Void Stirrings (RP Thread)

Argent Dawn
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Hey all, similar to the rumour mill series of threads I thought it would be fun and interesting to have one dedicated to strange or out of character happenings across Azeroth, presumably kicked up by the rise of Nzoth.

In the snowy woodlands of Winterspring, the goblins of Everlook have been reporting an unusually high rate of missing trade caravans and deals gone awry. While some dodgy deals are expected within Goblin culture, the residents of Everlook seem to be particularly greedy and self-centred as of late, favouring immediate profit at the cost of long term deals, profitability and relationships.

Visitors to the town have received a less than warm welcome, with petty thievery and muggings on the rise along with an indifferent contingent of guards.

In the dark of night, shadowy figures can be seen skulking in the alleys and there are alleged to be secret meetings happening in one of the town’s derelict buildings.

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It has been a while since Lord Stormsong’s uprising against the Admirality, and the defeat of the K’thir, but recently, some Tidesages can be seen around Kul Tiras whose clothes are quite Dark, different from usual Tidesage attires. And some of them seem to have some suspicious activity.
Could this mean the rise of a new cult, dedicated to the god of the Deep?

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Some people claim that there is a relation between seafood and recent disease outbreaks. The sick are behaving strangely.

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A small coterie of mercenaries, known as the Bloodied Goats, were yesterday seen trudging through the muck-ridden scenery of the Dwarven wetlands. Though ostensibly on official business, with details precluded; rumours nonetheless circulate that the significant armed detail the group provided for Menethil came at the behest of a sinister threat. Indeed, the small party sent out into the marshy lowlands left only a few burnt Elven corpses and a camp laden with pilfered goods in their wake. In a strange twist of serendipity, their work coincided with the lifting of a peculiar fog, whose strangling miasma had evinced odd and sometimes deranged responses from the local populace.

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The following advertisement can be found around Orgrimmar. Briefly.

A madly raving goblin was seen fleeing several Grunts, screaming about “the free market” and “being ahead of a curve.”

Feelings of existential dread keeping you down?
Nightmares haunting your every moment of sleep?

Well worry no further, the famed Slickgrin Inc. have just the thing for you!

Presenting the magnificent, the incomparable: Woke Yolk!

Harvested from only the finest egglike crop from the deep end of Nazjatar, you will know handpicked quality at first gulp.

Imbibe just a fimble of this magnificently viscous wonder, and your worries will be a thing of the past! Conquer your nightmares and make them your playground!

(Terms and conditions may apply. Slickgrin Inc. assume no responsibility for any and all side effects, including but not limited to fits of hysteria, mucus-coated metamorphic effects or a sudden allergy to shellfish.)

A few samples of this supposed wonder-slime are left in a box, freely accessible to all. Grunts eventually remove any unclaimed vials by day’s end.

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The bed sheets and pillow that once adorned a proper stone bed in one of the lower chambers of the Thelsamar Inn, had somehow gone up in flames. One of the stone beds was covered in soot, blackened spots and small heaps of ash. Two wooden chairs, formerly in pristine shape, now had charred runic engravings etched to the back side - some runes barely legible.

Nobody really knows what exactly happened, nor the true meaning of the runes… though some of the local dwarves grumbled about an ominous, orange-crested Dark Iron wandering about with a small company of travelers.

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A death star in olden Alterac’s ice-cold heavens shines loudly in a cacophony of blasphemous promises. Speech of utter hatred is hurled at the above and below – one creature’s will to obliterate the world.

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A number of Tauren local to Feralas have been drawn in by a visiting seer at Camp Mojache, called by the promise of a blessing from the Earthmother and their ancestors. The blessing would provide them with the strength to overcome the incursion of Silithid from the hive to the south that had stirred back into violent action over recent weeks.

A dozen or more warriors from the camp had accepted the blessing and travelled out into the wilds to push back the insect aggressors, but had failed to return. Days later, scouts reported seeing the same Tauren coming in and out of the hive with the Silithid in tow and speaking to the creatures in an unusual tongue.

Around the same time, the visiting seer disappeared without warning or trace. Fearing the worst, a call was put out to any allies who might be able to investigate.

This is a bit of an RP prompt that anyone can pick up on and play out how they want.

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The Cathedral of Light has seen a ever increasing number of void related injuries and complaints about possessions, tormenting whispers etc.

The clergy has been working hard and has at times resorted to call in aid from ren’dorei priests something that has caused debate among the elders of the church.

