Alliance had set up a blockade between the Fjord and Tirisfal.”
Without hesitation, Axehorn lunged from his chair once again. “This is what I mean. I report great need of resources northward, yet you would rather discuss troop movement. Our navy is the backbone of the Horde army, and I told you this would happen.” He glared around the table.
“We’re not here to discuss the matters of the sea,” Steelgrin wafted his hand, gesturing for Axehorn to sit back down. Yet the stubborn old sailor refused, glaring daggers back at Steelgrin.
“I understand your frustrations, I do,” the elf chimed in. “Our navy can rarely set sail anymore, out of fright that if left unprotected, the Alliance will bombard our coastal cities. We have long requested aid, but all our pleas have fallen on deaf ears.”
Axehorn snorted a nod. “That is what I mean.”
Wormgut cocked his head. Was the elf already trying to win over the old seadog?
“Why were you appointed?” Wormgut asked pointedly. “I will let you know already now, elf, that we do not take kindly to outside influence in this council. We don’t want interests that may corrupt the Horde’s vital decision-making to seep in.”
“My name is Kethoras, not elf, but you may call me Ranger-Lord Summercloud,” he calmly replied. “I was appointed by our Dark Lady to, and I quote; clean up the mess of the orcs. They always seem keen on ravaging through everything they touch. So, in other words, you may describe me as a sort of custodian.”
“Custodian?” Axehorn cocked his head in confusion. “What sort of word is that?”
“It means-“ Kethoras spoke, before he too was interrupted by Wormgut.
“It means he thinks he’s our babysitter.”
Kethoras chuckled. “No, not at all. In fact, it means I am here to, not only take on the warlord role of intelligence, but also assure the Horde’s coffers get restocked.”
“What?!” This time it was Wormgut who sprung out from his chair, nearly jumping onto the table. “How dare you! That is my role. I am the treasurer of this council!”
“You were, but look where that have gotten us.” Despite Wormgut’s outburst, the elf’s demeanor remained calm. “Our own soldiers must use old and rusted weapons, their armour patched and dented, and don’t even get me started on the despicable food you serve them. The Horde is in need of coin, we must solve the great deficit in our budget.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Wormgut continued bitterly.
“Quite simply, in fact. We downscale the operations of the council. I recommend the removal of the special operatives and airforce sections. They are both small and costly. That would plaster our finances quite well in the short term.”
Everything suddenly slowed down around Wormgut. He’s suggesting getting rid of me . He turned Axehorn’s empty mug in his hand and stared down into the abyss of it. The bottom of the mug was dark. Shadows began crawling out, latching onto his wrists. Soon they enveloped him completely, turning into tight shackles. No, no, no , this cannot be happening. The council is mine! He struggled with the shadows, as they squeezed the life out of him. It’s mine!
“Hold up a second.” Steelgrin lowered both his hand, gesturing for all to remain calm. “I don’t think you’re well off making enemies with one of the council members, before you’ve officially begun your duties. How about we all sit down peacefully, raise a cup in your honour and start all over?”
Kethoras smiled warmly back at Steelgrin. “You’re mistaken, my good man. I’m not here to make friends with you, I’m here to guide the Horde forward. Is that not why we are all here?”
Steelgrin stumbled back bewildered by the elf’s blunt candor. Wormguts eyes followed closely, as Steelgrin slowly resigned to his seat.
“I think it’s a splendid idea.” Ironfoot peeped out.
No. Everything was spinning, he felt dizzy. How dare they? The bloody cripples are already banding together against me. This is my council! I need it!
“Ironfoot shut up,” Axehorn growled. “Nobody asked you.”
“No, I won’t shut up anymore.” Ironfoot coughed and swayed in his chair, as if he was about to keel over. “The elf is absolutely right. Those two sections make for our greatest financial losses. So much coin is spent on the air fleet. A fleet we never use.”
Wormgut turned in horror to look down at Ironfoot. How? He had been under Wormgut’s thumb for so long. How could he rise in opposition now? It did not matter; the fat cripple would suffer greatly for this treason.
“It is quite alright, gentlemen. I do not expect you to make up your minds today.” Kethoras noted in a cool and contemplating tone. “We will first have to deliberate on the matter, before we take a vote. It will have to be unanimous, after all.”
“I refuse!” Wormgut snarled.
“That doesn’t matter.” The elf smiled back. “I take you know the rules of the council. You’re not part of the vote. It would be against common decency, if you were to be involved in a vote, that would see you dismissed.”
“Will you just stand there unflinching, whilst this damned elf threatens me, and tears apart the foundations of the council?” Wormgut glared at Rottweld, who did not at all react to the scornful tone.
