I was told to hunt Scourge in Hillsbrad tonight. How fitting that you all move in there. Is there a hidden message ?.. :sweats:
The only Deathstalker that can track Dawners down is⌠Well, Dawners.
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Sleep
Empty bowls sat stacked in miniature towers. Staves leant in neat lines against the ornately carved stone walls. The slow burn of an incense bundle filled the still air with thin, fragrant smoke and fragile leaves of ash that floated leisurely into a loose pile below. Glossy black nostrils reflected the dull glow of the embers and sucked gently at the aroma, synchronous to the rhythmic rise and fall of large, filled bellies. Faint snuffles and snores escaped open mouths. Tongues lolled lazily and glistening drops of drool dried against snug, warm fur.
They were dead to the world, cosy and comatose. The monks put great effort into their relaxation, just as they did their training. Despite the sheltered quiet in which the Pandaren snoozed, immediately outside the thick walls and temple doors, cold, harsh winds wrapped across the peaks, assailing the trees that sloped from the persistent gust. The green shoots and gnarled branches from which they sprung scraped and rattled against themselves with a roaring whisper. Steady thumps underlined the violent noise of nature - the muffled crack of knuckles against wood punctuated by the infrequent snap of splinters.
Blossom stood in the snow and starlit darkness laying waste to a training post, as she did most nights. Rarely, she would sit or recline with her companions as they dined and dozed but her need for neither led her to abandon the comfort even on those occasional social evenings. Once the gales had subsided, she would find a spot to sit and wait for the others to rise. She had wasted enough time already failing to fall asleep; meditation would have to doâŚ
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Loose soil rained down in dry little lumps around him, dropping off the layer of fine roots hanging down just above. They reached for nothing now, dangling freely, exposed to the air. His stiff hair brushed over the delicate fingers, unintentionally cleaning them and collecting some of the sediment between the bristles. The soft crunching and scraping of gravel greeted him like it always did when he crawled through the bend of the tunnel. Subconsciously the sound alone had come to bring some degree of comfort. In the narrow space it enveloped him like a second set of unseen walls, entwining itself with the darkness. It was the sound of relative safety.
A final push brought him dipping over an edge and into the one hall of the burrow, a circular pocket just big enough to give him a chance at turning around when he would inevitably have to leave again. He went down the final bit of the journey on his stomach and came slowly and ungracefully sliding down with his head first, following the sloping wall. A twist of his body left him partially on his side, and with a heavy sigh he finally settled on the uneven ground like a beached whale.
Welcome home.He was far from comfortable in this collapsed form. He knew if he stayed like that for too long his muscles would stiffen and his joints would risk locking up, but he could find no strength left in him to do anything about it. Somewhere between the flood of reports and the idiotic behavior of others, both his endurance and his already limited amount of patience had evaporated, leaving him empty and drained, and incredibly bitter.
The lens fastened to his face struggled in the already limited light, leaving the world in a dim, green hue. Through it he saw the texture of his tiny room and the blurry movement of laboring insects; how they, just like him, had sought shelter below ground. He watched it all without seeing, registering none of it. His limbs tensed and relaxed in short bursts, twitching along to the soft whirring of the mechanism nestled in the socket of his eye as the few thoughts he managed to hold caught their own tails, and repeated themselves in lengthy loops of pointless and irrational grinding. There was no reflection on what any of it meant. He was beyond the point of caring, and eventually the phrases would drill themselves deeper and make use of the indifference, turning it against him until he no longer noticed how they hollowed him out.
He would get no closer to rest than this.
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Fear
Blossom stood perfectly still, straight backed and chin held high. A prideful statue beneath the banner of the Jaws of Undeath, listening to the chilling Alterac wind that howled toward her from the pass ahead. She had seen people come and go, some with violent intent, many without, but all of them wary.
She did not notice the lightâs slow death, her eyes adjusting to the gloom as it gradually took hold. The mountain breeze settled, and showers of snow became sparse and sluggish. Strahnbrad was still and calm. It struck Blossom suddenly and unexpectedly, a sinking dread that filled her body, that made her shrivelled organs feel as though they were being pulled toward the ground. Utter silence poured into her like molten lead and the weight of Blossomâs potential isolation loomed, wrapping her in its paralytic grip. The pressure flooded her mind and mangled her thoughts into chaotic, primal panic. Energy surged and coursed across her body, discordant fight and flight confined within her petrified form, a shadow of the adrenaline that would have pumped through her veins in life. Her eyes widened and darted about instinctually in some lost attempt to search for comfort.
Blossom felt as though she were swimming in tar as she quickly turned her head, the passage of those few soundless moments warped by the terror of apparent solitude, her fear-stricken gaze meeting her bannerâs twin just a few paces away. Beneath it, Ramira stood as quietly as she always did. Blossom quickly set her stare to the pass ahead once more, collecting her thoughts as the weight of the world slipped from her shoulders and quiet tranquility washed over her.
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The Living
The cacophony of combat rung and echoed from the stone wrought walls. Swords clashed, hammers struck shields, bowstrings thunked and arrows thwacked, spellwork tinged the air with bristling energy, orders erupted from opposing officers, and all the while came the heavy-worded chants of mending prayers, punctuating the orchestra of violence.
The men of the Moat bore scornful expressions, eyes burning with a mixture of hatred, fear, insult and anger. Vulgar tongues spouted wrath and growled with animosity, hurling threats and spitting blood. The living thought the Forsaken savage, unholy, disgusting things, fit never to have left the grave, wanting nothing more than to send them back in pieces. Yet there they stood, rabid and bloodthirsty, vile and damned.
