Kingfisher

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

So who's going to post next?

@Vahir

Waiting for these next few CS's, then I'll do the next plot post

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

Off to a slightly rocky start, with a couple of folks dropping out, so I'd just like to emphasize that we are still very much recruiting!

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@Atrophy

1) I just launched an invasion of the city, so I think I'll wait for at least a few of scallywags to post before I start submitting more of my shite to the IC.

2) I'm really getting into Disturbed's cover of The Sound of Silence. Also have a part-aaaaaay coming up in July, for which I am the DJ, so I've been working through a lot of dubsetp and twerk tunes. Also a bit of Bach.

How about yourself?

Working on fucking Bloodmoon's shit up.

@Wernher

You thought the Bloodblooms were bad. Just wait til you see the Bloodmoons.

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

@POOHEAD189 Given the small number of us, I've got no issue with you submitting an additional CS.

@Jotunn Draugr Still very much open if you're looking to apply!

Sorry for the slow response folks; I was out clubbing on Friday. Hows everyone's weekend going?

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

@Lexicon That really is unfortunate :/ I hope your laptop gets a speedy recovery and we see you back here soon.

Keep us posted.

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

Aaaaaa I'm feeling significant writer's block right now when it comes to writing for Vynael. I think I might drop - sorry @Kingfisher!

@McHaggis

That's okay, there's no point continuing with something you know wont work out. Hope to see you about the guild!

Hopefully a few someone's will come crawling out of the woodworks and give our numbers a decent booster.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

“You can’t rely solely on others, Persephone.” Doctor Alves said calmly, sitting across from the young girl in his broad black chair.

“I know,” Persephone sighed, playing nervously with a lock of strawberry blonde hair “but I just feel like I shouldn’t have to be completely self-sufficient, you know?”

“We’ve been over this,” the doctor spoke in a firm voice, but one which lacked even the slightest hint of irritation “Your parents are in a difficult position right now, and from the way you make it sound they weren’t particularly reliable beforehand.”

“I just don’t understand why!” She tensed up all of a sudden, feeling her pulse quicken.

“I think you know why, Persephone.”

“The dust...right.” The young girl said quietly.

“I know you’re reluctant to tell anyone, and doctor patient privilege has my hands bound, but I would strongly advise you to mention it to a teacher at school, or even the police if you feel up to it.”

Persephone snorted loudly.

“Yeah, right. Like Santa Somabra cops give a shit about a couple of deadbeats with a drug problem.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Alves gave a little shrug “I’d struggle to believe that every single cop is crooked. And if we live in a world where Nyxvira Bloodbloom can be called in for questioning, who knows what might happen.”

“I guess.” Persephone replied, clearly unconvinced.

“Come on,” The Doctor said, rising up out of his chair “I’ll write you your prescription.”

The two made their way out of the small room and down the corridor which led to reception. It was a fairly spacious expanse, with clean white walls and the sort of comfy chairs you only got in the nicer hospitals.

“I’ll just be a second,” Alves said with a reassuring smile, as he slipped behind the desk and into the back room.

It was then that the screaming started.

A shrill shriek came screeching from way down in the streets below. Soon, the patients in the waiting room were on their feet, all crowded around the window as they fought to see what was happening.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Someone yelped.

“This fucking city man…” said a man in disbelief.

Persephone rushed over to join the rabble, slipping through to the front so that she could see what everyone was looking at.

The sight which greeted the young woman filled her heart with dread.

---

The Lich Lord Henning Maddrish sat calmly in the blacked out apartment, the cool breeze of an open window dancing softly off of his back, and making the curtains blow gently into the room.

In his time he had been a Grand Duke, an assassin, a necromancer, and -most recently- a crime boss. Now, the pale figure combined all those roles, as he waited to carry out a mission which would set him on the final stages of his journey to become a god.

The door opened with a dull creek, whilst a hand extended into the darkness and flicked a switch. The apartment lit up in a sudden flash, revealing the Lich Lord in all his calculated majesty.

“I was hoping you’d given up.” An old man said with sadness in his voice, as he gazed across at Henning from his spot in the doorway.

“Don’t comfort yourself with such preposterous delusions,” Henning grinned “I’d never stop hunting you.”

“By all the gods and demons!” The old man barked “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to protect you!”

“Like you secret order was supposed to protect this city?” The Lich sneered “The Obstacle failed, and so have you. You and all your high-born kin were just as weak and susceptible to corruption as the rest of this motherfucking shit hole city.”

The old man was silent for a moment, before he spoke at last.

“You know I won’t part with the key. You know I can’t.”

Henning rose from his resting place and bolted across the room, grabbing hold of the old man by the scruff of his collar, and forcing his head out of the open window.

“Look!” He hissed, gripping the old man tightly. “Look at what your cowardice has led to.”

All across Santa Somabra, the city burned.