“Accursed mute”, Wormgut growled lowly. Without second thought, an arrow launched toward his head from Rottweld’s direction. I’m going to die now , he thought. Yet the arrow latched into the wooden wall behind him. He was sweating all over. This could not be happening to him. Who was this elf, and why did he want rid of him? They had not ever spoken prior to this.
“Calm. All of you, please.” Steelgrin rose again and pleaded.
“I am calm.” Kethoras asserted.
Axehorn quietly sat back down into his chair, shooting a piercing glance at Kethoras. Ironfoot nodded his head to the elf, and Wormgut stood with his mouth fully agape. The cold sweat running down his cheeks. He glanced to the arrow, which had nearly ended his life. It was as black as the void, coiled and cold. Once he looked back out into the room, the shadows reached out, enclosing around him. He glanced at the others, yet none seemed to acknowledge what was happening. No, not again.
“You thought you could be free of me?” The deep dark voice clamored in his head.
No, please, I didn’t mean to betray you. Wormgut begged . I will do as you have ordered, please stop this torture. The voice did not reply.
Wormgut wiped the sweat off his face, and as the room appeared in front of him again, a great shadowy figure stood before him, an enormous scythe in its hand. “All your time as a torturer, Wormgut, and yet you know not the extent of true suffering. You think what you did to Wolfshadow was gruesome? I will make it tenfold.”
He dropped Axehorn’s mug onto the floor. It echoed in the room, and all the warlords looked at him.
“What?” He snapped at them. “What do you want from me?!” Wormgut pushed the halfmoon-shaped table clumsily aside and stormed past the elf and his escort. I’m not finished , he thought. You will all cry for mercy before I’m through. This council is mine!
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The Guardian
Boh, the protectorWritten by Tazkram
Boh ran down the stairs spiraling around his small hillside home but stopped in his tracks by the terrace halfway down. The jade-colored bamboo trees stood so close, they curtained him and his village from the outside world. It warmed his heart to know, that despite the horrors in the world, they could never reach Pandaria again – and if they did, he and his kinsmen would defend it. He gazed down at the village plaza. It was green, lush and full of life. There was Guo, Seo-Chun and Soyun cutting turnips, enjoying the sun and the warmth it brought.
Boh waved down at them, and they waved back. How he missed the days of cutting turnips, carrots and onions alongside them. But those days were long gone now, and he feared they would never return. Last summer, he had been picked by the village mayor to leave for San-Chin. The temple needs a new guardian, Boh. He had said. All the villages are sending their candidates . At first, Boh had not understood. Why would Mayor Stoutbelly tell him this? Sure, he had trained alongside the other monks in the village, but he was no fighter, nor did he ever wish to be. Boh, I want you to go. You have a heart of gold, this I have seen.
He had gone as asked, though it tore at him, having to leave his family and friends behind. They surely needed him more at Littlehill, than the old monks of San-Chin did. The journey had taken him to the ancient temple, hidden far from any and all. Rumors were, that only those worthy, were allowed to gain access and stand before the crumbling Ho-wing statues.
Boh had arrived late, finding his way to the hidden temple, and for this, he was mocked by the other village candidates. You come from Littlehill? More like a little late , one had mused. He had not taken it to heart, and repeated the phrase, which the monks at Littlehill had taught him; Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me .
Many trials passed at the temple, and Boh failed most of them, showing little promise to be the new guardian. And honestly, he had hoped to go home soon. Home to Guo, Seo-Chun and Soyun. Cutting turnips all day, till the stars brightened the night-sky. But every time a trial had passed, the elders had gathered all candidates by the Ho-wing and deliberated. Sending home more and more candidates, except for Boh. By the end of it all, he remained, only with Chunso from Honeydew Village. Their final trial, to scale San-Chin’s walls, reach the Golden chamber by the nest of the monastery, and then nothing. Boh never learned what they had to do, once they reached the chamber.
As the two had scaled San-Chin, Chunso had scurried up the walls. Latching onto every beam or pillar that he could. Boh was far behind him, slipping and tumbling back down to the ground several times. When Chunso had nearly reached the top, Boh had looked up and thought, that soon, he could finally go back home to Littlehill and his friends. He was content. He did not want the elders to choose him. He wanted for nothing but turnips and carrots. But then Chunso slipped. Help! He cried, dangling from a pillar near the top. Boh had frantically looked to the elders to aid him, but they too had been in a panic. So, Boh did the only thing he thought was right. He climbed to the best of his ability, slipping and falling several times, to the cries of Chunso, who still dangled by the top.
