CRACK! … The sound of another kael’dorei glaive launcher echoes through the otherwise eerily still air of Sylvanaar. Obadiah sits in quiet contemplation beneath the shade of a young tree sapling, Thane Khazgrim’s dragon claw turning over in his hand… He couldn’t help but run that moment in his mind over and over. Tatton’s sunken eyes, his stubble speckled jaw and surges of seemingly random pain. He’d seen it a hundred times in his countless years of fighting demon-kind, he was sure that Tatton was a man possessed! How else do you explain such a deep seated conspiracy to turn the proud and honourable Alliance against loyal soldiers?
And yet, to find out it was nothing more than greed and political corruption… The same Alliance that he traversed worlds to fight for now spitting back in his face for the sake of some desk officers reputation. Obadiah believed he knew everything there was to know about evil… He never once believed that evil could be borne from something as pure as a mans soul.
He breathed a long, quiet sigh and stowed the dragons claw back behind his tabard, his hand running over the fabric of the Son of Lothar crest emblazoned on his chest. His fingers then cracked as he clenched them into a fist before he pushed himself to his feet with a start.
The Light doesn’t differentiate between man and monster. Demon or democrat… The Light shall always have Justice!
The Order and its followers knew that their quest against the Hand of Kharduum would soon take them into the towering, alien mountains of Blade's Edge, and yet the wolves were are their heals. Encamped within the Twin Spires, the soldiers of the 13th Legion were poised to continue their quest to apprehend them, to distract them from their crusade against the fiends that infested the crags to the north.
So it was that the Order resolved to march upon the 13th Legion's encampment itself, to call forth their leadership and to settle the matter of the false accusations of desertion once and for all. Their parley was answered upon the bridge that joined the West Beacon to the central fortifcation of the Twin Spires, and forth came both Tatton Irwine and Amric Caelstan, captains from both Wildhammer Stronghold and Honour Hold, respectively.
Of the two of them, the Order knew Tatton better. The patrolmaster had been there on the day that the late Thane Khazgrim gave orders to pursue the demons' portals, and the man had shown reluctance when it came to carrying out his successor's orders to bring the Order and the Third Cohort back to face 'justice'. No matter how hard they tried to convince him, when last they saw him Nagrand, Captain Irwine would not disobey his superior's command.
Yet on that day, there was change. Amric, twice as stubborn and half as informed as Tatton was, was difficult to convince, yet the overwhelming evidence of the Order's achievements in Outland could not be ignored: the horn of a terrorfiend, taken from Shadowmoon Valley; the silver cross medallion gifted to John Librus by the Sha'tari Skyguard; the dragon tooth pendant given to the former provost Obadiah by Thane Khazgrim himself...
Disobeying direct orders issued from High Command, Tatton and Amric took the plunge, agreeing bilaterally to aid the Order in their destruction of the Hand of Kharduum. When they parted ways, they promised that they would be a day's march behind, and that they would catch up with them in Sylvanaar... yet, for reasons unknown, the 13th Legion never arrived, save for a runner sent to the night elf settlement to bring word of an ugly argument and a deep schism among the ranks.
Had Amric and Tatton gone back on their word already? Were the soldiers of the Alliance hot on their heels once more, even as they prepared to storm the third and perhaps final portal held by the Hand of Kharduum? Victory was close at hand, and this time, as the Order prepared to vanquish the third demonic portal, they would not suffer another distraction.
A guild full of cool characters and cool people, if you’re a knight or person of the (Disgusting) Light and are looking for high quality RP then look no further! 
Beneath the towering, vicious spikes of Blade's Edge Mountains, the Order and its followers set about destroying the third and final portal belonging to the Hand of Kharduum. Arriving at Sylvanaar, they were told of their task by Commander Kalarneth: their quarry lay in the valley known as Death's Door, like the maw of a great beast entombed within the mountainside. So naturally fortified was the place that the sentinels at Sylvanaar and their Cenarion allies at the Evergrove to the north could only hope to contain the demons at the winding tunnels that led out of the gulch.
