Use this thread for your selected stories and screenshots about the campaign.
Taking Shadowfang - Posted here too
Sneaking in was the easy part. The duo used their grapples and made their way almost silently on top of the Shadowfang Keep outer walls. The Forsaken that milled around seemed to be rather bored of their role as Keep protectors, only a dozen or so were there, but it was a token force, that was why they had rigged the main gate and entrance into Shadowfang.
The duo made their way into the gate house, with a grin they nodded to one another and carefully created a Rift within the stairwell of the gate house on the left side as it seemed to be less used, the Rift would lead back to the Seventh Legion camp to the south. Very carefully they began to ease away each barrel of explosive, with delicate precision they made their way through the Rift and placed them at the rear of the camp, closer to the Gilnean wall but away from direct firing line if the Horde noticed them.
They had moved seven of the twenty barrels when they ran into trouble, as the pair of Renâdorei made their way back into the Keep, they paused and entered the shadows, just in time. A Forsaken guard came to the main gate, but oddly he seemed to be in a daze, walking past the barrels and up the stairs on the right, luckily he was a creature of habit, he was grumbling something about the Alliance in gutterspeak, only a couple of words were distinguishable to the Legionaries.
Carefully, they took it in turns to start moving a few more barrels, just as Legionary Dawnsong had picked up another barrel and was headed towards the Rift, the Forsaken returned, Legionary Valadian acted with such speed it was nothing but a blur and strangled gurgling. Slitting the throat of the Forsaken before he even managed to raise the alarm. Unfortunately they would have to act faster now.
Swiftly but carefully they transported the rest of the barrels, before tossing the Forsakenâs body through the Rift as well. A yelp came from someone at the camp as the body landed with a thud at their feet the duo stepping through and closing the Rift behind them. Moving to the Commander they stood proud before him before saluting.
âValadian, DawnsongâŠ. Why is there a Forsaken body in my camp?â
âApologies Commander, we will dispose of it, it was part of a small problem that aroseâŠâ
âSir, the Gate is now clear, all explosives are in the Camp where you wanted them.â
The pair of Renâdorei glanced at each other before looking at their Commander, practically as one they stated the same thing;
âThey will notice their mate has gone soon, Sir.â
âIndeed they willâŠâ
The Commander turned on his heel and moved to the centre of the camp, his gaze shifting to those around him, somewhere making cups of tea, others were watching the marshes. With a thin grin the Commander shifted, his voice enhanced by the magic upon his mask as he spoke, it was loud but not as loud as it was on the front, his words only echoed around their camp;
âLegion! Form up. We move to take Shadowfang Keep.â
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Sainur consumed rice and fish as his evening meal. An exciting event.
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`https://imgur.com/a/0nyfD0T` Yldar and his army of sheeps. :P
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These moments before the storm is what makes Brax so eager for battle, to see the enemyâs frontline while having the honor to stand in the Allianceâs frontline. The daring faces, the taunting yells and the fast beating of his heart⊠just waiting for that one signal to start charging into battleâŠ
https://imgur.com/a/qkhWG9OStrangely he smelled it first, that almost compost-like smell, the smell you got when you flew through a cloud⊠âHells, Its rainingâŠâ the rat-atat-tat of the raindrops on his tent roof coming next, before his eyes flickered open, the right one first, then the left a second later, the scarring around it perhaps having weakened one of his eyelids. He could live with that. At least he had both of his eyes. He huffed in a breath, lying in his tent for a few more moments of blessed warmth, whilst his memories pulled together, before his brain caught up to speed, it never really rained in Silvermoon, not like this, and with a half snarl, half sigh he just looked at the tent roof and cursed. â Aww hellsâŠSilverpineâŠâ, he reached out a hand to his kitbag, seeking a cigarillo, always in the same pocket, he opened it and stuck it in his mouth. He was just about to conjure a small flame, a mere parlour trick for a Sinâdorei, then looked inside the packetâŠHis last one. His sleep befuddled mind slowly coalesced. He had promised Tarrithael he would quit, because of the Twins. It had been weeks, but here, now, when she was hundreds of miles away on Quelâdanas, What was the harm? Sheâd never knowâŠ
He inhaled the smell of the unlit tobacco, enjoying the smell even as he realised the siren call he was putting in his way, every day.
She wouldnât know.