He sweat, he huffed, and he puffed. The monks in Littlehill had never prepared him for this. But he could not let Chunso fall. One hand, then the next. Slowly he scaled upwards. But his foot slipped. Chunso so close above him. I can’t hold on! Chunso sobbed. Boh could not find his footing. He pulled instead. Cursing his taste for brew and turnips. Then finally, a beam he could stand on, just below Chunso. Here, I will catch you! He had said, just as Chunso lost his grip and fell.
Boh caught him just then, stopping Chunso’s fall down the monastery. The two tumbled, Boh tumbled farther. Thanks, Boh! Chunso had remarked, before continuing to scale up to the top. Boh watched, quite content to let Chunso win the race, and climbed back down. Once there, the elders approached, bowed deeply before him and appointed him the new guardian of San-Chin. The watcher of the road. The guide to paradise. And then, he was sent home. Told to guard the monastery from Littlehill. Boh left just as confused as he had arrived.
Since then, he had trained every day. He was clumsy and he was slow, but gradually, one step at a time, he got stronger. Under the tutelage of Grandmaster Zhi Zong, he was sure only to get better than the day before. She had come all the way from the Temple of the Jade Serpent, excited to meet her new prospect. Only to be quite disappointed. She thought him dull and lazy, yet, she was still here at Littlehill. She had not given up on him, and nor would he give up on her.
He looked down at the plaza. Guo, Seo-Chun and Soyun had begun cutting the carrots now. Boh sighed, wishing he was down there with them. He looked up at the sky, the sun was high, it was midday.
“Oh no!” Boh exclaimed in a stir. If pandaren ears could turn read of embarrassment, his had done so. “I’m late, I’m so late!”
He rushed down the last stairs from his small hillside home in Littlehill and stumbled, then tumbled. As he got back up by the foot, he rushed onwards toward Zhi Zong’s yard. She was going to scold him for this. Late and lazy , he could already hear the scorn in her voice.
“Grandmaster!” He yelled, as he saw her in the yard. She was looking up at the sky, it seemed the clouds were gathering in a grey mass. “Grandmaster Zhi Zong! I am sorry! I lost track of time!” He folded his hands and bowed before her. “Please accept my sincere apology.”
Zhi Zong did not reply, her eyes fixed up at the sky. She shuddered.
“What is the matter, Grandmaster?” He asked her.
“I feel a storm is coming, youngling,” Zhi Zong replied. “A storm that might drown the land. Ruin our homes. Destroy and take what we hold dear.”
“A storm?” He repeated, not quite understanding her doomsaying. “A storm can be good, Grandmaster. I have seen so myself. Our crops grow strong and tasty, and the trees sprawl the prettiest of leaves. Maybe the storm will bring good, not bad. We cannot know beforehand.”
Zhi Zong turned to him and laid a warm hand upon his shoulder. “Very wise of you, youngling. This must be why the elders of San-Chin chose you to guard the path.”
Boh smiled back at her. He still did not really know, why he had been chosen as guardian. But he did what was asked of him. He had to. They all relied on him now. Guo, Seo-Chun and Soyun. The people of Littlehill and mayor Stoutbelly. Even Chunso of Honeydew and the elder monks at San-Chin.
“A storm will come,” she said. “Let us wait and see what it brings with it. Now, let us train. You have much to learn, and we have little time.”
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Name: Morri Seamorz
Race: Goblin
Age: Thirty Six
Gender: Male
Profession: Priest
Background: There was some difficulty in creating this profile. not due to scarcity of intel, but rather separating source material from actual witness accounts and records, to Morri’s own autobiography - “Between Darkness and Light - The story of a thinking goblin”
What can be confirmed is the following: Morri was born to the esteemed Seamorz gangster family. For whatever reason it was decided by the head of the family, grandma Seamorz, that Morri will become a doctor. For this reason she hired the services of a drunken human priest to teach the young goblin everything he knew about the light.
Seamorz did well enough learning the human’s light magic. Enough to become the family’s official "Doctor, but a few years before the Cataclysm he has decided to leave everything behind and join the Twilight Hammer. The reasoning for his decision are not confirmed. According to his autobiography he joined due to a “A crisis of faith and the belief in the utter helplessness of the individual against the darkness that surrounds him”. Other reports say he just joined because “Cultist broads are a sure thing”.
Whatever the reason, it was there where he learned to master to ways of shadow and warfare. He stayed a member until the Deathwing’s downfall, at which point he attempted to return to the Horde, only to end up being imprisoned for his previous affiliation. He didn’t stay in jail for long though, goblins of his powers are hard to come by, and when the Iron Horde invaded he was offered a chance to reduce his prison time in exchange for service for the Horde.
