These guys are amazing! I had a lovely opportunity to waltz right into their plotline, and not only was I welcomed without hesitation, I also got to be more involved than I expected! I seriously recommend them, regardless of their morally ambiguous tendencies.
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Another great campaign from a great guild!
We’ve had nothing but great experiences with these guys, and I look forward to the next chance I get to interact with them. Highly recommend checking them out.
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Another campaign that saw Morgan survive. Undoubtedly because of the gas mask she wore the entire time. Always a pleasure role-playing with the Starfallen. It almost makes me reconsider betraying them one day.
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We are less “antagonists”, more of a “found family” and just as disfunctional as the real deal.
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You can always join the winning side 
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UNFORTUNATE ROBBING AT LABELS N U CORPORATION LTD.
Article by Bill Greedhook
Labels N U Corporation Ltd., stationed near the Blackwater Lagoon in Undermine, was robbed on the night of the 29th day of the 7th month by unknown assailants, leaving the door wide open and the inside turned upside down as the suspects ran off without being caught.
We spoke the owner, “Labels” Wesley Stoneweld, who had this to say:
“Yeah, like, I came to work this morning, and my door was hanging on its hinges, and the place looks like a Tauren had been charging through it! Nothing got stolen, though I could tell some IMPORTANT things got touched.”
We spoke to Grig, a Hobgoblin in a trashcan, if he had an idea what had happened, but he had this to say:
“Nope.”
Witnesses say they saw a Pandaren detective and a yellow Gnome at the scene of the crime, accompanied by a Night Elf with a fumigator’s mask on.
Gazlowe’s Undermine truly isn’t as safe as he claims it to be!
The Starfallen are, once again, stationed in Shattrath City whilst they recover and learn of schemes that have been in the background since their excursion to the Eastern Plaguelands.
Soon, however, they will join the Cursekeeper Association and find a way into Deepholm – aiding the guild in their search for an easier cure for Shadowflame, or so they make it seem.
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Dinner Guests
The host, the Stellar Vagabond, entered first.
An elderly, elven figure, in well-worn travelling clothes; sturdy and well made, gleaming white, though betrayed their march of years and wear - even if they revealed no obvious sign of repair or maintenance. He showed only one eye to the world, the rest hidden behind a wide-brimmed, pointed hat from above, and so below, a mask that covered all of his face below the eyes. The mask was the sole splash of colour in his figure of white and gold, stained forever with purple ichor. Blood from wounds so old, that its presence is all that remains of those from whom it spurted from in rivulets and cascades. It intermingled with fresher wounds, and the soaked cloth dripped a steady flow of kaleidoscopic blood, where the old had intermingled with the new and that which had yet to be spilled. The Vagabond paid it no attention, even as it splattered onto the table and sullied the white of his robes.
He took his seat, head of the table, and awaited the others to enter. He adjusted the tablecloth with two white-clad hands, and in spite of their heavy load, pulled it taut. The table groaned quietly under the weight of what was prepared; bottle after bottle of unusual shape. Course after course was piled high, intermingled with aperitifs and desserts and curiosities. The Vagabond had spared no expense for the occasion, and the shock of his guests was apparent as they entered. One chair by the Vagabond, it would seem, had to sit empty for a guest who was not able to attend, yet must be honoured in his absence. One by one, they took their seats as dictated by their host. He gave a polite nod when the Visionary entered, grateful to see her return following her departure, and at long last, he gestured for those gathered to eat.
“I appreciate your offer,” began the Obsidian Scion, “but I must refuse. This fare reminds me of the worst excesses of my family, and I’ve no appetite to repeat their mistakes.” The Scion made to push his plate away, and yet, a stray talon impaled an errant slice of meat; deep red, with a burnished brown exterior, and not an ounce of fat upon it. A hard-working muscle, one that never ceased in its labour - even now, it pulsed slowly, as if the heart it once belonged to could still beat. A long, bladed talon sliced it in half, into a more manageable piece; and when the Vagabond turned his solitary eye elsewhere, the Scion feigned a cough to slip it into his mouth. One of the Circus Twins, the male of the pair, caught sight of it; but with a glance from the Scion, averted his gaze.
