Mission Statement
The taskforce, known as ‘The Will’ to some, is a group consisting of Horde champions spanning the gap of all races, specializations and political interests. The goal of the force; to complete missions granted to them by the Council of Warlords by any means necessary, to assure victory for the Horde on the battlefield, and strengthen our future.
To become part of the champion program is one of the finest acknowledgements a soldier may receive within the Horde. Serving so closely to the engine room, the taskforce is always presented missions that common legions could not hope to accomplish.
Currently the program is still recruiting champions to assure our goals of Horde inclusion. We serve the Horde and its greatest interests.
You need not apply. Our finest headhunters are always on the prowl for potential candidates for the program.
Legionnaire Tazkram
Will of the Warlords is a roleplaying guild on the Horde. The guild represents a task force, composing all races of the Horde. Each member a champion in name, bound together by a fierce loyalty to the Horde.
Will of the Warlords is a story heavy guild, that will aim to have 2 events a week. Each event starting where the last ended (unless otherwise agreed). Said days will most likely be Wednesdays & Sundays, going from 20:00 to 23:00 server time.
OOC Details
What is unique about Will of the Warlords (WotW)?
WotW is a story rich guild, already having an expansive backstory from a generation past. The guild picks up, eight months after the last task force was disbanded, and is now being re-established, to deal with matters not suited for common soldiers. The guild allows for a ‘sandbox’ adventure, where the roleplayers are encouraged to choose their own path to succeed their mission. Will you use the tools given to you or forge your own?
‘Game of Warlords’. The warlords, Wormgut, Steelgrin, Axehorn, Wolfshadow and Ironfoot, each vie for power in the council of warlords. Your character can decide to align with a warlord and attempt to gain their direct favour. Warlords love having champions, they can confide in and grant boons (outfits, banners, mounts, certain privileges). But be careful not to step on their toes either, as you may find your life shortened or your name tarnished. You can read about the warlords below.
‘Hand of Cards’. A gameplay system to add both a bit of depth and restriction to characters’ abilities. In simple terms, a character will receive several cards with abilities, which they spent in or out of combat, to either heal or deal great damage. The purpose of this system is to avoid endless freeform fighting (though there will be exceptions), and make sure roleplayer is forced to consider their abilities more carefully. The ‘cards’ are made by the roleplayer, but has to be accepted by the dungeon master.
See this post for further details on a Hand of Cards: [H-RP] Will of the Warlords - #41 by Tazkram-argent-dawn
Ranking system. Each member is a champion, there are no apparent difference in your ranks. However, no group can function with a system to decide – will you pick a singular leader or a democracy? And also, do not forget who leads you. The warlords do not tolerate fools.
We are currently recruiting a few more members. Post your dossier in the thread if you’re interested in joining.
How do I join WotW?
Your character must be suited to call themselves a champion. Not necessarily a ‘champion of the people’, but proficient enough in a profession, that makes them worthy of the title.
You will have to write a ‘dossier’, one not of your own character’s design, but that of a scout. If your character joins, it is not done by application, but through headhunting for your character.
All Horde races and classes may be accepted.
Find the Warlord Council here: [H-RP] Will of the Warlords - #2 by Rogmasha-argent-dawn
Story Archive
Interlude - Another Round
The night was still, as it had become every night, since the Forsaken Queen had taken the throne. The once busy streets, now only tread by soldiers rotten both in spirit as well as heart. All one could hear, was the clattering far down below the tower, of bones and metal against the pavement. The great city of Orgrimmar had become what the undead wanted, forsaken.
As much as she seethed to see the Horde in shambles once more, Kharaggar Wolfshadow could do little to mend the schism, but what little she could do, she would. With a push from the window frame, she sharply turned in the office, and strode toward the desk in the center of the small room. What little she could do, would happen here, and soon.
Wolfshadow pulled out a chair from the desk, and sat herself there, swinging both legs up onto the table and crossed them. The flame of the candle, standing on the table, danced, side to side, as the table shook.
“As pleasing it would be,” Wolfshadow thought with an inkling of a smile, “Darkness, fear and surprise is for the best.”
With a slight gesture of her hand, the shadows swiftly engulfed the flame, quenching it into a thin trail of smoke. In truth, she did not much enjoy the dark nor silence. Queer for one of her profession, this she knew, but nevertheless, circumstances did not permit elsewise.
While she sat waiting, waiting for what may come, she cooled her unrest by sculpturing. In one hand she held a dagger, a long thin and curved blade, pitch black as the night. In her other hand, a wooden block, that had taken the form of another orc, a man.