He has been reluctantly taking part of every major conflict since then, from the Draenor expedition, third legion invasion, and now the Blood war.
Skills Seamorz has been known to weave both light and shadow together, both to bolster his allies, as well as rein in carnage on his enemies.
Psychological Profile: Seamorz’s book paints him as a tortured soul, wandering the land looking for meaning in a meaningless existence. Eyewitness records however, paints the priest as a pathetic, and rather whiny individual, who complains and moans about the smallest of details.
To his credit though, it’s also been said he has never turned away from a job, always seeing it to end, complaining all the while.
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The Warlord Council
Warlord Drokhar Axehorn
Axehorn is an elder orc, seventy-four winters, and as prideful as any other good-natured orc. He leads the naval forces of the orcish army. Having fought plenty battles, both commanding on ship as well as land. He has the most experience of any of the warlords. His love for the Horde is only shadowed by his love for the sea.
Warlord Hurfar Ironfoot
Some warlords are put into their position through great acts of battle. Others, through the workings of the system and bureaucracy. Ironfoot is very much a warlord that reached his status through the latter. A former warrior that had been delegated to a desk job because a fire elemental took his foot during the Cataclysm. Still, he is a master bureaucrat, and very good at managing supplies. He values discipline and a strict adherence to orders.
Warlord Krolrik Steelgrin
Ready to surrender his title and life after the Siege of Orgrimmar, of which duty had him side with Garrosh Hellscream, Steelgrin was surprised to learn that his warlord colleagues had vouched for him and his loyalty. Today Steelgrin resumes to lead the main bulwark of the orcish army, the warlord in control of the grunt legions.
Warlord Gragorn Wormgut
Once upon a time, Gragorn was naught more than a simple ‘tickler’ down in the great Orgrimmar dungeons. He obtained an infamous reputation, as he was rumoured to stuff worms down the throat of those he interrogated, earning him his surname, Wormgut. During the campaign to Northrend, he quickly rose in rank to general, and with the demise of Warlord Crackfist, he was the obvious choice to lead the Spec. Ops. branch and air force of the legions.
Warlord Kethoras Crimsoncloud
Most recent on the council of warlords, Kethoras was handpicked to clean up the mess of his orc colleagues. Having earned great fame during the Amani uprising, he sadly lost his eyesight in defense of his homeland. The ranger-lord retained his title amongst great controversy, until he shockingly proved his value in the field of intellegience gathering. With his trusted falcons and others scouting both the sky and crooked alleys for him, there is little that pass by this elf.
Backstory: Coming soon
Posting these on behalf of Tazkram so he can get the images too. 
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A brass scroll tube was recently found on the fallen body of an undead scout in the Barrens, weather-beaten but largely intact. This scout, Edrida Fox, had been tasked with monitoring the demon invasion of the Barrens some time prior to the fall of the Sword, but her final report had never been delivered.
Much of the tube’s contents were mere status updates, but it seems something - or rather, someone - had caught her eye out in the field. A couple of the sheets detail a tauren who allegedly gave her shelter after a scuffle with demons gone wrong, and was courteous enough to answer a few questions while he nursed her back to her full strength.
Overview:
-Name: Cherota (Refused to state his tribal allegiance. I presume he had one in the past)-Race, age and gender:
Tauren, 24, male (Or bull, whatever thecow-mtauren call their men)-Identifiers:
Gray fur all over, with tan hair on his head and shoulders. Green eyes. Lean and malnourished.-Particular strengths:
Archery, tinkering, trapping, survival
Sheet 1: Talents:
I witnessed him take out a squad of demons with a mix of traps, bombs, bowmanship and a kodo. (Female kodo, allegedly called “Deica”)
He mentioned that he had planted scavenged explosives in the ground around the small area he inhabited: My trained eye could see many of them, but he had taken some unorthodox measures to hide the rest from my sight.
During a small invasion of imps, for example, I found that he had used the bodies of slain animals - and even some people of varying races - as booby traps. When the imps carelessly ran across his perimeter, these bodies exploded under them, each taking half a dozen imps with them.Although most of his tools and explosives were scavenged from lost Horde supplies taken by the Burning Legion, (a minor offense, as he said he returned what he did not personally need) he also demonstrated talent at creating his own devices from scrap material.
He mentioned that he had been working alone ever since the demons first began threatening his homeland - though when I asked to clarify if he meant the Barrens or some other land, he would not say.
These ruthless and unconventional tactics would make him an asset for the Horde if he was persuaded to fight for our cause.
Sheet 2: Psychological Profile:
Although I spent but a few days in his company, surrounded by demons in the Barrens, he demonstrated remarkable compassion toward me, a Forsaken. He let me stay with him for as long as I needed to recover, which gave me plenty of time to find more about this tauren.