But he wouldâŠ
He stretched his arm and replaced cigarillo in packet, and packet in kitbag, there for the next time he felt weak, tempted⊠He struggled to sit up in his bedroll then grunted in pain, his right abdomen was fire, and he fell back onto his campbed, hand gingerly probing the pain, feeling the bandaging and the poultice. Remembering how they got there. He closed his eyes, and by some vile aural alchemy, the rhythmic pounding of the rain became that of beating wings, or the âWhap Whap Whapâ of Gyrocopters blades.
It had been day one, theyâd arrived in Silverpine in good order, with the other Horde Forces, I mean, apart from one bat bite, the transit was successful, and even as Commandant, he had to follow his own example, so had the bite checked for Infection, theyâd cleared out some Scourge remnants on the way, laying down covering fire for the âgroundpoundersâ as his fliers referred to foot soldiers. That first night was quiet, old comrades from different units meeting each other, the campfires burning as the night turned cool. In the smell of the campfire smoke, and cooling foodstuffs, the laughter of old friends, you could remember, at times, and smile, what it was that made you sign up for this life, this fellowship of War, as a Soldier.
It is funny, he reflected, how easily, how quickly we forgetâŠ
The next day saw them take wing, there were Alliance afoot on the ground, rumour already of skirmishes breaking out, but also rumours coming in of Alliance fliers, varying types.
âTime to earn our payâ he said wryly as his riders buckled themselves into their Flight Harnesses, attaching them to their mounts saddles, boasting of how many Kills they would get, who would âOpen their Bookâ or score their First Aerial Kill. He smiled as they surged into the Skies, Sunspearâs powerful wings tearing upwards and bearing them aloft, âOnly the Brave!â he roared, and heard it responded to by his unit.
Earn their Pay?..
Heâd nearly bought the whole FarmâŠ.
Theyâd formed two flights, Starwing was to stay at average combat flight, Redwing was to climb, this soon became a prudent precautionâŠ
The wings and rotors pounded in his mind as he scrunched his eyes tighter, the raindrops recalling that fightâŠ.
They were outnumbered, but as the Sun Hawks often boasted, âWe are Often Outnumbered, but -Never- Outclassed.
It had been a thick dreary mist, even in the skies, that hung over the forestland of Silverpine, and then one of the Rookies yelled out âContact!â and gave the direction, eleven sets of elven eyes scanning in the direction named, trusting to their superior vision in low light conditions.
Trust that was not misplaced.
Two groups of Fliers, One of Gryphonriders orbitting a location, then lower, just above the treeline, Gyrocopters, they seemed to be attacking some ground targets, with crude flame weaponsâŠ.
Well, The Sun Hawks would show them -Fire-!
As the Commandant he was flying solo above the unit to see the bigger picture, so he raised his communicator, the arcano tech working even through the mist âThis is Sun Hawk actual, Starwing, Redwing, engage at will, I will come down with Redwingâ
He didnât need to specify, Flight Surgeon Starglow knew his wing would attack the Gyroâs, and War Hawk Reddawn knew hers should attack the Gryphons. He would not mess with the command structure, That was the duty of the Wing Commander, or Officer on Overwatch, you slotted in with the Flight who needed you most, but did not take command from its designated leader, that way led to disgruntlement, distrust even. Narme knew what she was doing, Redwing was in good hands. In the thick mists he heeled Sunspear into a tight turn, and dived, almost flying inverted, at one of the Gryphonriders, a Dwarf, he noted, but with none of the spiralling tattoos that marked the Wildhammer, thankfully, for they were dread opponents indeed.
The Slightly tinny voice over the Communicator came over âSir, looks like the Gyroâs are torching areas around some, ehhh, Forsaken civiliansâ
âWhat the Hells are Forsaken civilians still doing in this area, does it look like they are shepherding them somewhere?â
âPossibly Sir, Still free to engageâ
âMost definitelyâŠâ
And then there was no time, because it became a time of orange flame and spitting rifles in the darkness and mists. He felt his grin tighten into a rictus, his eyes narrow and eke out every atom of light he could draw, his breath became swifter, but regulated, increasing his adrenaline, but on his terms, in a Fight Reflex, not a Flee Reflex, everything seemed to slow downâŠ
I mean it didnât, he was no Chronomancer, and was famously bad at magic even by the standards of his people, but more than a thousand years of war had taught him how to regulate himself in combat.