Is it safe to utilize the expertise of these our newest allies or should the clergy be recommended to refrain from it?

The debate continues while simultaneously all kind of Alliance members work together to halt the onslaught.

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“Ancestors, father, grandmother, hear my call!” the voice of Akamito echoed through the frozen glades of Winterspring, the tongues of flame from his campfire struggling to maintain height against the bitter chill.

It was a common ritual, one he had performed a hundred or more times in his life as the lone survivor of his tribe. Calling upon his ancestors for guidance was part of his tradition, and while more often than not their response was silence, every now and again they would bring a vision or a whisper to set his path.

The woods were silent, save the quiet whistle of the winds that cut through he trees and the crackling of the fire before him. Once there had been the songs of wisps, but even they had fallen quiet in recent times.

Then they came.

The flames soared high into the air and the force of it’s sudden expansion forced him backwards, his hands coming up to protect his face. As it settled into a solid column, reaching above the boughs of the trees, he drew back his fingers. There they stood.

Three figures, Tauren in shape but without form or features beyond an outline. Surely the ancestors had heard his call and come to him in person.

“You seek the strength to drive back the darkness.” they responded in unison, their voices ethereal and difficult to place. “We will grant you this boon.”

Akamito fell to his knees, head bowed in reverence. Never before had they come to him so clearly. He grasped the ceremonial totem of his tribe, dragging it through the snow and pulling it close to him. He said not a word.

The three figures approached, their spirits leaving no indent in the snow and no break in the wind. Surely they had come from beyond but were not part of this world.

Together they laid their hands on him and he felt a presence more chilling than anything he had felt in Winterspring. Death must be like this, he mused.

The blessing was sudden and powerful, it coarsed through his very being and manifested suddenly. He felt stronger, faster, driven to action. Purple tendrils crept into his peripheral and fogged his mind.

And then the whispers came …

“You will be an instrument of our will.”

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Around the campfires of Tauren roaming the homelands of Kalimdor, a pale hided and gaunt visitor has made numerous appearances. A storyteller.

He joins them alone to revel in tales of ancestors old and great, but soon the conversation turns to a failed Horde, a weak and spineless High Chieftain with none of the greatness of his father. Of a leadership that will, before long, bring the once noble and proud Tauren to ruin.

To those who would listen and sympathise, he leads into the hills on the promise of a new tribe, strong and independent of the shackles of a Horde that is indifferent to them and the stagnation of a lukewarm Bloodhoof dominion.

For others however, those who listen closely, they come away from the encounters uneasy. Though his voice and words are compelling, they swear they hear three others echoing behind it.

Rumours begin to spread of a growing band of Tauren in the Stonetalon Mountains, smoke rising high into the air from their fires and the beat of their drums echoing long into the night.

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Okay, now make it a guild :eyes:

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please don’t mention the centaur, thanks

If it were to manifest in-game, it would more likely be a short term community given it’s foundations in void based shenanigans and being anti-Horde/Alliance.

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Akule sat towards the back of the gathering close to the campfire.

He listened carefully to the storyteller, his words rang true in the Tauren’s ears as he spoke of the failure of the Horde again and again. The conflict between the two, the Horde and Alliance being all but pointless.

He understood the feeling of frustration of some of his kin, though he found himself having a renewed respect of Baine himself for his role in the fourth war. His conflicting emotions were rife.

As he walked away he felt an uneasy sensation, he could swear that he could hear more than a single voice from the storyteller. Was it the Earthmother herself speaking through him, was this storyteller more than he claimed to be?

Later that day the Tauren ventured into the wilds and lit a pipe and smoked as he attempted to commune with the spirits of nature and his ancestors.

A vision came to him, one of his animal spirit guide. The vision itself was hazy and confusing, one minute his spirit guide seemed calm and serene, the next distressed.

Akule sat in the waning sunlight and gave a short prayer to welcome to arrival of Mu’sha. He sat through the evening to watch as her gentle light replaced that of An’she.

The Tauren nodded and muttered, “There may be some truth in the storytellers words, there may not be, but there is only one way to find out.”

With that he quickly dressed into his peoples traditional clothing and decided to follow the others into the mountains of Stonetalon, hoping he would be able to find them, to see if he could discover more about this storyteller.