From what I gathered during our conversations, he was on a personal quest of some kind. These were not tauren rites he spoke of, but rather, something of personal significance. When questioned, all he would say is that he rejected tradition to some degree, and his peers where he came from did not approve of this.He seemed very mission-minded and forward-thinking, preferring to keep his eyes on what comes next rather than wallowing in the past - an ideology I can well stand behind. However, this has left my psychological evaluation less complete than I would have liked.
Final addendum: Despite his lack of honesty regarding his past, he did not seem one prone for malicious intent. He was true to his word and kept me secure for my entire stay, despite the odds arrayed against him.
Signed:
Edrida Fox, scout, 5th Shadow Corps of the Shattered Hand
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Name : Drukoth Forgeblade
Race : Mag’har orc
Profession : Siegesmith
Weapon of choice : Rifle, spear.
Description : Soot-skinned orc with a mohawk. He dons the armor of the usual blackrock, with the exception of the shoulderpads and helmet.
Loyalty : Loyal to those his kin trusts, including the Horde. He has not been seen acting against the Horde.
Personality : Level-headed*, however he has been seen acting maniacal during use of artillery weapons.
Miscellanous fact #1 : Although much is not known about his past, this young self-proclaimed ‘Siegesmith’ has been said to have been tutored by a master of engineering and destruction.
Miscellanous fact #2 : He has been seen hoarding Azerite, merging the material with his inventions to produce even more destructive artillery.
Caution : Rokoth Forgeblade, an orc with criminal deeds against the Horde is suspected to be a relative of Drukoth, however the young orc seems to not share any of the criminals ideals.
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Your Will, my Warlords.
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Another Day at the Office
Hurfar IronfootWritten by Tazkram
Ironfoot lumbered across his office floor, dragging his club of a foot along. In one hand he carried his most trusted companion, his crooked wooden cane. In the other he carried his greatest passion, coffee in a mug. The two things that made him whole and ensured that both he and the bureaucracy kept on turning and kept on moving forward. Forward to his desk, his chair, and his arsenal of pens and paper.
He groaned, leaving the cane standing beside the desk, then sat down in discomfort. The iron foot had grown heavier over the years, as had the pounds decked upon him. It did not follow, and only weighed him down. Just as he did the council, his former friends and family.
On the desk his weapons of choice lay neatly positioned. Where some had trouble picking between their axe or sword, Ironfoot gnawed at the thought of whether to pick his Quillboar, Razorpen or the fine and pristine Number Three. His finger traced across them. There was no true picking, it all came down the task at hand. The Quillboar, despite what others thought, was greatest for long and eloquent letters, not jotting down notes. It was like a fine brush, that required thought and precision, but paid back tenfold in aesthetic. On the other hand was the Razorpen, great when one had to work through an entire night. Its clear round shape rested perfectly by the thumb, though it had a tendency to splutter ink. And then there was the Number Three. A pen like no other. Some orcs went out on adventure, gathering luxurious and rare metals, to craft axes that would garner a reputation all on their own. Live down through history and become legendary heirlooms. The Number Three was this and more. Crafted by the blood elves, it never ran dry. Its casing was of pristine ruby, with the Horde crest edged into it with hematite. It had been hardened by magic, so that any dent or cavity would never show. The Number Three was wonderous to behold and reflected in all directions the greatest symbol of them all, but it was too elegant for the work at hand. He armed himself with the Razorpen, as his eyes darted to the documents heaped in the in-coming stack. His enemies all. But one by one they would fall.
“Request for supplies, the seventeenth legion, legionnaire Krohla. One demolisher, three catapults and two trained wyvern spotters . Old siege engines worn down. Priority: Crucial.”
Ironfoot reached toward his stamps, one green and approving, the other red and dismissive. This woman requested four catapults just two months back. He grasped the top of a stamp, led it to the paper and hammered onto it a red ink -DENIED-. Pen in hand, he wrote; “ Request has been denied due to recent acquisition of resources. Due to priority, one catapult will be relocated from the fourteenth legion to the seventeenth legion. Arrival pending.”
From one front to another, both in dire need of all they could get. He was surely not gaining friends by this. The paper left his hand and went to the stack of out-going documents. Then he went for the next.
“Budgetary request, warlord Krolrik Steelgrin. Four weeks salary; campaign on Kul Tiras; five legions. Campaign launch; week twenty-four .”