By the time the Order arrived, however, the demons had slipped the net. A Cenarion druid by the name of Sanseviel had discovered, on his patrols of the mountains, that a demonic forge camp on the eastern edge of the mountains had become active once more, and alongside the Order set out to vanquish the demons' latest move.
To their surprise, the demon hunter Terenrith, who had spoken to affirm their worth at Honour Hold and who had guided members of the Order onto the path of reforging a long-shattered demonslaying blade, joined them there. While the Order defeated the Eredar forgemaster, Terenrith discovered the means to reverse the demons' teleportation pads, and by the next day the mortal forces in Blade's Edge had turned the tide on the Hand of Kharduum.
The fel magics of the teleporter reversed, the Cenarion wardens and the elven sentinels stormed into Death's Door, whilst the Order charged the portal themselves. Therein, they engaged the portal keep, an inquisitor by the name of Izir'duum, in a delicate battle, and were ultimately forced to turn their blades upon Terenrith as the inquisitor harnassed the Illidari's demonic nature to his advantage.
Ultimately, the vanquished the demonic portal keeper and returned to Outland alongside Terenrith, who later confessed he had not been entirely truthful with his guidance. The demonbane sword that John Librus had discovered on the road to Terrokar more than a month prior had once belonging to Terenrith, who had withheld the final reagent needed to reforge the blade until he was sure that it would fall into the right hands.
Thus the Lexicon Demonica passed into the hands of the Holy Order, where it would meet its end... eventually. For now, the unholy tome contained a valuable enchantment, one that the blacksmith David Wayne had uttered to turn a masterwork admantite blade into a powerful demon-slaying weapon. All that remained was to reforge the blade, to bathe it in the fiery blood of demonkind, and to face the master and commander of the Hand of Kharduum in battle.
Now more than ever, the Order was prepared to vanquish the pit commander. In closing the final portal, they had acquired the most deadly tool that a demonslayer could hope for: the true name of their foe.
In the far reaches of Netherstorm, Lord Gorridon awaited the arrival of the Order of Lordain...
The Order is just a day away from the climax of their 6-week long campaign in Outland, and less than a week away from their return to Stormwind! Recruitment remains open, and there'll be many great opportunities to join the Order as it looks forward to the high-action campaigns which will follow!
Nathanael stepped through the ethereal barrier, a sheet of pure purple standing out in the night air of Netherstorm. He was instantly hit by a wall of humidity, and the sound of wildlife thriving - one of the fabled eco domes, ran by the mysterious ethereals. Him and his comrades stalked through the jungle, wary of their surrounding and the fact that they were strangers to this place. Animals of all shapes and sizes, some native to this world and some not, roamed the area, taking no attention of the wary crusaders. “Look at the size of that!” Nathanael called out, spotting a white scaled crocolisk, the size of a large wagon - the beast lumbered out onto the bank of a pond, watching the party move by with keen eyes.
Ethereals glided past them at points, tending to the grove they’d nurtured in this Light forsaken wasteland. They paid the Order no attention, and it wasn’t long before the faithful few were out the other side of the eco-dome, back on the road through Netherstorm.
Outland had surprised Nathanael; he knew to expect a hellscape, a graveyard for a thousand battles that had been fought after the portal closed and after it re-opened. The Alliance garrisons had regaled them of the tales of the heroes that braved the lands to defeat the evils there, but he could see clearly that so much remained. A reminder that no matter what the righteous could do, there would always be a battle to fight. The land simply reminded him, over and over, of the evil that the Alliance faced and the damage that greenskins and their kind could truly unleash upon the innocent and the wildlife.
“The memory of the eternal dead is entrusted to the living.” Nathanael had spoken these words across every conflict he’d found himself in, but he repeated the phrase more often during this trip to Outland. The idea that Arathi, that Stromgarde, could be reduced to such an image sickened him - and bolstered his faith. He’d stop at nothing until the Light’s will was done, and until the Horde were eradicted from the lands he called home, he’d know no rest.