“I had expected more company,” The Vagabond began, gesturing to empty seats about the room; three in total, two of which flanked the Revenant Arcanist. “You shall, I am sure, meet them in the fullness of time. They are known to me, but not to you - much like our friend, of whom they would sit beside, their stories are deeply entwined with my own.” One of the two seats, it could be noted, was in the Thalassian style; as the eyes turned to it, the Scion hunched over his plate to reach for a fresh slice of meat with his taloned grip; tearing the muscle in half with his mouth. The Visionary could see him lick the juice from his chin, before he wiped it from his talons. She noticed a spurt of gooey ichor spill from the corner of his lip from the still-beating heart, and she noticed a twinge of shame in his eyes, that his tongue darted to clean it, before he masked it in aloof indifference. He sighted the Magister Addict, and turned feigned indifference to scorn; she had lit another cigarette, having stubbed her first to ash when first she entered.
The Desert Spring stood on her chair; it was far too large for her, yet she had no apparent desire to cause a fuss. It was easier for her to stomach the inconvenience than to speak up for herself. Her vulpine snout sniffed at a tightly coiled nautilus, its legs still twitching as if to swim away; extending her claws, she tore it from its shell, and ripped at it with her teeth. It came away in ragged clumps, each piece lodged in her gums, still writhing as if it meant to swim to safety from this predator’s grasp, as if their mind were still entirely intact. The Spring forced herself to swallow it, but the lump in her throat writhed, as if attempting to resist her appetite. The Visionary saw her grapple with the living meal in her throat; watched her struggle to keep it down long enough to swallow.
The Vagabond watched as she brought it up again, onto her plate, amidst a sauce of bile and spittle; with his attention diverted, the Scion, thinking attention had left him. impaled a cube of leathery flesh and brought it to his mouth, where he faced no such opposition from his meal. The Spring reached for her struggling morsel once again, teeth bared and eyes ablaze for a moment, and she ripped it into another, smaller piece, and slammed her fist to the table as she swallowed. She appeared for all the world as if she were challenging herself, or perhaps the vanquished carcass, to stay down. Her whole body shuddered from the strain to keep herself from bringing it up again, and yet, she managed. One paw clutched at her abdomen, the other for another scrap of flesh that had brought itself up, before sending it to join its kindred.
“Is it not to your liking?”, asked the Vagabond to the Red Blade. The Blade had, unlike the Spring, chosen to inconvenience the host by making demands, and had been provided a chair more suited for his stature to sit comfortably. He stabbed at the provided meal and tore it into rough chunks. His motions were mechanical and practiced, as if merely doing the bare minimum of a guest to be considered appropriate. The Blade merely stared at the Vagabond by way of a response, while the Scion sneaked another indulgence of still-rolling eyeball, the gelatinous morsel leaving a faint trail across the tablecloth as he snuck it in. The Blade had taken a knife and stabbed through a hunk of twitching muscle, and the Visionary heard the sound of breaking ceramic underneath it, before he produced a second knife, to saw away at the host’s offered fare. The Vagabond’s mask rippled as if there were movement of muscle across his face, yet if he were smiling, it never reached the eye that he showed the world.
“The wine is excellent,” said Seer Obscured, as if more concerned with the lingering silence than the retching Spring nor the ill-tempered Blade. “It hardly compares to the vintages of Arcwine had in the days of old, of course, but it makes for a worthy comparison.” She swilled a glass of dark liquid under her nose, savouring the aroma. She took a generous amount for herself, and poured a measure for her companion. The glass before the Magister Addict filled in three thick glugs of midnight ichor; an offering of wine that did not flow as much as it dripped and coagulated slowly within the glass. The Magister Addict merely stared at it, and lit a cigarette; her third of the night. “I will turn her to wine one day. A vice more pleasant to the nose and healthy for the body, I think; in the meantime, I shall enjoy all the more for myself.” Seer Obscured spoke with a rehearsed manner, as if she had shared this joke a thousand times before at other occasions. Silence hung in the air as it fell flat. She busied herself with her glass, and the Visionary watched as her lips stained a deeper purple, and teeth were stained black; she fancied to spy a lump of coagulated matter, caught amongst her insincere smile. The Magister Addict tipped a little of the ash into the wine she had been offered.