The grunt army was one of the cheaper sections of the Horde. Only Ironfoot’s offices could compete with their costs. He pulled out the drawer and shuffled around the scissors, markers and a couple of rulers. Furthest back was a small chest, given to him by the goblins. Within, golden coins were scattered. They represented the coffers of the council. One coin was worth a thousand.
Not enough , he thought. Like fire on metal, he branded yet another document with the red ink. He would grant Steelgrin two weeks and three days’ worth of salary, not a single coin more, and no rations other than the black tar. Immediately the puddle of coins yet left in the chest began to shrink. He closed the lid, then the drawer, and went for the next document.
-DENIED-, -DENIED-, -DENIED-.
He paused, wiping sweat off his brow. The coffee was getting cold. One gulp, two gulps and three, then the mug was empty. He denied near every request these days, and not even out of spite. His gut churned just thinking about the flow of coins, and how it would soon stop, if the war did not end or the Horde struck a mine filled with gold. He went for the next document.
“Axehorn,” he mumbled. “A request for a naval ceremony, a hundred of our ships to take part, to commemorate the ascension of captain Onehand to commandant of the First Ironjaw Snappers Squadron.”
The old seadog must be mad . Ironfoot reached toward his stamps. A hundred ships taken out of the system. There is no way. The costs alone. He shivered and continued to read, fumbling with the red stamp.
“A hero deserving of no less,” his hand withdrew. “Saved not only the northern fleet with guile and ingenuity, whence the Alliance came to lay siege upon Forsaken lands. Despite all the dangers entailed, she too rescued countless refugees from Silverpine, Hillsbrad and beyond.”
“A hero,” Ironfoot put down the paper troubled by his thoughts.
Taking out a hundred ships and their crew for a ceremony that would last naught but a day. It was complete madness. Yet his resolution wavered, as he gazed back up at the stamps.
What are we, if we cannot revel in our triumphs? A voice of the past washed through his mind. A hero deserves celebration. Put aside all the blood, pain and death for one night. Celebrate what we have, for tomorrow it might be gone, and then it will be too late. Too many of our heroes never got to know how much we truly appreciated them and their actions.
The words lingered. They were the words of Kraknar the Brute, upon the day he decided that nothing was more important than to celebrate the achievements of Hurfar the Prudent. A title granted when he had turned the tide of battle with twenty strong grunts under his command, and saved Kraknar and his army from the devastating cavalry charges, and still thought it best to press their advantage whilst the humans had scattered.
You are too prudent, Hurfar. The Brute came and squeezed him. Tonight, we celebrate your feat. Tonight, you and your men are heroes.
Ironfoot chuckled lightly. The prudent, who wanted to keep on fighting, and the brute who would rather savior what they had.
He grew stern and thought of the costs, then finally reached for a stamp. With the force of lightning, Axehorn’s mad request was green and granted. Onehand would be celebrated, any hero deserved that, expenditures be damned.
He leant back pleased with his work. How he missed the thrill of doing something reckless and selfless. He grabbed his cane and swung it around. Trees appeared before him, and he sunk to his knees in mud. It was the swamp all over again. It was exhilarating. In front a camp of human knights. Ironfoot turned to his men and hushed. If they took out the head, the rest would collapse. They just waited for a man in shining white armor to appear, and so he did out from a blue tent with a golden lion stitched in the linen.
“There!” He roared, jumped, and the cane skid out of his hand. Then he stumbled as the weight of his foot dragged him back down. His face smacked into the floor, and he cried out in pain. “Blasted foot!”
“Something the matter?” A screech from outside his office called. His secretary, always prying.
“No!”
“You sure about that?”
Ironfoot pushed himself from the floor, aching all over and groaning. Yes, but of course, my foot and I are fine.
“Warlord Ironfoot? Need me in there? Coffee?”
That she had not already sprung to action bothered him tirelessly. “Stop distracting me. I said I was fine!” His legs wobbled. He could hardly balance without the cane. Damn it, where is it? His eyes darted around, as he clenched the edge of his desk. Far away, right before the window frame it had slid. He thought of calling in Moraka anyway but refrained. I can do this myself. I don’t need others’ charity.
One slow step at a time. He shook all over, all muscles tightened. I can do this. It was a challenge greater than ascending the Blackrock Mountain. Each of his feet slid slowly across the surface, but every time it was the iron foot’s turn, he felt like giving up. It would not move. It was stuck. It was useless. Just like him. Everything changed, the warchief, the champions and now even the council. He made no progress.
Sniveling, Ironfoot collapsed onto the floor. Banging his hand against the wooden floor. Where everyone else could get with ease, he had to fight twice as hard.
“Ironfoot? Hurfar? I’m coming in there!”
“Don’t you dare! I dropped my stamps on the floor. It is nothing!”