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During the darkest of nights in Stormwind, those skulking about the Mage District could overhear blasphemous hymns being sung, Candles being lit and hooded men praying within the dank alleyways of the City. Clad in hooded black robes, the figures seemed entranced by the ceremonies. Amongst them was paraphernalia, wearing the resemblence of dark and tentacled Gods.

Additionally, odd and dirtied pamphlets laid scattered placed amidst the cobbled roads of Stormwind. Written in dark ink, the soggy paper read as following:
“Awakened,
As the dust from the riot settles, chaos subsides. We cannot allow this to happen.
Spread havoc whenever and wherever you can and the master shall offer you a seat at the table when he feasts. For he is eternal.
Their earthbound prisons are no more, and the hour of twilight approaches swiftly. Choose your side as the cogs of history turn without stop.
Kill the young, old and defenseless. Turn their temples into sites of slaughter, their dreams of future into naught but ash and their sanctuaries into battlefields.
Mg’uulwi N’Zoth, eth’razzqi worg zz oou!”

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Far away among the docks of BIlgewater Harbour, workers have been taking longer breaks from their daily duties repairing and rebuilding the Horde navy. Speeches held in sheltered alleyways have grown larger followings and figures wrapped in suits that slither and move like writhing flesh rally the locals against their unfair treatment. Dark whispers and sinister impulses have only let such discontent fester.

Gezzrik Redstar stood atop a small wooden crate, his suit a writhing black ink colour that seems to stare with unseen eyes at the assembled mass before him.

“There comes a time when you must make those on top listen, when you must throw down your tools and say no more. You must throw yourselves upon the engines you have built, to stop this ugly machine built only to profit the likes of Gallywix and the Hordes rich elite.”

A rush of cheers greeted him in return as the air became thick with a sinister sense of anger fuelling the discontent of those around.

“They demand we build their weapons, they say we will be rich and we will never suffer the tyranny of the Alliance. Yet we are no better off, I say no more. No more weapons of war, no more ships to rule the seas or guns that keep us under their boots!”

“I declare we are on strike!”

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Atop the slopes of Stonetalon Mountains, huddled around the bright embers of a campfire surrounded by dishevelled tents and stray kodo, the pale hided Tauren speaks to those who heeded his call. Young and old, of all tribes and profession.

In this tranquil place, the whispers of the ancestors were stronger and clearer than anywhere else for Akamito. Surely they would guide him true.*

We were promised a bright and prosperous future, free the centaur who hounded us for generations across the very plains and hills that the Earthmother blessed us with.

In this “Horde”, we would find safety and community. Peace at last after endless battle and the slow demise of our culture; tribe after tribe disappearing without a trace, their stories and heroes lost to memory.

What did we get though, brothers and sisters? War without end, peace a carrot on the end of a long stick to lead our people into battle with one foe after another. Tauren blood spilled on distant shores without just cause.

The dream of the Horde is dead, time and again it has failed us. How many have fallen for the greed and pride of Warchief’s that care little for the needs and culture of our people? Our history?

The only community that we can rely on is our own, friends, our ancestors call us back to our roots, to walk these lands once more as our they did in ages past.

No looking the other way while Goblins tear out the Earthmother’s heart and use it to fuel their diabolical machines. No alliances of convenience with the damned and dead, foul creatures that betray and defile.

The leadership of the Bloodhoof Tribe will fail us no more. Cairne was a bull we could follow, but his son, the weak willed Baine Softhoof is neither hot nor cold, his indecisiveness will lead us to ruin in the years to come. Too slow to act and too trusting and subservient in those same humans who burned and plundered Taurajo.

You who have joined me here on these mountains, you long for the dream that was promised and I tell you now that it can be achieved! By the guidance of those who came before us we will build a new hope, a new community and a way of life that honours our roots instead of tearing them out.

Let this camp be the seeds of a new people, independent and free.

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Hey Akamito,

If you’re planning on bringing this in game, I’d definitely be up for gathering around a fire and travelling around spreading the words of the storyteller, trying to bring more Tauren to the camp in Stonetalon.

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I would really love to, seems like a great time for something like this to take form whether it be short or long term. My in-game time is fairly limited, but I’m aiming to get some RP time every other day with maybe a longer session during the weekends.

Would be great to meet up in-game, see if we can find other Tauren interested in the cause. Hopefully that can get a ball rolling, and if it takes off then I’ll hand the reigns over to someone with more time to keep it going.

Feel free to grab me either on Discord (Talberry/Akamito#6717) or Battlenet (Talberry #2582).

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