This was going to be good SportâŠ
As he neared one hundred yards he nudged Sunspear with his ankles and the Dragonhawk obliged, no longer beating his wings, but gliding, silently down towards their foe, eighty, seventy, Fifty Yards, Forty, and Now!
Sunspear both started beating his wings for speed, but also gave flame, the Draconic creatureâs jet of fire washing over the Dwarfâs armour and the left wing of his Gryphon.The Dwarf rider was clearly good, they gained their poise, and whilst they looked over their wrong shoulder at his attack, they realised this, and broke left, into a slight riseâŠClever.
Sunspear obliged, and rather than trying, and failing, to pursue that maneuver, Brigante broke right, Dive on a foe, then try to suddenly turn and follow them into the skies was a sure way to put you at a disadvantage, better to break and come back at them.
For a moment there was nothing but the hiss of his deep breaths, the deep sound, like a heavy linen flag in windy weather, of Sunspearâs feathered wings spinning them round. Slowly the other voices filtered through on the Communicators, turned out things were going well for HIs Hawks, a few of the Rookies had opened their Books, even scoring Air to Air Kills, and quite a few of the enemy, like Briganteâs own foe, were injured, though complacency was a dangerous game. âComplacencyâ could be the middle name on many a flierâs gravestones, not that they tended to get themâŠ
Brigante and his Dwarven foe now sped towards each other from opposing directions, as if in some perverse game of âChickenâ. With a âCrack Crackâ the Dwarf left fly two shots at him,streaks of noise in the sky, and this is when it became dangerous, if neither broke, both could die, and their combined speed of approach was doubled, as they both arced at each other. One of the shots slammed into Sunspearâs Crimson red barding, and the Dragonhawk growled, then roared, letting flame, the other shot had gone Brigante knew not where, he was still full of adrenaline, as the two hurtled towards the other. He could almost see the smug smile on the Dwarfs face as they approached, but he didnât know what Brigante had plannedâŠYou see there was no benefit into getting into a mid air melee scrap on a Dragonhawk, with a Gryphon, they have four clawed limbs independent of their Wings! Dragonhawks have a beak and claws, but those Claws are on their wings, they canât use them without starting to fallâŠ
He did have one advantage howeverâŠ
As the two raced towards each other and the Dwarf reloaded their rifle, Interestingly a two shot one, must mean the bullets pack a punch, he kicked his knees together, by Sunspearâs flame glands. He never knew what the Dwarf saw, hoped he never would, as the beak opened and the ululating hunting call started, and the flame started to burn in the Dragonhawkâs gullet, as at the last moment the Dwarf broke to Briganteâs right, his own left, for a moment Brigante thought they had collided, as he felt a solid impactâŠHe span Sunspear into pursuit, and listened agonisingly as he heard not just fliers calling in hits, but injuries, the youngestâŠAnaesteria, the lass barely out of the 7th Escadrille, naught more than a child, yet to hit 20 he reckoned, yet still one that showed promise, sweet kid, too good for WarâŠand now sheâd been shotâŠ.
She wasnât the only oneâŠhe felt the cold he had felt before, piercing even through the adrenaline. âWhy you clever swiving Caitiffâ he muttered as his golden gauntlet came back as scarlet as the rest of his armour as he probed the cold feeling. Gutshot⊠That Dwarf was good. The Dwarf bobbed around the skies, realising Brigante was on his tail, but at every step something cold and horrible had taken Briganteâs aerial sensibilitiesâŠâThe Predatorâ they called itâŠThat moment when a Flier really -does- become as much of an aerial hunter as the Dragonhawk they bonded with. He could feel he was bleeding pretty badly, but he was not letting this one get awayâŠThe Dwarf dived, and Sunspear followed, the ululating cry howling from his beak, the Dwarf realising the mistake he had made, in letting the Heavyweight Silver breed Dragonhawk dive after him, it was bound to eat up the distance, so they flashed between trees, twisting turning in earnest, but he had miscalculated, and allowed Brigante and Sunspear to convert gravity, into speed, a jet of flame, the roasting small of feathers, and the Gryphon span out of control to the ground.
Brigante circled a momentâŠThere was no sign of a parachute, never was, at such low altitudeâŠHe saluted briefly, then rose in the skies, the colder air up here reminding him of his injuryâŠitâŠreally was quite badâŠ.