Where everyone else could walk, he had to crawl. He bit his lower lip at the notion. Yes, I can crawl. My legs might be broken, but my hands, my arms, there is no one stronger.
Quickly he learned, one arm in front of the other, that shuffling to the window that seemed so far away was not an easy feat. But once he finally reached it, a sweet release brushed across his aching body. Caressing the cane between his fingers, he could finally stand once more. I do not need help. I am stronger than they think. Moraka, my daughter, the council.
He sat against the window. His office, his sanctuary. Here nobody could or dared to hurt him. He was the commander. Little did it matter that all he commanded were quills and ink. Without him the Horde would collapse. Nobody would get the rations nor supplies that they needed. One after the other, they would fall to hunger, if not the enemy would get to them first. Logistics was a thankless job, and the orcs especially had little respect for it. But it was a testimony to how far his kind had developed since Draenor. Back when they could only sustain little clans by pillage and plunder. Some even dared raise the notion that the conquering Horde of the past was the greatest of them all, yet they failed to see how hard it was to feed mouths on land seized from enemy farmers. That time was over. The Horde had to learn how to rely on itself, if it wished to be part of this world. And they needed a maestro to conduct the supply lines.
“And that is where I can still be of help.” Ironfoot pushed himself up with the help of the cane. He turned to look out the window, and gaze down at the valley of strength, but a large bird sat blocking the view.
The bird cocked its head as Ironfoot rumbled. “Shoo!”
It flapped at him.
“Shoo, you pest!” It did not, so he wafted his cane at it. It cawed and took off, just as he was about to strike true. Damn that elf’s menagerie. Always flying free. He tore at the shutters. No bird would idle here.
Coming back to his desk, his throat felt dry. The mug was empty, and he had plenty work to get through.
“Moraka!”
Nobody answered.
“Moraka! I do want coffee now!”
Still there was no reply. Blasted woman, where’s she gone now? It was not unlike her to disappear, though she usually made sure he was filled up before skulking off.
Coffee was calling, but the papers still towered too far. He reached for one more.
“Ironfoot!” Moraka shrieked outside the office.
“Come, my mug is empty, and my throat is dry.”
He gawked at the door, waiting for her to peek inside.
“Moraka, come and refill. I do not ask much.” He squirmed in the chair, as she did not reply again. “I am in no mood for games!”
“You cannot go in there!” She cried out again.
Whump, bump, thump. Something hit the wall hard. It grew silent.
Ironfoot bit his lip, grasped his cane and stood up. “Moraka, I am coming!”
He turned the table and wobbled. It was far across. She needs me. I must do this . He dragged the iron foot along and planted the cane sturdily with every step. He huffed, the sweat dripping down from his face. I do not even have a weapon. His eyes flickered to the cane, as he took another step. This is reckless. One more step. He was halfway across, the door growing before him. What will I do? Hit them with this old twisted thing? Another step, slower than the last. I will be useless in a fight. But he had to try, he could not sit idle. That would be exactly what everyone around him expected. That he would never progress.
“Moraka,” he repeated. “I am coming!”
The door crashed against the wall. “Oh, I hoped that you would.” In front of him stood the shape of a warlord. The dark hall behind him veiled his identity in shadows. Romgarl? No, it could not be him. He was dead. Dead in the fire. One long stride, and the figure was through the doorway, revealing a red glare.
There was no mistaking those eyes. Wormgut. “What are you doing here? My office is off limits without a scheduled meeting.”
“We needed to see each other off the record.”
“I refuse. What happened? What did you do to Moraka?”
Wormgut’s face was grim. The red eyes traced the room and landed upon the window. He smiled.
“What did you do?!” The cane rose up high, ready to strike.
“I have come to tell you where we stand, you and I.”
“Answer my question!”
“Forget the woman. Dialogue was unproductive as she proved uncooperative.” The trespasser strolled into the office, still looking around. Then turned and locked the door.
“What is the meaning of this?” Pain shot through Ironfoot’s head, and he quickly lowered back down the cane to stabilize himself
“Quit your moaning.” Wormgut walked up to Ironfoot and smirked. “I am here to tell you where you are supposed to stand going forward. I am not pleased by your sudden change of allegiance. The elf. You should know better. But I suppose cripples attract one another. No one else will listen to them.”
“I have never been aligned with you. My vote has always been independent.” Teeth gritted teeth and the pain growing, Ironfoot began to feel dizzy. A migraine. Now of all times. Everything began to swell.
“Are you in pain?”
Ironfoot did not reply. The hands of the trespasser reached for his tabard and curled around in a tight grip, then thrusted the shivering old orc down onto the floor. He groaned once more, as his head struck the wood.
