Rly upset that Blizz didnât release the cinematic where we see a blood elf adult whoâs been shrunk down to be 4ft tall interrupts the makâgora between saurfang and sylvanas to remind them itâs Brewfest and theyâre interrupting the festivities.
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Grit had never approved of the idea of joining the Rotgarde. He had seen the cruelty they so openly displayed towards each other and heard the torture between the syllables of their words. They were the words of cultists, dangerous things uttered not by believers, but by people forced into belief. People made to wildly dance in their own little vortex of insanity and fear, until they wore their feet down to their ankles. Until they stumbled, and would dance no more.
To fit a free spirit into such a tight suit had been everything but easy. Every day he had struggled to control himself, struggled to hide just a little bit more of what was him, and make himself be what they wanted him to be. To do what they wanted him to do.
It had all been a lie. He had made sure to take no oath. Sign no contract. Avoid the brand that was the Loyalist tattoo. He had never even been properly recruited. He had simply slipped into their ranks under the cover of the Tirisfal invasion and eventually been made to pull the surcoat with the Jaws over his head, all while hating how it chained him to something so contrary to his being.
With time he had learned to play along to the point of being convincing. Learned to pretend for just one day longer. Speak their words, take their patrols, write their papers, train the recruits, push them to do better, to be better, and beat them into submission when they refused to fall in line. Act as if he wanted to be there. Act as if it meant something.
It never had. Although the unit had become less extreme compared to the first time he saw them, the sickness of the Third Tirisfal remained underneath it all. The stiff greetings, the lies, the deceit, the display. Always the display. The High Executor enjoyed a good show.
How the gods of fate must have laughed when the world made a show out of him.
Yet, there had been no joy in it. There was no sense of victory. No sense of freedom. There had been only the gloating of people who suddenly saw the Forsaken as theirs. People who, despite claiming to fight for what was just, had delightedly grabbed the reins and drank themselves heavy with power. One master was yet again traded for another.
The following days of recovery had been surreal. In the dark of the Cleft he looked at the people he had fought beside through it all, and saw that they were lost. The people he hated, the enlists he had carved into being âThe Queenâs Finestâ - not because he cared to protect them, but because it had been his job - the ones who had chosen their shackles willingly and gone against everything it meant to be a liberated Forsaken, the idiots, the naive, the weak⌠The ones who would die, without their deaths making any difference to him whatsoever. He saw them then, for the first time, looking to him for guidance. And in that lonely darkness their forms so gently dissolved, and reshaped themselves to be what they should have been all along. Brothers, and sisters. Children of the Shadow. They were all that were truly left.
Rotgarde on a raft.
The realization and the irony of it all struck him hard. They had been nothing. And now, when their Queen had so clearly branded them as such, she had unleashed the rest of the world to tear apart what remained of them. They would have to keep fighting, more fiercely than ever before.
From now on, they would all be worth something.
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A cool early-morning wind rushed through the Cleft of Shadow, whipping beaches of crimson dust into the caveâs mouths and rumbling against the aged kodohide that topped tents and hung darkly from the roof. Gutterspeak jawing amongst the scattered refugee Forsaken came hushed, croaked and barely audible over the gentle crackle of the infrequent braziers, yet fell silent to Blossomâs ears. The purple glow of shadowfire illuminating the cavernous gloom went unseen, despite the wide and perpetual stare of Blossomâs lidless eyes.
She loomed motionless, gazing into the middle-distance beneath the banner of the Rotgarde; the Jaws of Undeath. These bared teeth were mirrored in the tabard draped neatly across her bony chest, a symbol which may have inspired hatred in the eyes of many, but a symbol she carried with pride, nonetheless. It had once been a promise that her will was that of the Dark Ladyâs, voluntary volition, servitude to the Queen. Now it was something else, a twisted focus for which shifting implications unfurled their way into Blossomâs mind.
âExemplarâ. Others would look to her now more than ever for guidance, yet the way ahead was shrouded in a fog of uncertainty and she did not know what to expect.
Blossomâs willowy, desiccated body stood fixed and vacant.
Blossomâs spirit wandered into the mantled mists of misgiving. Intangible footsteps fell through to the crunch of deep powder snow and the unknown fog tore away in an instant, destroyed and replaced by a squall of vicious ice and howling wind. She turned on the spot, searching, trying to make sense of her new surroundings; a landmark, a friendly face, any indication at all.
A bursting mountain gale launched Blossom from her feet and sent her sliding downward violently; her arms struck out and claws dragged desperately at the blinding white snow, seeking a handhold where none could be found. Buffeting winds wrapped across the heights and pushed at her descent; she tumbled helplessly over sheer drops, bones cracking thunder against ancient rocks worn smooth by the ceaseless turmoil of the peaks.