The false trial that he had attended, in defense of his brother, had been designed to bring down the Order, to strip it off the laurels men and women had bled and died for. To be placed in charge of criminals and outcasts was a death sentence in the judges eyes. We will return from this continent with renewed strength; arms and armour to see our bodies safely through the righteous combat that awaits. If it is a war the elves, the orcs, the scarlets, if that’s what they all desire, they shall have it. For only in war are we truly faithful.
The Outland campaign has been a welcome change of pace from the usual Eastern Kingdoms zones the Holy Order is used to, and it’s quickly coming to an end. There’s space for fresh faces to join in, be it in Outland, or whatever new adventure the Order finds itself undertaking.
I cannot wait for the Lordains to get back from Outland.
Side-note: I‘m amazed at this storytelling. You go, guys in banana-yellow!
The Order's arrival into Netherstorm was a peaceful passage, at least considering the violent nature of the land that they stepped on - if, at all, it could be called land. The crumbling wastes, beneath the vast expanse of the Great Dark Beyond, criss-crossed with the myriad torrents of arcane colours, were unlike any wasteland they had laid eyes upon before. Even Shadowmoon, fel-scorched and blackened, was remotely familiar; this place, where sun and moon were not just obscured by ashen clouds but failed to exist at all, was otherworldly, on a primordial level above that of the elemental planes themselves.
At the Stormspire, they crossed paths with the esoteric creatures known as the Ethereals, representing 'the Consortium'. They soon learned that these traders were fraught with secrets ans schemes, and, moreover, plagued with problems. Most of all, they did not have capacity to withstand the might of the Hand of Kharduum, who they now discovered had been biding their time on Netherstorm's northern edge.
After gaining the favour of the Consortium, restoring power to their gateways, and awaiting the arrival of the forces of both the Sha'tari Skyguard and the Cenarion Expedition, the time to finally face Lord Gorridon had come. The night before the battle, John the Bruce and the demon hunter Terenrith partook in the process to reforge the Illidari's old demonslaying blade, that which he had quested far and wide for when the Dark Portal had re-opened the first time. All that remained was to plunge the blade into the heart of a powerful demon.
While the Skyguard, the Cenarion forces and the Consortium's shocktroopers did battle upon the hills that bordered the Great Dark, the Order and its followers stormed aboard the Hand of Kharduum's moored flagship. Gorridon awaited them therein, alongside his honour guard, and the battle that ensued was a brutal as could be expected from a fiend so hellish and so violent as an annihilan. Amidst the battle, the pit commander drew upon the souls of his slain elite, and with them brought the ritual that had taken weeks to prepare to fruition. As his cabalists had done weeks prior on their homeworld of Kharduum, Gorridon sought to bring forth the primordial essence of sound, the entity known as Murmur, from the distant reaches of the cosmos.
The calamitous sound of its impending birth into the material world, amidst the abundant torrents of arcane power in Netherstorm, was a symphony of terror upon the mortal ears below. It ripped and tore at them, quaking deep in their bones and vibrated at every sinew, every fibre of their being like plucking a string. The grim walls of the demonic vessel, inlaid with a hundred-thousand screaming faces and their trapped, wailing souls, flexed and bent beneath the ever-echoing soundscape, and so powerful was the noise that poured forth from the rift overhead that the crests of the sound waves compressed and expanded the air alternately, giving birth to lightning and cloud.
Ultimately, Murmur was not destined to return to Outland that night. The Order felt an iota of it's power as they did battle, yet Gorridon's demise came first, and with it the ritual ceased to be. Speaking his true name, the Marshal commanded the demon to stand, to fight, to die by their blades, and by chance it was the reforged demonbane blade that pierced the enraged pit lord's heart. The death throes of Lord Gorridon threatened to take John Librus thereafter, if not for the selfless acts of Sir Uriel, and of Salenne, the Kul Tiran apostate who took the brunt of the fiery blast.