As the wood was peeled, her eyes watered, as she remembered what had once been. Near a year back, without remorse, her whole family, her clan, had been slain in cold-blood. Innocent orcs living in a swamp, toiling and tilling the land the best they could, wanting for naught, but a quiet life in marshy lands. And now none remained, but her only daughter, hidden away, far off from Orgrimmar’s prying eyes.
The tear dropped to the wooden floor, marking it ever darker, in an already dark room. “Tonight, vengeance shall be mine.” She cut across the figurine at the neck, then placed it on the desk. “And when I take his life, he will choke in a sea of his own blood.”
Justified, bitter and relentless, she had waited far too long for this moment. Only out of sheer hatred, had she been able to stay her blade. “Time’s not right,” she had thought plenty, “he will see it coming.” But now, so long after, he had finally dropped his guard, and the right time had come at last.
Wolfshadow had an hour prior, requested the orc known as Prun, to deliver a missive to Gragorn Wormgut – one carrying a damning message, that would be enough to lure him to his office in the midst of night. No doubt he would suspect her, paint her the culprit, and bring an escort, but, even though it was the worm’s office, she had not sat idle all the night. Books in the shelves had been rigged with explosions, traps that would ensnare and claim any stepping wrongly, and poisonous concoctions hanging in vials from the ceiling, ready to fall, by tug of a near-invisible string. She was ready.
And much longer, she did not have to wait, for the steps of several people climb the stairs to the office, then marching down the corridor could be heard.
Wolfshadow sighed in relief, the suspense of waiting had instilled into her nerves. She rose from the chair, then darted up a shelf and nimbly made her way out onto a wooden beam crossing the room.
The door was slammed open, and an orc woman was harshly shoved through.
“How dare you threaten me, you damned cur?!” Wormgut shouted, as the woman stumbled into the desk, the figurine wobbling, before it fell over flat. Wolfshadow’s eyes grew large, she could not tell who the woman was amongst the shadows, nor did she recognize her voice.
“I do not know of what you speak,” the woman pungently spat in his direction, wiping blood from her lips, “do you think I would hide behind an alias, if I wanted to threaten you?”
“Shut your mouth. I’ve long endured and tolerated your quips, misgivings and failures. When I send you to find Deathdraw, you do not only fail me, but you are followed by several unknowns, and when made to assist the goblins, they tell me you break their equipment and machines, costing me a fortune.”
The stranger slowly found her footing, though still appeared groggy from the abuse she must have suffered. “I do not appreciate you sending your own men to stalk me,” her frown turned to a slight smirk, “and the goblin tools, you see, they were designed for goblins. I broke them not by intent, but because they forced me to handle tools, that would break in any orc’s hands.”
“And this? How do you explain this threat then?” Wormgut asked her pointedly.
Wolfshadow weighed her options. The stranger was unknown to her, possibly an innocent bystander in Wormgut’s treacherous acts, but then, she did not sound it. She could not believe, that Wormgut had thought anyone but her the culprit of the threat, which was both intriguing and unsettling.
“I don’t know how to explain something, that I was not behind. I have nothing to do with that, more likely it is that Wolfshadow,” the stranger moved toward the window frame. “You and her, quite enjoy each other’s company after all.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Wormgut spoke through clenched teeth, then grabbed hold of his great mace, charging the stranger.
“Then I assume our deal’s over.” The stranger promptly exclaimed, before she kicked out the window, and jumped out into the night, one hundred and sixty feet above ground.
“This is madness,” Wolfshadow thought, but as Wormgut reached the frame, growling and throwing a fit, she saw her chance to strike, and took it.
Dead on Arrival
”I did not smuggle in five goats from Westfall, pay the voyage from Grom’gol to Bilgewater, rent a wagon, kodo and buy food for the beast, then to be forced through Ratchet paying ludicrous tolls, hire three bodyguards, so I could safely pass the pirate-infested shores, walk through mud up to my groin, just to end up in Brackenwall in front of an ogre, who can tell me nothing but—”
“Goat not fresh.” The ogre interrupted, wagging his big thick index finger in front of the orcish merchant.
The veins in the orc’s forehead grew ever larger, his face turning red. “What do you mean, “goat not fresh?! I butchered them this morning. They’re as fresh as you’ll ever get them, you shrunken headed moron!” He said despairingly.
The ogre rose his hand threateningly, but the orc was steadfast in his posture.
“I want my bloody coin, and I’m not going before you pay up!” The merchant crossed his arms over his chest. “I am not going before you pay.” He grunted.
“Goat not fresh.” The ogre repeated once more. “Dead.”
“Of course, it’s dead, you moron. You don’t order meat from a travelling butcher and expect to receive the animal alive.”
The ogre glanced dumbfoundedly at the orc, then flicked his hand in disinterest.
“Your letter explicitly stated that you wanted fresh goat meat. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. If you wanted the animal alive, you should have summoned a breeder.”