âRedwing, Starwing, do we still have âtradeâ or have our âdance partnersâ gone home?â
âTheyâre fleeing.â
â Good weâve taken some hits, Iâm one of them, letsâŠLets go homeâŠ.â
The Irony did not escape himâŠonce they landed. The Escadrilleâs Youngest flyer, Aenasteria, and itâs oldest, Himself, both the ones that had taken the worst of it.
The Flight Surgeon scrubbed his hands and prepared to work on them, aided by a few friendly Darkspear.
He remembered little but pain. The Flight Surgeon was skilled, but Sun above his healing -Hurt!- He was largely insensate with pain, someone, one of the Trolls he thought, asking him questions, piercing through the fog of pain that stultified his mind. He tried to keep focussed, though now that combat was over, and the adrenaline had worn off, the pain returned in full force, and he had screamed when the Flight Surgeon had to reach into the wound and pull out the bullet, that was still inside him, before he could seal the wound. He had kept asking about the Rookie, making sure she was being seen toâŠBut there was so much pain⊠He knew he was repeating himself, but he felt so tired, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleepâŠ. Till a stentorian Trollish accented Voice cut through his reverie, âTell me abaht Flyinâ Monâ They kept asking questions, and those questions? Distracted him a little from the painâŠ
Eventually it was all done. And he could walk, weakly, on the bone cane that had become his constant companion, he saw the Rookie was âunder the knifeâ still, so his question was almost whispered, as he spoke to the Flight Surgeon⊠âWhat have we become?â,
The stern answer, Aiechi Starglow not even turning his head, was simple, and to the Point.
âSoldiersâ
Brigante had twisted his lips and moved to his tent, to rest. That wasnâtâŠexactly what he had meant, he had removed the remnants of his armour, his boots, and tunic. Laid back on the furs, and pulled his sleeping roll around himself, making sure to rest on his back, so as not to agitate the bandaging so skillfully put there.
That had and hadnât been what he meantâŠit could be, in the greater scheme, as in the Sinâdorei, but Brigante closed his eyes, trying to banish memories of smoke and fire and bulletsâŠ
He hadnât just meant the Sinâdorei he realised when he had awokenâŠ, he had meant himself and the Flight Surgeon, Aiechi.
One Elf commanded and sent them all out to get torn to pieces, and One Elf had to put those pieces back together again, as best he could. And at times, he almost pitied Aiechi Starglow. He was young, he should have had a better span of life than this before spending his time elbow deep in other elves wounds. But that kid understood a lot. We are soldiers, and thatsâŠall we are, what we areâŠ
Brigante pulled aside the bedroll briefly, and looked at his torso, a horrible map of pain, forgotten wars, Keloid scarring and yet more to come.
The Flight Surgeon was right, what are we, but SoldiersâŠ
He listened to the rain drumming on the roof of his tent.
He ran a hand over his face and dressed, pulling a thick cloak over himself to protect from the rain, and unlaced his tent, stepping outside into the still brisk air of Silverpine, thick mists in the distance, drizzle as it turns out, rain always sounded worse inside a tent, clear skies otherwiseâŠ
He could already hear rough orcish and trollish accents talking around the fire, as he inhaled, ahh, there it was, bacon. A Soldierâs camp. As he limped down to join the Horde soldiers around the Campfire, cooking breakfast, he mused.
âWhat have we become?â
âSoldiersâ
As he moved down to the laughter, despite the cold, the drizzle and no promise of free breakfast he could not help but smile despite the pain.
âWeâre soldiersâŠ.ButâŠ.â
âThereâs far worse things we could beâŠâ
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Some fun pics from the unrestricted today!
https:// imgur. com/a/31fXHOo
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https:// imgur. com/a/31fXHOo
Here 
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Hereâs an album of the restricted RP-PvP, do know that it was taken from a melee Alliance PoV so hopefully I got enough casters and Horde folk in the album ![:smiley:](https://d1bg94bbsh66ji.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/smiley.png?v=6" ":smiley:")
https://imgur.com/a/s9IBl4u
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https://i.imgur.com/ULIhVdL.jpg
Captain Gemir I donât feel so goodâŠ
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OCH in ten characters
Shameful display, chap.