The Spring quietly brought up the twin scraps of nautilus meat onto the floor again, before disappearing beneath the table. The attendees pretended not to notice how she was straining herself, and merely offered to condescend with belittling support; but even now, as she emerged once more, she reached for a new temptation. Bread, as black as volcanic stone and inlaid with strange seams of some clotted, gelatinous substance of deep midnight, and none stopped her.
“Quite.” The Revenant Arcanist said, as if there had been no interruption. “In my old estate, we had feasts such as this to celebrate occasions.” Her spindly fingers delicately broke the chitinous leg of something, and a small fork pried the translucent white flesh from it. She cast a disapproving look across the table, where someone had begun to slouch in their seat, and offended her aristocratic sensibilities. “Half-caste, you would do well to behave appropriately.” She said, with the chiding manner of a parent to an unruly child. A different fork and knife diced it neatly, and she spoke between small mouthfuls.
“In the two-hundred and fiftieth year of the Queen’s Reign,” She continued, as if she had not had to chide a rude guest. “I recall the meal as if it were right in front of me. Steamed dumplings and melon, octopus, honey-nectar wine - Gingered, of course, with…” The Revenant Arcanist continued at length, listing every manner of aperitif and hors d’oeuvres and entree and dessert, and the fruits and cheeses and sweets she may have had afterwards, for every milestone of the immortal Queen’s reign. The Visionary could almost see each course and extravagant meal before her; they were more real to the Arcanist than anything she was doing now. All the while, the Arcanist pried out the morsels of quivering white meat from shell, snapping legs and claws with her chosen instruments. Her lengthy diatribe ended only when she snapped open the spiked chitin of some tentacled creature, and set upon the soft pink, jellied meat inside. She put three fingers over her lips as she chewed, and swallowed; with none of the revulsion shown by the Desert Spring.
“Verily,” began the Decaying Disciple. His bone jaw rattled loosely, ragged strips of flesh hanging loosely from blackened teeth. “In days of yore, fleeting though my memories become; we had such celebrations as this. The triumph in the Badlands, the turning of the Cathedral, the scaled rebirth! Such feasts that this reminds me of, my gracious host.” The Vagabond’s attention drawn once more elsewhere, the Scion cracked open claws of his own. “My compliments to your butcher, a thousand of them! Never before have I sampled a slice so tender.” The Disciple placed a hand upon the cavity where his heart may have once rested, staining the yellow of his finery with ichor. There was an unpleasant sound as he gnawed through a lump of gristle; a wet slap of long-rotten tooth stabbing into an empty gum. The Vagabond gave only the slightest nod of his head, and an insincere smile with the one eye he showed to the world.
The Disciple’s bony fingers, soaked with ichor, scrambled to find the places where seams of muscle parted - and where he could rip into them. It scarcely seemed to matter that his meal was barely cooked, and still writhing in his grip. “But,” the Disciple continued, tearing along a seam of fat, “no butcher can complete their work alone! Such fine fields our shepherd must tend to, such a handsome flock. Might I see them, one day; if that would not overmuch intrude?” The Disciple placed another lump of twitching meat into his mouth, and chewed with what remained of his teeth. The Vagabond once more gave only a smile that suggested he knew more than the Disciple, and such truths were not for sharing. Ragged crumbs of meat fell from behind the Vagabond’s mask, unaddressed by its wearer.