There was little time to rejoice, however; the aborted ritual tore the Hand of Kharduum's flagship apart, and with Murmur's arrival denied the Order quickly returned to the precipice from which they had infiltrated the ship. There they found Terenrith, whose guidance had brought about the blade which not only struck the killing blow, but forever obliterated the pit commander's fel soul.
Mortally wounded, Terenrith asked one last thing of John the Bruce, who he named demonslayer: to take the petrified sprig of dreamfoil that had reminded him of what he fought for to the lone and sorrowful mate that awaited him on the shores of Ferelas. His favour obliged, the demon hunter asked for a merciful end to his suffering - not just from the wounds that he had sustained in denying Lord Gorridon any reinforcements during the battle, but from the shame and grief of abandoning his Goddess in years past, of lacking the faith and the resolve that these men and women had shown him in the last weeks of his life. He asked for mercy, not just of the paladins that stood over his dying and wilting body, who had every reason to despise him, but from the Mother Moon that he had abandoned.
With heavy heart and steely conviction, they said a silent farewell, one demonslayer to another. Terenrith was no more.
Peering at the dim light that filled the room where most of the Holy Order rested, Salenne peered at the mirror once more. All she was compelled to do was to look at her reflection as she was not familiar with the person who looked back.
Her once grey eyes now a honey amber colour peered back at her. Pure white locks that cascade beneath her shoulders that was soft blonde. She sighed deeply with a small frown, an expression of worry and anticipation of what could be next.
Glancing down at her hands as a mixture of holy energy and that of a mysterious red hue flowed around her hand and wrist, the occasional flicker of energy crackled then would disappear.
“What is happening to me?”
She pondered to herself before stepping out quietly from the building towards a group of Ethereal, hopefully they would hold the answers she needed.
The Hand of Kharduum was defeated, its commander dead and the pit lord's fel soul unravelled by the chaotic enchantment of the demonslayer's blade. For now, Outland could know some measure of peace, at least from the hands of this demonic warhost.
In the meanwhile, the Order turned its attention to a quest that predated their latest followers - who themselves were soon to be knight-aspirants of the Order. It was the search for Brother Augustus, the cleric of Stratholme who had, many years ago, tended to the everburning flame which burned in the Alonsus Chapel. More than a year ago, the knights of the Order had investigated the cleric's whereabouts, and learnt of the sacred censer that he carried on his person: the Lightkeeper, which was used to store and safeguard the eternal flame should it ever be removed from the chapel.
Its last known whereabouts was here in Netherstorm, in the Kirin'var Village which once lay on the shores of the Devouring Sea. The settlement had long been destroyed by the forces of Kael'thas Sunstrider, and by the time the Order arrived it had been under the magnifying glasses of Silvermoon's Reliquary for more than two months. Ever last building had been searched, every last stone overturned, in search of whatever there was to salvage: everything from personal effects down to agriculture ledgers, most crumbling and rusted from exposure to the Twisting Nether.
Slipping past their base camp without being given a second thought, a few of the Order noted that the Reliquary had not been left alone by the Hand of Kharduum, whose corpses lay upon the approach to the pavilion above the town. Paying it no heed, they came upon two researchers in the Town Hall, and after a fiery interrogation learned of the Reliquary's mission in the town. It became increasingly likely, then, the Lightkeeper - if ever it had been there in Kirin'var Village when the Reliquary arrived - had been taken by the blood elves...
Here the Order stood, at the edge of an alien world, and all that stood between them and their holy quest were the sin'dorei archaeologists and their guards. In their mind, the elves trespassed upon Alliance lands, thieving from that which they had betrayed, and sullying the memory of the eternal dead. There was only one reasonable solution: violence.