“Good.” He knelt before him, frowning. “Rolling around on floor like a fish out of water. You disgust me, cripple. Weak and powerless. Yet someone has seen fit to have you be a warlord and give you the right of vote.”
Wormgut continued to speak, but it all became a thick sticky blur. The lips kept moving, spewing out vile hatred, and a ghastly violet shroud enveloped them both.
“Where did you find the spirit to stand up to me? Answer me!”
Ironfoot’s gaze was consumed by the void. “I wanted to be a hero again.”
Wormgut snorted a laugh. “Powerless and delusional. You repulse me. Yet I still must use you. A broken man. It tears at me to stoop this low.”
“I will not help you.” He gasped, as a plated boot crushed down onto his chest.
“Do you think you’re in control of your miserable and insignificant life, Ironfoot? No, it is I who control you. Bound by unbreakable chains, or so I thought. It would seem your fortitude has grown. So, I must break you completely this time.”
You’re mad. The air had left his lungs, the words he wanted to speak did not emerge.
“Let me tell you a secret, Ironfoot.” Wormgut moved aside his tabard, revealing a belt padded with four blue-flamed obsidian candles. “None of us are in control. Someone always plays us as pawns in a game. The only way to break free, is to become more powerful than those that play. I do not find pleasure in this, I assure you. It is for the greater good, that you must suffer. I know who plays this game, and I know how to beat them. Your sacrifice will not be in vain. What we do, we do for the Horde.”
He picked the center-left candle and held it up. The red eyes turned blue for an instant. Ironfoot wanted to cry out in pain. It felt as if his head was exploding. All that echoed in his mind was of Wormgut’s madness.
“I am not mad. I am the only one who has clarity. Everyone else are cloaked in shadows.” The candle burned brightly. It was entrancing. A blue fluid began to gather by Ironfoot’s chest. It streamed up toward the candle’s dancing flame. “I do not understand how your spirit grew so bold, but it matters little. You are under my complete spell now.”
He wanted to smack Wormgut across the face with the cane. Bang in the monster’s head and save Moraka from her fate, but he could not even move. His mind wandered to a distant place filled with sky-reaching mountains. Spirits sailed around in the violet sky, and an endless dale opened before him. He took one step forth, but ghoulish maggots shot through the white pale soil binding and burying him beneath their mass. Pain was constantly tearing at his head. He was drowning in worms, in a place he did not know. All he recognized was a distant cackle from a despicable demon that he could not slay. He needed help, but there was no help to get.
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Our mission in Pandaland continues. We’ve found an important “guide”, but question is, who’s the guide for whom?
Also cursed Pandaland phasing.
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A letter addressed to Warlord Wormgut eventually finds its way to his chambers, carrying the recognizable purple seal of the Forsaken. It is accompanied by several other documents, bound with thick brown leather.
Warlord,
Word has it you are in need of more champions. With the situation at Stromgarde gradually stabilizing, the Defilers have found it within their hearts to spare a single warrior to support your cause. Information on his accomplishments and abilities is available in the attached documents – we trust our champion will be to your liking.
Signed
Melinda Barnton, Dreadguard in the Warchief’s service
Name: Rahju
Race: Troll – Darkspear Tribe – Forsaken
Physical appearance: Tall, above-average. Mostly grey skin with patches of replaced flesh in varying colours. Bald, no facial hair. Uses facial paint, allegedly to express his reverence for the loa Bwonsamdi.
Little is known about this one’s past. We were able to verify he once belonged to the Darkspear Tribe, but no records indicate he served the Horde prior to his death and reanimation as a Death Knight. The troll claims to have forgotten all events before his rebirth, likely a side-effect of the rot that had affected his brain. While he was quick to sign up to the Horde following his release from the Lich King, he has served only in the ranks of the Forsaken as a member of the Deathguard.
With his area of expertise being bloodletting – an art of healing, using worms and leeches to drain his enemies’ life force to add to his own – his missions have primarily centred on sending him, alone, to stall the enemy. This one revels in the thrill of death; tasks normally assigned to expendable units are not only accepted, but readily welcomed to a fanatic degree.
He has been present for the Battle for the Broken Shore, multiple fights in the Arathi Highlands and readily carried out the Warchief’s will in Stormheim. Although he is most proficient at blood magic, as with most Death Knights he is capable enough to hold his own in regular combat. His weapon of choice is a glaive inscribed with runes of empowerment.
I know you’re not currently recruiting, but consider this application my expressing interest for if/when you do re-open. If there are any questions, I’m available for contact either on Rahju or Clovus (on the Alliance).
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