The Brotherhood of Rot had come crawling out of their sewers, and they had brought their dark plagues with them. Nowhere was safe from the army of the dead, as they bled out into the streets and left only destruction in their putrid wake.

This went beyond a riot. This was a full-blown invasion.

“You’re mad..” The old man spluttered.

“I prefer the term psychologically liberal.” Henning said with a smirk.

“Alright,” The old man let his shoulders slump in defeat, as he reached into his pocket and fished out a dull bronze key “I’m done running.”

Henning took the key, feeling it's cold metal touch.

“Thank you.” Henning said.

Then he threw the old man out of the window.

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

Once everybodies wrapped up their collabs and such, I've got plans to move the game forwards in a big way.

Can I get a quick head-count to see whose still with us?

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

@McHaggis @Vahir @Viciousmarrow @POOHEAD189

Okay folks, so I've put the first IC post up so that y'all can get a general idea of what's going down. Still waiting on a few CS's from people.

If anyone's floating around in the shadows then please feel free to apply.

The Fall of Lordaeron [Warcraft RP]

An icy rain beat down upon Brittlepond, cold and unrelenting as it descended from the cloud-covered skies above. The spitting and splashing flooded Beaudriyah’s nose, but her senses never faltered.

She stretched out with her mind, reaching into the darkness and lancing through the trees beyond.

They are coming. The time for action is upon us.

The white-haired sorceress turned and headed back through the town’s cobbled streets, past thatched roofs and little wooden cottages.

She’d had a hundred thousand homes in her century-spanning lifetime, but Brittlepond was where she’d truly become a woman. She’d made friends, real, proper friends that she cared about, and she’d felt the mantle of responsibility upon her shoulders.

Brittlepond was everything to Beaudriyah Runegaze, and now the Cult of the Damned was coming to take it from her.

Those maggot-ridden bastards won’t get their hands on the eye.

The sorceress moved quickly through the downpour, as the rain turned her hair to wet straw and soaked through her clothes. It wasn’t long before she reached the chapel.

“Miss Runegaze!” Father Gorum stood atop the chapel’s crooked stone steps, beneath an archway which shielded him from the rain “it isn’t right to be out in such dreadful weather! Come inside and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Those days are passed us now, father.” Beaudriyah said with a hint of sadness cutting into her voice.

The priest’s face fell.

“It's true then? What the runner spoke of?”

“I can feel them.” The white-haired woman shut her eyes, and when she did she saw a horde of shambling corpses limping across her mind’s eye, twisted and broken as the shuffled through the woods.

The priest beckoned her inside with a wordless wave of his hand, wasting no time in leading her through the quaint little chapel and down the winding stairwell which led into the cramped chamber below.

It looked more like a cave than a room, with its jagged walls and rough floor. At the far end of the chamber there sat a small steel box, resting without motion upon an altar which was carved from the same dirty grey rock as the rest of the room.

“Good luck, Miss Runegaze,” Father Gorum said solemnly “you do what you must.” and with that, he turned and vanished back up the stairwell.

Beaudriyah rushed to the other side of the chamber. There was no room for hesitation now. She knelt down before the altar, and pressed one hand flatly across the roof of the box.

”Death is close…”

Her hand shot backwards, recoiling in an instant at the touch of the horrors which lay within the small steel prison. The Eye was inside; There was no denying that.

Moving swiftly, Beaudriyah grabbed hold of the box, and quickly slid it into the satchel which hung tightly around her waist.

”All souls can be devoured”

She could feel the room going cold around her, as though a chill current had suddenly swept through the chamber. Beaudriyah knew she was alone, yet somehow she could feel something terrible breathing down the back of her neck.

The sorceress fought through it, forcing herself to plunge through the mad babblings which flooded her head. She reached into her satchel, and pulled out a smooth white stone with a rune carved into its surface. When she pressed her hands against it, a different voice filled her head.

Beaudriyah? Is that you, girl?

Master Frostworth! Thank the light they haven’t reached you.

Algar Frostworth was a friend of hers; a fellow mage who resided on the not-so-distant isle of Fenris.

The light doesn't have any say here. Not anymore. It's just us against the gods-forsaken darkness.

I have the Eye, Algar, but the Cult grow nearer and nearer with every passing moment.

You need to get out of there, girl. Take the Eye, and anyone who might help you on you quest, and bring it to Fenris. The Magistrate is building an army. There are settlers flocking here from all the nearby towns. If anyone stands a chance of beating back the Cult, it’s the people of Fenris Isle.

Alright. Time is of the essence. I’ll speak to you again once I’m safe.

Take care of yourself, girl.

She slipped the stone back into her satchel, and made her way back up into the chapel.

Father Gorum was nowhere to be seen.

---

The army of the damned crept out of the forest, slipping through the darkness as they pulled closer and closer towards Brittlepond. The alarm rung out, a brass bell clamoring from its tower on high, but it was already too late.

Madness swept through the streets.