Grasping claws eventually met with hard branches, digging splinters. Dark, gnarled wood with deep roots, twisted into shapes the brutal winds had willed. It did not buckle or break under Blossomâs weight, nor from the impact of the fall; enduring life from hostile ground. She gained purchase, dragging herself laboriously into the thin protection the tree could offer and sitting firm to wait out the storm.
As Blossom held, the snowstorm waned. Glimpses of distant familiarity gradually shifted into vision beyond the dwindling flakes until finally they settled. Kun-Lai Summitâs fresh snow glistened beneath sunrays which pierced the thick cloud overhead. The Temple of the White Tiger lay in view, far below and far away. Above her, far above her, loomed the Peak of Serenity. In the shade of the small, ancient tree, she weighed up her options, then began to climb.
A faint purple glow swept across the icy rock ahead of her. The brilliant white snow faded swiftly to black. The cool early-morning wind rushed through the Cleft of Shadow, whipping beaches of crimson dust into the caveâs mouths and rumbling against the aged kodohide that topped tents and hung darkly from the roof. Blossom listened to the tension in the voices around her, the fear of the unknown future. And they were right; the journey may be dangerous, the path unknown, and the destination unclearâŚ
She set her roots deep. She would not buckle, nor break. Enduring life from hostile ground. Protection for those who would not find their way without it.
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The tormenting whistle of wind howled, furious and unanswered. Natureâs rage knew no end.
The bright snow-laden hills of Alterac lay behind him, silhouettes of ruined buildings joined by a single tower, at the mercy of the furious winds.
The plains were empty, not much remained of the once encompassing Syndicate. These lands died long ago and itâd seem only those who cling to a might which couldâve been remain here. The ogres crossed his mind, theyâd occupy the keep and ruins before it, the old township to the west.
The thought simmered and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. It was not a simple task. The conversation he had with the Executor was a calm one, a pause in the malignant melody he had to suffer. The word âUniqueâ rang through his mind, repeated in the same manner which he had spoken it during that conversation.
He ventured onward, holding close to the hills. His eyes missed none of the surroundings, the purple orbs glaring intensely through the veil of night. Mantling himself to a position where he could overlook it all. It wasnât long before he spotted a small cavern.
There, he gazed upon it.
A beast bearing the mane befit the mantle of Lothar himself.
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Donât expect you to go into too great a detail if its going to play too much into your guilds future but how are you guys handling the current situation with Slyvanas?
Are you guys still strictly loyal to her and thus banished from Orgrimmar and the like or playing it a bit more subtly, remaining behind with what appears to be a large Forsaken contingent, loyal to the Horde?
Got some very interesting times ahead for Forsaken Roleplay, itâll be interesting to see how it pans out and who remains loyal to Slyvanas in what looks like it could be a real testing moment for the Forsaken.
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As you say it has been and still is a very interesting angle for our current roleplay. We have been put in a new position with this shift of power that I, personally find a lot of fun!
As for what we as a guild do, Iâll leave that for people to discover through roleplay! I Look forward to seeing all of you about in game.
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Itâs certainly brought an interesting new view upon the roleplay your character has to go through!
Itâs also a great opportunity for anyone interested in Forsaken RP. You could join the guild and very quickly find yourself among some great and helpful people.
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Hello. Hoping to move to AD soon especially for Forsaken rp. Was checking you guys out but the link for your Morbid Doctrine seems to be dead and I couldnât find your site in google. Any other link I could use?
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https://rotgarde.wordpress.com/doctrine/
here you go!
if you have any questions, make an alt on AD and whisper Lawson at around 8 server time. iâll answer any questions you have
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[leans close to your ear] hail sylvanas
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I love rotegard. Very cool gguild
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Much like winter, a new season of the Rotgarde has arrived. Join us now and find out what will happen in the next episode of Rotgarde Z!
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Awakening
Foul magic seeped into the linen shroud, stained by the thing it so tightly wrapped; edges frayed and worn by the passage of time. It filled the husk within and pierced through unworldly barriers, seeking that which had once been.
Intangible, grasping tendrils, dark as the deepest shadows of eels in ambush, latched onto the lost - dragging and coiling around form and the formless, drawing them together in aberrant ritual. Unnatural blackness swept its way through the decrepit thing silently; soaking, binding, tethering.
She noticed the senselessness. Impossible darkness filled the world as she gazed upward. Dreadful silence announced itself, without the vital punctuation of pulse or echo of bone. The orifices of her face lacked function, desiccated and withered, unable to draw upon the stale air or taste the mouldering cloth that covered her being.
Long, thin fingers felt around where the wrappings had rotted through. Fleshless tips tapped against the ground and sent almost imperceptible tremors through her bones, coursing across her sunken torso.