They descended upon the Reliquary camp, swift and bloody. The elves, distracted by mana wyrms and manawraiths on the northern side of the encampment, were hasty to respond to the paladins as they hacked their way into the golden pavilion atop the ridgeline. After a short and ruthless battle, the entire encampment - already weakened from the demons' assault days prior - was in disarray, and the arcane fiends of the Nether laid waste to those that did not turn to meet the Order in battle.
And there, in the pavilion, they found it at last: the hollow, mithril sphere, with floral patterns cut out of its polished metal surface, upon which elven runes lay. Quel'felor, it was called in the Thalassian tongue - the High Flame, though it was nothing more than an empty shell now, inert and as cold as the void in which it had dwelled all these years. All that remained was for them to rekindle the flame, yet to do so would require them to return to Azeroth.
Unbeknown to the Order at the time, the key to salvation, to their return to their homelands, was a mere dusty scroll, stolen by the Reliquary and stored within an unassuming leather tube, whose contents did not find the eyes of their knights until many hours later...
The home stretch! 7 weeks later, the Order is on its way back to Stormwind. Will the chaos that has followed in their wake follow them there, too? Find out soon...
(for real, join)
The day had been long and arduous for the order. The recovery of the Lightkeeper had not been without bloodshed, more than anticipated reallyand while the attack on the camp of the unrighteous proprietors of the artifact the Order had been chasing came out as a success and the reclamation of the item itself in good condition was also an excellent victory all in all, some revelations written in the scrolls they had also gotten back from their "raid" were proving to be most disturbing.Uriel had discovered when reading some of the "In Memoriam" dedications, that a certain name was written on there. A name that should not be written in a scroll of the dead from the village in Netherstorm, the name of one "Calistan Enright". Strange enough that a man living is pronounced dead in another world but stranger still is the scrolls dedication, all of the men and women there had fallen in battle against a dread lord, Diathonix.Indeed, it was strange he thought, until all the pieces began falling together, Uriel barely could contain himself in the anger that it brought him to and immedietly revealed this to some of his brothers that had been standing nearby from the tiresome trip from Netherstorm down to Blade's edge, namely Sir Ortellus.It was decided, something had to be done about this matter. Stormwind was no longer any sort of safe haven as long as this dread lord and his conspirators lived and there could be no mercy spared to them anymore, he thought, "A great fire must come down upon them." he envisioned, but Uriel had to contain himself for he felt slighted, played and manipulated by one of the fiends yet again but this time was different, this time he could stop it before it was far too late.So he took to task, taking his scrolls and the carefully protected Lightkeeper to an isolated room in the remote elven settlement, he passed through the scrolls time and time again, cross referencing any first names; initials; last names; titles; ranks; professions and even things as remote as addresses if there were any to cross. As he did so, he took his time to study the artifact as well. Every so often he would try to suffuse it with Light here and there, sometimes brighter and sometimes dimmer, he spent his night in blind, fanatical studying of it all in hopes of having results to report in the morning to Ortellus.
That nears the conclusion of our almost SEVEN WEEK DM campaign, as we quickly enter the epilogue of our great quest before the guild gets up to more whacky shenanigans back in the main world proper!
Remember, no Nathrezim.
The Onslaught has yet to meet this group. It will be very interesting to see how the Order of Knights and the Death knights interact.
They told him he was paranoid… They made him believe that there was no honour left in the Alliance. These men he would one day hope to call brothers MOCKED him!
As Sir Uriel revealed his discovery from the scrolls, these were the thoughts circling through the halflings mind. That day on the bridge when he tried to excise some nefarious presence from Tatton brought him only derision from the other members of the Order. And now, here was cast iron proof that his suspicions were correct! That demons had indeed infiltrated the highest levels of Alliance command and spread these evil lies and superstitions!