I heard a certain Demon Hunter was beating you up, too.
![:japanese_goblin:](https://d1bg94bbsh66ji.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/japanese_goblin.png?v=6" ":japanese_goblin:")
Pyrewood. A ruined village that had seen much strife, now manned by the 7th Legion following the Battle for Lordaeron. Houses in ruins, streets in tatters, a dried up fountain where no water freely blossoms forth from Mother Azeroth and hardly a soul in sight unyet hardened by the woes of the ongoing faction conflict.
It is quiet as the young dame rises from her cot after a brief rest. Temples thundering with the swelling of a hundred suns, her headache has yet to abate from the injury suffered only days gone by, during the valiant charge of The Knightâs Gryphon. Out of all her flamboyant posse with whom she shares her camaraderie, only Sir Charmionge du Lac has yet to rise.
âAh. Just why did he drink that expired milk? We warned him, and yetâŠâ the thought is lost, interrupted by a flatulent bellowing issued from the handsome, baby faced knightâs bed ridden form. Reflecting fondly on their hastily thrown together campfire meal the night before, the restless maidenâs tongue is still touched by the tastes of salted, roasted meat.
The best kind that a knight at war can hope for. Oh, how the company of knights and their gryphons had sang and feasted the night away. It was a comforting thought, that even during arduous times like this and with the world balancing on a knifeâs edge, that these prettied up tools of war can still smile together.
Slipping from the cot and minding her bandages, she slips onto her toes and wanders over to her ill companion. Captain Jack, Sir Goldglance and the rest of her esteemed company are nowhere in sight. Slightly relieved, she trots on over Sir du Lacâs sleeping form and arches over. âIt would do him well to grow a beard⊠at this rate, heâll meet his end at the edge of a razor than a sword,â she sighs helplessly and drops her freshly healed arms, her left limb still aching from the brutal crushing it received in a battle prior. âStill; Iâm glad youâre here with me⊠I couldnât wish for a better company of friends.â
After uttering a faint prayer to the light and casting a soothing spell over the sleeping knight to ease his obviously troubled bowels, she slips towards her allocated corner and checks over her battered gear. The once polished, pristine and proudly adorned regalia she wore as a Knight of the Peak had been thoroughly thrashed once more.
Troublesome winds had claimed her helmet and Horde blades, hammers and axes had clearly shredded much of her mail to tatters. âBah.â Hanging her head in resignation and slipping into a pair of clean leather boots, she steps out to where the Knightâs supplies are being kept and unlocks the crate where her personal items are being stored.
âAh, here we areâŠâ a smile plays on her lips and a flicker of nostalgia runs over the Dameâs deep, sapphire eye. Splayed out neatly and lying in straw, the dameâs personal equipment has been well cared for and tended.
The Silver Hand surcoat that her old Auntie Everett had once donned was now hers to wear once more, for the battles to come. âIâve not had a chance to take a good look at you since we fought together at the Broken Shore,â she mused. It hadnât been that long ago but it felt long enough to be without something that was an integral part of her identity.
As she strokes the tempered, silvery chest plate of her forebears, it reminds her of the chilling winds of Icecrown where she first took it into active combat. It was like her second skin.
Even if it proved a much heavier burden for her partner, Swift, she couldnât help but note it would perhaps serve to bolster the playful gryphonâs muscles. Not to mention, with the heavy absence of aerial combatants during the last battle, this would suit her far better when facing the Horde. It only takes her a good hour to get it all taken out, polished and prepped for combat.
Diligently working away in the dark equipment shed, she raises her index digit to produce a small light to illuminate her obscure surroundings. A small feat for a paladin.
âOh if you could only see me now, fighting another battle for your homelandâ, she thought fondly of her aunt and uncle, of her parents and all those lives lost during and before the Third War.
At long last she steps free of the dreary tool shed to be met with the pitter patter of a thousand pelting rain drops. A dreary, grey sky persists over Silverpine. It produces a rather fitting atmosphere, fit for the war they now wage over a land long since ruined by greed and tyranny.
Approaching her healthy steed where the gryphons are being stabled, she playfully bumps her head into his beak and then feeds her a chestnut. Leaning against her feathery comrade in arms, she pops a small sweet into her mouth and experiences the utter bliss of peppermint.