The Dark Sage had cleaned half of her plate, but the Visionary could see the lack of enthusiasm apparent upon her face. She chewed mechanically, as if she were wishing it was anything else. Bamboo shoots, stir fried with rice. Charbroiled tiger steaks. Fish stew. The Visionary craved nothing more than the last. A taste of home with its briny sauces and meat so fresh that it had never been laid upon a block of ice, from swimming in the seas to her plate within an hour. Yet, much like the Sage, all that laid ahead at this meeting was the strange meal provided by the Vagabond, who had still yet to drink as much as a drop of wine nor crumb of blackened bread. The Sage’s ursine maw made quick work of anything offered, and yet nausea at her hunger played clean across her face. An aperitif of thoughts and memories, the Visionary reasoned, could not have prepared her for this indulgence. Her enthusiasm was not mirrored by the Umber Hand, of whom she sat next to. He had finished his plate, and yet he had doused the entire meal in some thick, pale gravy. Immense smears of it were left upon the plate, that he now turned his attention to with a torn piece of bread. It seemed the only way he could stomach what he ate was if he drowned it all in something light, such that he did not have to think about it.
The Lupine Wretch, who incurred more than one or three disapproving glances from the Revenant Arcanist, moved in his seat. The tall Elf had sat, slouched in his chair, with his feet upon the table’s corner; much to the silent disapproval of some, nor the indifference of the Vagabond. He finally sat straight in his chair, and reached for the item nearest him; a delicately filleted fish, its meat laid upon the carcass once more, three eyes staring all the while at him. The Wretch ate, though did he go more than a mouthful without wiping his lips with a napkin. The Visionary never saw as much as a thimbleful of meat cross beyond his fanged smile, even as he gave lip service to the quality of the host’s chef; but saw the white flesh peek out from underneath the fabric he wiped his mouth with.
The Lupine Wretch made a better show of it than the Circus Twins; the two of them merely picked at the edges of their offered meals, yet never so much as touched them with sincerity. Utensils toyed with it, back and forth forever, perhaps feigning interest at best. Their enthusiasm was not matched by the Ravenous Speaker; her plate had long since been picked clean, and bore only the faint smear where the last of the juices that had dripped from her writhing meal had been greedily lapped up.
The Visionary stared at her plate, and wondered if she could bring herself to eat at all.
The Starfallen will leave your character with trauma that can only be explained in extended metaphors. Sign up today!
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The Starfallen recently worked with the Cursekeeper Association and aided in their plans to create a definitive cure for Shadowflame. To this end, Isilaith had recommended venturing to Deepholm to acquire Elementium and Earthen Cores, and the two guilds set out together to venture there, having started in Highmountain at first.
But their plans were swiftly put aside, as they were beset by Primalists and Cultists before they had even gotten to Deepholm – half of the group being squashed beneath the might of the earth. Eventually, they defeated their adversaries and began their work to hijack a Twilight Hammer portal into the realm of earth.
But subtly was thrown out of the window, as they were tracked down and beset by elementals all throughout the week, even getting so far as involved in an elemental turf war between two waging factions – a named Stone Lord and a Stone Wyrm of the name of Theonaxx.
Yet, such events did not stop the two guilds, and in a hasty retreat, they had returned home. Now, the Starfallen must weigh up their spoils of sacking the realm of earth, and decieving the Cursekeeper Association, and figure out what artefacts they had taken home with them, and if they could be used for their end goal.
Screenshot Album: https://imgur.com/a/8zaVMx3
With that expedition complete, we are currently open for new recruits! If you’re interested, please get in touch as per the information provided on the original post! 
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Excuse me what
We had a great time invading the elemental realm with you guys, and look forward to seeing you all again on K’aresh! Starfallen have always been a treat to RP with, if you’re looking for a guild with intriguing, high-fantasy storylines, you should definitely check these guys out.
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First time?
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The Starfallen have recently aided the druids of Val’sharah with putting down a Nightmare drake of the name of Thernarus within the Emerald Nightmare themselves, with it being a practice to prepare themselves for the wastes of K’aresh.
With the Prophet having been taken by the Shadowguard, the Starfallen begin preparations to make the journey to to the Void-scarred world, and soon, will find themselves face-to-face with the destruction that Dimensius had wrought against a world already, and face the destruction they have all seen in visions with their own two eyes.
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Saerira had called them Void scholars in her summons to him. Andreleth scoffed at the term; he found it generous. To him, they were simply fools prodding at the edges of madness. There was no mystery to be uncovered in the Void, only danger. History had taught that lesson well enough, he thought.