The news of Callistan’s apparent death wasn’t new to him… Even then as he stood in Honor Hold, pleading with Sir Ortellus that something was amiss while holding the record that claimed the Justicar to be missing in action, yet all he received was scepticism. Then, he saw it… The name. The cursed name that had plagued him all these weeks as they trudged through Outland on this seemingly endless vendetta… DIATHONIX
His mind was thrown back to that first week in Wildhammer Stronghold, spending hours pouring through demonic summoning scrolls and translating all that he knew to only end up with a name… A name that dared to not reveal it’s keeper until now.
Anger blazed in the half blood, his fists clenching and his jaw hardened while he listened on in stoic silence as Sir Uriel announced his apparent ‘new’ findings. Anger not just against this mysterious dreadlord that now puppeteer’d Sir Enright… But also the pain of how his new brothers in arms had doubted him… How they had cast off his suspicions as paranoid ramblings.
This wasn’t about duty in the Light anymore.
This was personal.
Seven weeks of DMing insanity from the boy Ortellus! How does he do it?
Also what a fantastic, awesome and original layout he’s used for the OP.
Just find this really cringe now. Stop copying people Lordain bullies. 
If I didn’t think you were all evil I would say how epic your campaign looks and that any and all interested parties should get involved with such a great group of RPers.
This is so hot.
Edit: care to post on your main now?
Vindictus 1:8
Diathonix.
Years ago, on some forgotten and blasted hillside overlooking the Devouring Sea, on the shores of what later became Netherstorm, Calistan Enright did battle. Sword in hand, he met the dreadlord Diathonix, alongside twenty-one of his compatriots, and sword in hand he died. The sorceror-lieutenant of Kirin'var Village, Morran, penned these details on the now-dusty scroll that the Order had reclaimed from the clutches of the Reliquary, and with it sent the Order upon a path of vengeance.
Marching upon Honour Hold, they turned aside the keep's defenders, and their commander, with the news that the provost marshal whom had instructed them to hunt down the Order in Zangarmarsh had long since died - despite records at Honour Hold claiming that he returned, dark-eyed and dishevelled. The paladins among them knew better; they knew what the Nathrezim could do, and here before them were all the hallmarks of manipulation.
Whether Diathonix and Calistan Enright were one and the same or not, the provost marshal's adjutant - Torvan Redbank - gave credence to the conspiracy. In his possession were letters: instructions to take a hands-on approach in finishing off the Holy Order of Lordain in Outland. Yet these instructions were carried out too late, and Adjutant Redbank was ruthless interrogated.
In one sharp turn, the Order's revelation had ended the confusing and bloody conflict that had driven a wedge between the Alliance's 13th Legion on Outland. They had proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the trial which their knights had faced was nothing more than a plot, wrought at the hands of those loyal to the Scarlet Flame, if not at the hands of a demon...
Now, that plot unravelled. Anger, righteous fury filled the hearts of the Order's sworn crusaders, their knights, and their followers. Vengeance was to come - not bloodthirsty revenge, born out of personal grievance, but true retribution in the name of the Holy Light. They turned their sights upon Stormwind, the heart of the Alliance, and to the rot within...
Today marked the end of the Order’s main quest in Outland! Seven weeks ago, the knights of the Order faced a courts martial, and tonight - a world away - they discovered the ugly, enraging truth of it all. The Order has come out of the ordeal stronger in both faiths, arms and brotherhood, and now prepares for its return to Stormwind City - the very place that they were forbidden to return to almost two months ago…
Great time to get involved as the Order hopes to move back north, towards their usual stomping grounds! Who knows what awaits them in Stormwind, however.
I do, I know.
7 weeks of uninterrupted, fully DMed d20 RP with the same level of intrigue, passion and well-written storytelling all throughout is the kind of RP most people can only hope and wish for. Character progression like no other. From (the greatest living) cabbage farmer to Paladin Aspirant with more to go. This was only one adventure, I can’t wait to see what the lifetime of the Order will bring rise to. Big ups to the main man Ortellus/Oboe and his dysfunctional pancreas.
Come Ortellus, come friend or traitor come. And bring Averdale, I have need of him.
Based boys in blue 10/10