âSorry for yesterday, Swift. I shouldnât have left you alone in the air. I hate seeing you in pain,â she wraps an arm around her gryphonâs neck and unleashes a hacking cough at the bestial aroma filling the air. In truth, sheâs gotten used to the odour that her companyâs mounts produce and even though only a short amount of time has passed, she cannot imagine her life without it permeating her nostrils even once per day.
âYou know, maybe when a time comes when the war is finally over, you and I can just fly off and explore the world.â She eases out a sigh and reflects on the many battleâs sheâs survived up until now, placing her faith wholeheartedly in the Light to see her through. âThough. Iâm not really good at anything else but fighting, I mean, you do all of the flying soâŠâ she sniffles slightly, feeling a tinge behind her head bandage.
âIâm glad I can fight again today. I hate feeling so powerless as I have the last few daysâŠâ she sighs breathlessly and then ceases the discussion, as Swift is too occupied digging into the small bag of oats prepped up by the fence sheâs leaning over. It was a shame that her gryphon was at times better company than Sir Goldglance, whose mountainous ego could tower high over Mount Hyjal and then some, or even Sir du Lac and his tendency to be an utter cry baby.
Captain Jack was oft busy and she never wanted to burden a commanding officer with her woes. The rest of their company was otherwise engaged and she felt nervous about approaching the few people she had met during the campaign.
They were fighting a war, after all, not volunteering themselves to a social endeavour. Far too many of her allies and comrades had perished for her to make fresh connections easily and she was terrified of even losing those forged amongst the Knights of the Peak.
She attributed much of her ability to survive to the Holy Light and of course, her own natural born luck.
Her parents had fought and died to provide a peaceful future and she walked that same stubborn path. Numerous allies had perished around her up until now and her turn could come at any time. She was more than ready to give her life for the promise of a world without these torrid conflicts that literally worked to tear the world literally asunder.
âWell thenâŠâ she brushes a finger over Swiftâs beak and then makes for the village proper. The battle was hours away yet and she could prepare herself until then. âPoking at Sir du Lac or checking up on Goldglance might be a good idea! If the Captainâs around, we can talk tactics and hey, maybe there wonât even be a battle today at all. If the Light is merciful, the Horde will issue a surrender!â she muses, straightening out her tattered shoulder length locks and adjusting her crimson eye-patch, doing her utmost to stay smiling.
âDeath to the Alliance!â the vitriol spewed into the air like a miasma of sinister poison not unlike the actual poison laced in the arrows fired by the Forsaken archers manning the hilltops. Dame Luceil clung to her Kuldr and deflected the relentless blows of an overbearing Sunwalker, inching back in the formation, yet unable to gain ground against the immense foe as the silhouettes of numerous spells, arrows, bolts and bullets fly overhead.
The rain had ceased amidst the battle, where Sir Gareth ordered the Knights to partake in the chaotic melee, but Luceilâs hair was still drenched in the battle maidenâs dripping sweat. Breathing hoarsely, she tirelessly locks her eye on the enemy and throws the full force of her convictions into her blows. Men, women and everything in-between were falling on both sides over the plains and yet, she could only see the face of imminent death staring her down.
Opponents come and go, the pale sun above the grey clouds begins to shift and soon enough, the earnest damsel is covered in blood and debris. Some of it is her own but her instincts are serving her well. âNow thenâŠâ she takes a breather and spots a triad of Forsaken pelting the Alliance from atop an advantageous rise.
Not a wasting a moment, she diligently clambers up above them and descends alone into the fray. With the element of surprise and her light blessed ferocity, she manages to force them from the hill, so the Allianceâs own rangers can take point and begin firing back against the Hordeâs efforts.
Yet again, she clashes with a forsaken with an axe bigger than a taurenâs behind. Itâs not the first foe sheâs faced today thatâs ignited her battle mania but she responds to his blows in kind, until her arms go numb and her bones feel ready to shatter. Itâs been nearly two hours and the pangs of battle have driven her into an almost berserker-like clarity.