These scholars sought to train to their resilience to corruption, one Morgan explained, to save a friend on a broken world. In doing so, they would help the Druids cleanse corruption from the Emerald Dream.
Andreleth disliked the idea. It seemed reckless. But he was a Druid, and he’d sworn himself to the protection nature, including the Emerald Dream. The night elf trusted Saerira more than he distrusted these scholars, and so he eventually reluctantly agreed. The Druids would guide them into the Dream to cleanse a pocket of the Nightmare.
In a cave, the uneasy allies slept. They Dreamed with the blessing of Saerira, their spirits slipping free from their bodies. The Druid was asleep in the physical world, but his spirit flew in another world: that of the Emerald Dream.
But the entrance was not as it should have been. Where the group spawned, the air stank a heavy, iron-sour smell. Trees wept black sap that pulsed like a heartbeat and the ground was a snarl of unnaturally thick roots, thorned and cruel. Everywhere lay jagged bones, from dragon to beast to elf. But before they could grasp the depth of corruption, a desperate, distant voice pierced the mist.
“Mother… Mother, is that you?” cried it.
The Nightmare did not wait, and neither could they. The group pushed on into the reddish realm until they came to a clearing. Its presence came first in the form of smell and sound: the sickly-sweet stink of decay and the high-pitched whine of too many insects together.
And then they saw it.
The drake, Thernarus, was a ruin: bone, sinew and scale strung together by red mist and wicked, barbed thorns. Andreleth felt his grip falter for a heartbeat as sadness clawed at his chest; he had seen many creatures fall to corruption, but dragons were different. They were meant to be eternal. Proud. Not rotting, walking carcasses.
He grunted and shook his head. The way of the Claw demanded resolve of heart. Pity could wait, and his hands gripped the haft of his ironwood staff ever tighter.
The elf became a great bear and charged. Claws met twisted flesh. Nightmarish leeches wriggled in his hide. Blood filled his maw and matted his fur. The battle was brutal, primal and without grace, and Andreleth had only one task: keep the decayed drake’s attention for as long he could.
After a long battle, when Thernarus finally slumped and fell dead, Andreleth did not feel triumphant. There wasn’t the usual sweet feeling of victory—no, he felt sad. This wasn’t how things were meant to be. No drake deserved such an end, but at least its spirit was now free.
A mercy, not a victory.
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I’m not saying that there’s a job opening, but…
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Iszfallen soon.
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The Starfallen are currently in Netherstorm for the Assembly of Dusk’s latest campaign.
Next stop? You know it: K’aresh! Vasaar Duskfield, the Hat Man, needs to be rescued for the plan to continue.
And who knows what else may be waiting for them there?
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And rescue the Hat Man, did the Starfallen, alongside the Assembly of Dusk and friends.
But that is not all, as during Vasaar’s tour of K’aresh, the group came into contact with the entity that haunts their dreams and nightmares – a command that they MUST work together to bring It to Azeroth. No more schemes, no more betrayals, only their plan. And such things were written in blood, for one of their own perished in her defiance against the Entity.
Now, some of the group leave K’aresh for Azeroth once more, to mourn, to scheme, and to find more artefacts that they can use for their ritual; others must come to terms with their new consequences of defiance and betrayal.
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Impressed with what I’ve seen so far. A great cult research organisation for anyone on the lookout for one. 
EDIT: Important correction—I’ve just been notified that this isn’t a cult, this is a research organisation. And there are books, you just need to reach a certain level first.
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Carefully kept within the confines of a nightborne’s personal museum, an unassuming slab of Light-infused metal found on K’aresh hums. The draenic writing upon it, an oath made thousands of years ago, sings with the Light.
Somewhere else, someone’s dreams turn more cryptic than ever. A curated play of madness interrupted by a spotlight from the very heavens. The dark does not shy away from it, however, but instead clamours for more.
The Light’s Oath, a new mystery found on the remnants of K’aresh, will test the Starfallen as they try to uncover the fate of the Lightforged Draenei who broke ranks with the Army of the Light in their quest for vengeance.
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I hope you’re all being nice and kind and generous to my very best BESTIE, Isilathion!!!
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Only when he deserves it.
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