“Goat dead. Need fresh goat meat. No pay. Go now before me mad.” The customer frowned at the merchant.
“How dare you talk to me like that. You’re nothing but a shrunken headed ogre. You pay, or this is going to get bloody.” The merchant grabbed his dagger from the sheath and pointed it madly at the ogre.
“Wait.” The ogre snorted, then turned and walked off into his mud hut.
“Yeah, I thought so.” The orc lowered the weapon again.
A few minutes passed, as the ogre had gone into his hut. The merchant idled by the great bonfire, peering into the dancing flames. He couldn’t leave Brackenwall without pay. The three bodyguards had been promised to pay upon a successful job. They would no doubt shove their swords into his gut, had he wasted their time.
Slow and heavy steps echoed from within the mud hut.
“Finally!” The orc exclaimed disgruntledly. He turned, spreading his arms, ready to receive his due pay, only for his arms to fall down limb.
The ogre appeared in the doorway, a big long heavy club in his hands. “It’s clubbing time.” He bellowed.
The merchant stumbled backwards. “Guards, guards, help me!” He cried out helplessly.
Before the guards could come, the ogre had risen his club high above his head. The orc’s head the target of his swing. A loud crash blasted through the whole village, ringing in every villager and guard’s ears. The crackling flames of the bonfire escalated further up into the air. An immense dust cloud exploded at the scene, hiding orc, ogre and even the bonfire.
It took a while, but once the dust settled, it was clear what had happened. Crushed. The ogre had landed on top of the orc, and on top of him a headless bronze dragon had crashed, slamming into the bonfire and killing both.
The fire trailed from the bonfire, catching onto the mucky grass. The villagers panicked, and the guards quickly ran to the well for water. When finally the flames had dozed, Brackenwall once more fell silent. Everything was soon back to normal, but for the headless bronze dragon at the center of the village.
“Or that’s what they told me at least,” Prun groaned to the Warlord council, which had been convened for the first time since Wolfshadow’s untimely arrest.
“We cannot allocate the resources for this,” Axehorn proclaimed loudly to his three colleagues, “the Horde needs everything directed toward the sea, if we are to have any hope of reclaiming Lordaeron.”
“I’d like to add,” Prun hesitated to interrupt, but when no warlord interjected, he continued, “a camp of Alliance foragers have been spotted in the marshes. We have little intel on them, as Wolfshadow’s replacement have yet to be found.”
“Interesting,” murmured Ironfoot under his breath, tapping his walking cane once onto the floor.
Wormgut snorted at the mention of Wolfshadow and flicked his hand dismissively at Prun’s behest. “It would be a waste of our time. There is nothing for us to gain in the bleak marshlands.”
“Yet,” Steelgrin began. “We have an oath to keep with the Bronze Dragonflight. If they are in trouble, we must allocate resources to help them. I agree, we have little to spare, but what will be left of us, if we do not even honour our promises?”
The council found itself in a deadlock, two against two. Prun scratched his neck awkwardly, as silence fell upon them. Unless a verdict was reached, the council could not disperse, yet none of them wanted to relent. Prun considered, if anything he could say would speed up their decision but came up with nothing useful. Perhaps if he mentioned the warlords’ former colleague and her interests, they would make up their minds, yet, Wormgut was sure to jump out of his chair and assault him.
“Hrmm, hrmm,” Steelgrin pondered loudly, “if we cannot reach a conclusion, we must involve the overseer.”
“What?!” Wormgut slammed the table, glaring daggers at Steelgrin. “How can you even suggest that?”
“Settle.” Steelgrin raised a hand at Wormgut, waving him back down into his seat, then nodded toward the dark corner of the room.
Prun turned, peering into the shadows. It was the only corner of the room, that was not lit by torchlight. He blinked, not sure if Steelgrin had gone mad. No figure, shades or movement, Prun was certain, yet when he turned once more to face the council, all of them were fixated upon the corner.
“What say you?” Steelgrin inquired. “Will you support Axehorn and Wormgut, or Ironfoot and myself?”
Nobody answered. Prun considered for a moment, if they had asked him his opinion. He turned once more to look at the dark corner, then stumbled backwards, as an undead in full chain mail had appeared, looming just outside the shadows.
“Freak,” Prun thought, his heart pounding. It was nothing new to him, that rogues, scouts or spies could hide well in the shadows, but this was something else. The undead had completely blended in with his surroundings, not even his vile scent had reached Prun’s nose.
“Well, what will it be?” Steelgrin pressed the issue but received no answer.
Suddenly, his arm creaked as he dragged it upwards.
“Is this Rottweld? Must be,” Prun did not dare ask out loud.
The room remained quiet, when finally, he pointed at Steelgrin. The matter had been settled. The council would keep its oath.