Thereâs no thought to her actions. Only instinct. The instinct to survive and win. The mockery of her foes, the resolve of the Forsaken and their allies, is met with her own sense of justice. 'Iâm fighting to rid this world of needless loss," she deflects a blow as a glancing slice nearly takes out her remaining eye and sparks fly from the clash, ââŠof agony, of cruel rulers that tear loved ones from each otherâs arms,â she silently reflects, at the memory of all of her lost comrades and her deceased family. âIf I die here, or tomorrow, or a week from now, or even in a year, Iâll die knowing Iâve tried to make the world a better place.â
Breathless, bleeding and staggering from exhaustion nearly four hours into the battle, sheâs nearly fallen to her knees amidst a field of fallen arrows, deceased pets and familiar alike. If not for the Lightâs touch on her frame, the paladinâs otherwise human limits would have already torn her lungs and heart apart from the way her organs are straining under the stress she constantly puts her body and mind under.
She lifts Kuldr once more and both of her arms begin to tremble.
After another hour of ceaseless fighting, they may be just about ready to break, but she cannot rationalise. Her body is a tool of the Light, and it belongs to this war.
The only thing that pulls her back from the brink of her battle mania, is the sound of the retreat and the mention of blight. A dagger of emotion tears into her chest, and images of her friends lost at the Wrathgate flicker through her mind, practically screaming at her to flee. So with every creaking bone in her body, she flees the field of battle, gritting her teeth and on the verge of screaming.
Once the injured have been secured and the Horde have successfully rendered more of the landscape uninhabitable with their long time trump card, the exhausted knight retreats to a quiet abode in Ambermill to kick, punch, throw and demolish any of the ruins that are still intact enough to be destroyed. âH-how can those monsters fight so desperately and cling to death while destroying more of this world that we live in!? They think only of themselves!â She smashes a vase against the ground and collapses in a huff, falling onto her knees. It takes her mind some time to calm from the rages of battle.
Until the rain hits, she lies by a camp fire and shares a well earned drink with Sir Goldglance. Bless the Light for small favours. She awakens to the first droplets of fresh rain and rises to a stand, feeling the ache and creak in her stressed bones, even stinging the inner fibres of her muscles.
Muttering something about not being woken up earlier, she swishes her hair about like a drenched dog and whistles for Swift who is undoubtedly roosting somewhere near-by. âCome on, partner. Letâs take another lookâŠâ
They both fly together just lowly over the walls of Ambermill and look out over the destruction. The waning dame rests her chin into Swiftâs feathers and sighs, barely able to see the ground beneath the profuse thickness of the green blight gas killing the land.
If it wasnât enough to greedily accumulate Azerite for weapons production, burn World Trees to the ground and attack innocent Kul Tiran civilians, they had to resort to ruining an already dying world even more. âWe have to put a stop to this. It canât keep going on like this.â
âIf we donât defeat the Horde soon, weâre all going to die.â she swoops back to Ambermill and hopefully, a comfortable sleeping bag for the night, once more with her sleep burdened by the weight of righteous conviction and a sense that at any moment, a rotting corpse may sneak in and slit her throat.
Itâs a shame she canât sleep with one eye open, she muses, just briefly before sheâs taken in by the warmth of sleep.
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William sits inside of the walls of the Sepulcher, trying to figure out how much damage has been done to his precious spiders. He is quite fond of them, as he sees himself as their father.
âSixteen legs, check. Two bodies, check. Charlie, you got all of your eyes, BillyâŠ-â
He looks at the spider, trying to get a good view of the amount of eyes open and closed on the spider. He sighs, and does the one thing he hates to do. He begins to count the spiderâs eyes.
âOne, two, three⊠Stop blinking or no mouse for you tonight!â
He begins to count again, but fails. It would keep on going like this, until he finally managed to do it. Fourteen eyes.
âYep, I got two whole spidersâ
He lies down in the ground afterwards, surrounded by spiders, two big ones and some fourty to fifty smaller and medium sized ones walking all over his body.
âI missed this placeâ
7 Likes
Mion wasnât invited to the campaign so she sits at home, on the toilet, reading the Stormwind Observer so she can roll it up and wipe her buttocks afterwards.
5 Likes
Thanks for your⊠input.
âŠ
The late hours of the night approached, the Ironbrand and Hammerguard, or â'Hammerbrandâ as the band of drunk, bearded boulders began to call themselves - were all tucked into their beds, some wounded, yet all hammered. It wasnât until four in the morning when some of the shouting ceased, a deranged Dwarf still clad in his filth-ridden armour, patrolling the shoddy shack known as âDwarf 'Allâ or âFeck Off Hallâ, to enforce the new âlawâ set upon the ramshackle building.