Slowly her head rose, dry, leathery skin threatening to warp and crack with each inch of movement as she folded up, eventually hunching forward. She lifted her hands to her face, carefully peeling away the yellowed, crumbling bandages. The fragile covering responded to the slight movements, disintegrating in fibrous, dusty clumps. A final brittle layer obscuring her view gave way to her bony touch, fingers suddenly puncturing the material and plunging into the hollow, sunken sockets beneath.
She became aware that she was not alone, muffled and sinister voices approached, grasping at her wrists and pulling her to her feet. A hand clutched at the scalp beneath her tangle of withered hair and some probing metal implement cleared the rot of age from one of her ear canals, giving life to the haughty, venom-laced voice.
ââŚbefore that heartblossom wilts, you wretch-âŚâ
Before clearing the other.
ââŚanother set of eyes to the list.â
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The Rotgarde are currently residing in Silverpine Forest, The Sepulcher for how long, who knows, so make sure to visit during this limited time period!!
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Light
Without eyes to observe, nor the context of timeâs passage to give rise to anxiety and boredom, the journey had passed without a hint of care or impatience. She had lain against the floor of the wagon and allowed the rhythmic clatter and thud of hooves against cobble and dirt to drown out the strained, rasping voices of the strangers that travelled alongside her. Their words meant little to her, after all. Some innate section of her mind had strived to listen, but incomprehension drowned her desire.
She had been pushed further on foot, and eventually had to be carried as her emaciated legs refused to continue blindly onward. Despite her sightlessness, she had felt their air become thick and stagnant as she was taken deep into the ground. Now she was recumbent once more, her head restrained against a flat stone by a harsh but caring hand. Her skull vibrated as thin metal rods probed her eye-sockets and scraped at their depths, sloughing hideous clods of dried rot from the inner reaches of her face. The tender spoke distastefully as he worked; she sensed the bile in his tone as she tried to writhe from his grip.
The tools continued their exploration of her features, digging through creased, leathery skin and picking at the dry, thin, ragged flesh, before prodding at the bone that sat so prominently beneath. A moment of respite from the invasive implements ended swiftly as liquid poured into her eye-sockets and began to drip through cracks, deeper into her head. The hand holding her down slipped to the back of her head and lifted her upper body forward, spilling the liquid from her face and onto the slab beneath her.
Some unknown command sprang from the manâs lips. She sat still, slumped and sprawled, as the hand clasped at the side of her head. She felt a few seconds of pressure and a split-second of ease. And then again.
He began to chant with a guttural, ritualistic resonance. Impossibly, the shadows that filled her world darkened. What was mere blindness morphed into a stygian abyss - unkindled contrast, rather than abject nothingness. A pinprick of light marked the centre of her vision, spreading out slowly like a ripple through tar. As light lapped against the edges of sight, her surroundings came into view. Old stones made up the room; high above, the ceiling peeked through a thin green miasma which precipitated in glistening drops and ran against the walls, otherwise bare but for decaying shelves of aged materials and damp sconces that held dying flames. The unkind and self-satisfied face of the apothecary sneered at her from within the noxious panoramaâŚ
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Sick guild, although needs better deathstalkers.
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Better deathstalkers? Ok time to remove dawners 
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Sanctuary
Blossomâs time in Undercity had been spent learning. She had been conscribed to the Apothecarium, where her steady hands and practiced precision had been utilised in stitching abominations and maintaining the mouldering tomes that sat stacked in the aged bookshelves that lined the walls.
Life in Pandaria had spoiled her with a chronicle of rich history, and amongst the myriad books she now worked with, many stained by the poisons and poultices that they so carefully described, she had found fragments of the Forsakenâs short past. The words spoke mainly of war and vengeance, but also of tradition and thankfulness for the gift of unlife, subjects that were mirrored in the speech of her colleagues.
Despite the opportunities to sate her curiosity and the longing to find her place amongst her people, the dark, structured chaos of her new home dragged at Blossomâs mind and led her to yearn for the sanctuary she had abandoned.
She had returned before. She found an empty room deep within the winding passages of the Undercity and sat, legs crossed and palms upturned on her knees, claws pinched together. Her thoughts wandered to the peaks of Kun-Lai. She pictured it to the smallest detail, as she had always done. She focused on the silence, Chi wrapping across her limbs and flickering away like a slow flame. The hazy green energy burst with verdant intensity as her body and spirit separated; pale and translucent, she bloomed, a crescendo of serenity, lifting away and watching herself from above in a state of zen.
But she could not. At the edge of transcendence, something restricted her. Something awful and unseen. Her spirit fell from the air, collapsing and crashing into her body with a jolt. She shook it off as being out of practice and focused intently, unaware of the pointlessness of her efforts.
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Weâre moving to Hillsbrad Foothills today! If you want to join, nowâs the time. Weâve got a load of events planned and ready!
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