Blossom felt the thin blade pierce uselessly into her ribcage and lodge itself against her breastbone. She locked her claws around the manâs arm and wrenched him toward her, launching a fist and meeting his gritted teeth with the blunted claws that poked from her gauntlet. The manâs hateful expression dissipated, his jaw flattened and red, as he thumped against the wall of the keep and collapsed to the ground. Time passed slowly as Blossom turned to assess the battlefield, dragging the sword out of her chest and dropping it to the floor.
She listened to the rhythm in the chaos around her, the endless back and forth of strikes, the exchange of venom, and settled into the serenity of the battlefield.
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There was no question in Royâs mind that he was alive. He was, wasnât he?
Moments after he was thrown into an undeath he didnât want nor ask for, he returned to the Allianceâs encampment. He took refuge under banners of blue, claiming that he was âonly woundedâ to a concerned-- no, disgustedâ Elyza. Why was she so distraught? Why were they all looking at him like that? Salienâs expression smouldered with ill-restrained fury. Vakluâs somber gaze promised peace in the Lightâs embrace.
But yet, he was only wounded.
Royâs mind blotted out the hours of painstaking preservation it took to keep his body in pristine condition. Oils, conditioners, moisturisers and embalming fluids had became second nature. It was a daily, unending ritual to keep his skin perfectly intact and as fresh as can be. Only fools could deny the inevitable encroachment of decay, yet he managed to stave it away with a host of concoctions that cost more than his monthly pay. It only served to feed his delusions; if he doesnât rot, he isnât dead.
Whenever he looked at a mirror, he saw a lively face blotted out by the fabric of two criss-crossing straps. He had to wear them- wouldnât they know he was alive if he didnât? Once, he saw two gleaming, yellow orbs of ghostlight within his reflection. The blade he speared into his own eye sockets ensured he never saw them again.
He wasnât like the others- of course he wasnât like the others. Roy had sworn heâd never be like them. The forsaken were monstrous, cruel and devoid of any humanity. Unfeeling beasts that thrived only in the misery of others. Wretched creatures who cared only for bloodshed and torture. Colwyn fell before his very eyes and, moments after his raising, he was carving up his former allies. Heâd shed his former allegiance like a snakeâs skin. The pretender, they called him- no one was willing to accept it was the very man they knew and loved. Undead were all the same, yet-
Why were some of them so kind?
It jarred him. It repulsed him. The dissonance drew his mind to a screeching, bitter halt. Each word of compassion went against everything he believed, everything he internalised, about their vile race. When some claimed they liked him, they loved him-- what was he to do? Cruelty is all he ever expected and anticipated-- all he ever tried to provoke-- but yet some treated him with a kindness he didnât deserve. He often found himself lost in the throes of his surprise and confusion. Sometimes, he almost believed he was talking to actual people instead of monsters- if only for a mere fraction of a second.
And yet, day by day, he never again tried to return to the Alliance. He shied away from campaigns, refusing to face those heâd known and cherished in life. Their letters piled up, gathering dust for days, weeks and months on end. Even his own sisterâs messages were spurned. âCome homeâ, they pleaded. âPlease come backâ. Surely there was nothing to fear if heâs still alive, no? Surely his own flesh and blood wouldnât reject him like the others did. What was he hiding from? The longer he avoided it all-- the longer he hid from the very truth he knew, deep down-- the longer he could remain entrenched in his own delusions.
By now, they were all he had left.
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True Death
âKill him.â
A single dull crack of bone resounded through the slaughterhouse as Blossom dug her claws into the back of Rotund Deliquesceâs skull and dashed his forehead against the corner of the wall. She spun him back to face Folien and Grittlebone, who greeted the man with the lengths of their blades. His body went limp and slowly dropped to the stone below. Folien stepped over the fallen deathstalker, raised his sword, and freed Rotund of his broken head.
Blossom calmly folded her hands together against her lap and returned her gaze to the Executor and the Baron. She paid little notice to her companions as they dragged Rotund away in two pieces and burnt him to ashes.
She replayed the swiftness of the decision. It had only taken a few thoughtless words and a few solitary steps for Rotund to condemn himself, to strip himself of his free will. She doubted that he even truly knew what he had done wrong. Perhaps if tensions werenât so high, he would have had a chance at redemption, a chance to explain himself properlyâŚ
It was the third time she had been ordered to kill one of her fellow soldiers, and the only time it had actually resulted in their death. A feeling of unease lingered in her thoughts.
How many more of those she was meant to protect would fall to her hands?
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Been with these guys for about a month now and itâs some of the most fun RP Iâve had in years, very friendly and made me feel right at home. Highly reccomend it to anyone who wants to try out Forsaken RP or is looking for a place for their Forsaken to belong.
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Frick these guys
(JK, big up the Rotguard, as stinky as they might be)
{This post was NOT sponsored by the PCU}
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Still pondering on it!
Do it. Or elseâŚ
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10 years celebration upcoming
Hello Rotgarde,
Iâd like you to know that some âfunny guyâ posted a fake erp video about you on Youtube and thought it would be hilarious to use my character model as the one âfilmingâ it.
I have nothing to do with this and iâm sorry that apparently people feel the need to pull off this kind of crap.
Hope youâre well otherwise!
Vivian
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I think its funny.
Not to worry, we already know who made it 
youâre gucci
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I wish I knew, iâd like to have a word with this person.
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Theyâre a bunch of non rper wannabe trolls. Really nothing worth wasting your breath on. I, personally, think itâs way funnier to just leave them nameless
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Youâre probably right 
I wish they wouldnât have dragged me in to all of this though, doesnât feel good at all⌠What a way to start the new year, eh? Ah well. Thanks for your replies, they helped a bit!
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a fine roleplay guild
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