Nobody would enter Dwarf 'All unless they had official business, or came there to drink. Those that had neither, would simply not enter at all, or walk around.
Alas, for the deranged and mental Sainur, his rest was postponed by a bunch of finely clad lads from the Kul Tiran Marine, thirsty they must have been, as no sane person would barge into Dwarf 'All at the late hours of the night, before the sun arose over war-torn hills.
âWELCOME TO DWARF 'ALL!â he bellowed, even this late at night - as the crazed Dark Iron turned to serving drinks, and even bringing out a small keg of the more potent and stronger brew.
A night well spent, and Dwarven law once again firmly been put in place.
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Last time Corilia had seen the walls of Gilneas, it had been during King Anduinâs vengeful attack on the Capital City. During the offensive through the Silverpine forest, she had seen the great silhouette of the Greymane Wall.
Now she stood there again, watching it, feeling it. She breathed in deeply, feeling her every being. A worgen, blessed by Elune and Goldrinn. A champion of nature, who was to bring life. Nowadays she stood as she did during Anduinâs offensive, proudly in defensive of her devestated homeland. She breathed quicker. Her pride toward Gilneas was in every such breath and her patriotism suddenly turned into what could best be described asâŠnerves.
Half a year before she had planted the seeds of life in these woods, in some vague attempt to replenish the wildlife, but still the land languished at the contineous warfare.
âThe Forsaken dare to call this their homeland, but they took such poor care of it. They let the poison remain. They do not deserve it. What this land deserves is for life to bloom. For fields to grow and for hunters to roam.â
She breathed more fiercely. And it was felt in her connection with the land. As her thoughts turned violent, so did the land. Trees creaked. The ground trembled. She thought to herself, that the land which the Forsaken Scourge claimed theirs would rise against them to once and for all, prove that they had no place in this world, not even in their former lands.
She sneered and with the vanguard she advanced.
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Hereâs my random screenshots input.
Day 1 to 3 screenshot album with some editing.
Day 4 screenshot album, same as above editing.
https://imgur.com/a/gpLMikGThis text will be hidden
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FĂĄrrow strung the bow. For a second, the previously drunk elf took on a new way of movement; his muscles flowed like piss down a drainpipe, and his stench drew the comparison rather aptly. Still, it was fluid, you had to give it that. His muscles tightened, his arms flexed, and the bow abruptly had a string nocked to it.
Had to shoot it in, of course. Couldnât well go unto the fray with a fresh bow â certainly not one as beautiful as this. No, no, it looked like a rose in the hands of a murloc, for the archer was bloodstained and scarred, but he held it with a comfort. His fingers ran along the belly of the beast, nodding approvingly as the enchanted steel flexed. You knew it was enchanted because steel makes for terrible bows, without a bit of mageweaving thrown in to keep things springing.
âOh, youâre simply gorgeous, my dear. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.â
Only cretins talk to their weapons, and so we must sternly appreciate that this Sinâdorei was a cretin. Still, we must also concede that the way he plucked a shaft from his arrow bag and eased into a long, strong stance resembling a cat preparing to pounce. In contrast, his usual movements resembled a drunk about to vomit â a prophetic analogy if ever there was one.
With a practised flap of his hand, the mailed gauntlet on his right fist was cast to the side, and he nocked the arrow. Up came the bow, back came the string, before a bolt of fletched wood and steel shot out into the night sky.
FĂĄrrow gave a so-so nod. Everything had felt good for a first shot, but the steel had pulled his arm to the left like a taut rope â that would take some getting used to. Steel didnât warp and twist the way cut lumber did, so this bloody âstaveâ wasnât going to change.
Part of the elfâs head was tempted to go back over the dayâs events. Indeed, part of his little brain was reliving the humiliation, the anger, the pain, and so on, and so forth. But most of him reckoned all that could go to the Nether; here was a simple task he could do well. Another arrow came to his hand, he drew the stained linen cord back, then taking another shot. His shoulders were on fire from the dayâs work, but that was as nothing to the storm going on across his back.
Alliance. Horde. Undead. Most days, he found himself going back to stringing his bow and shooting it. Stick to your oaths, drink wine, and string your bow. So long as things came down to that, a simple elf like him would be alright, he supposed. Or dead.
Aye, probably dead.
5 Likes