The rotting husks of men, with sunken black eyes and flesh like shredded paper, lurched through the rain, snarling and snapping and killing.

“Steel yourselves, guardsmen!” Captain Dawnbridge bellowed, battling to be heard above the bloody frenzy of the slaughter.

The living dead came shrieking towards them, blood and entrails dripping from their unhinged mouths.

Ghouls set upon men women and children without distinction, tearing through the town and and leaping upon anything which they could sink their foul talons into. Weeping and sobbing and shrieking filled the air, whilst blood stained the dirt.

A merchant ran screaming into the night, only to be set upon by a pack of ravenous corpses. A young maid, her brother clutching at her skirts tried to sneak out through a back alley, but found a hungry ghoul waiting for her, with death in its eyes. An old beggar was lost in the chaos which ensued, and torn apart by the claws of those which had once been his kinsmen. His last desperate screams were drowned out by the sounds of battle.

“FOR KING TERENAS! FOR LORDAERON!” The cry went up, as the town guards and the undead horrors smashed into each other. Steel cleaved through the shambling ghouls like scythes through corn. The guardsmen cut down wave upon wave, yet still they came; ripping apart flesh and cracking bone.

The town guards raised their shields in a futile attempt to block the frenzy, but the corpse-men were as unrelenting and unstoppable as the tides themselves.

“This is pointless!” Wailed a guard from beneath his visor, as the lifeblood of his comrades splattered against his shield“They’re going to tear us to bloody pieces!” He dropped his shield with a yelp, turning to run back through the streets.

“Stand and fight you wretch! Or forever be remembered as the green boy who pissed his britches and fled the field at the first sign of danger!” Dawnbridge roared, taking his eyes away from the attackers for just a second. As he looked backwards, a ghoul came bounding towards him like a rabid bloodhound, weaving his way through the man’s defenses and sinking his rotten fangs into the soft of his neck.

The Captain came crashing down with blood bubbling in his open mouth. The beast clambered on top of him and the world went black.

The undead rushed forwards in full force, sweeping over what little defense the townspeople could muster. Death itself had come to Lordaeron, and there was nothing the people of Brittlepond could do to stop it.

---

The rain kept pouring, and the undead kept coming. It seemed that for every droplet which fell from the sky, a new rotten abomination came lurching out of the night.

With the few guardsmen which Brittlepond boasted lying in mangled pieces on the ground, it was up the villagers to fend for themselves. The undead were closing in from all sides now, sweeping around the town in a putrid swarm of untamed savagery. The people who had once called Brittlepond home tried to flee through any crack in the ghoul’s defenses that they might find, but death seemed almost certain.

“Come on, you nether-spawn!” Alistair Roet roared at the top of his lungs, banging the flat of his sword against his wooden shield as he tried to lure the attacking undead away from the steady stream of fleeing villagers “Come and take a bite out of this!”

The Ghouls snapped their heads to the side, and came lurching towards him, their crooked feet beatings against the ground as they shot forwards.

You can do this.

Alistair raised his shield and darted forwards with his sword, slicing straight through the head of one of the rampaging dead men. It let out a throaty groan as black ichor poured forth from the wound, then stumbled and fell to the ground.

You can do this!

Another ghoul came snarling and snapping down on him, trying to rip his shield free with all its supernatural strength. Alistair slammed his shield into it at full force, sending it stumbling back into the pack of frenzied monsters that were slowly closing in on him. He swept forwards with his sword, slicing through the air in a steely arch; cleaving the rotten corpse men in twain.

YOU CAN DO THIS!

A bloodthirsty rabble of savage dead men came hurtling towards him, tearing across the ground like rabid hounds. Alistair's eyes darted frantically from one to the other, as the sheer number of ghouls dawned on him.

Balls.

The undead rushed up to meet him, the stench of rot and blood thick on their breath. There was so many of them; far too many for one man to handle.

Alistair swung wildly with his sword, splitting straight through one of the necrotic monstrosities, yet no sooner had one fallen than another sprung up to take its place. He cut down another, and another, and another, but his strength was failing fast, and the tide of death showed no sign of slowing.

Putrid icor stained his armour and weapons, whilst the icy touch of the rain number his hands, making it harder and harder to grip his sword. He could feel the will to fight swiftly draining out of him, as his breath became ragged, and his heart thumped and thundered in his ears like a war drum.

There are too bloody many of them!

They swarmed over him, knocking his sword free from his hands and forcing him to the ground. He hit the floor with a hard thud, rain water splashing over him.

Alistair reached out for his blade, but it had be knocked away in the confusion, leaving him at the mercy of the ghouls as they tore down on him.

I’m sorry father. I failed you.

He gazed up into the dead eyes of the festering horrors which clambered over him, ready for the final blow.

SHRRRRRRRK!

The point of a blade, honed to a lethal sharpness, burst through the mouth of the ghoul which was hunched over Alistair, snuffing the life out of it in an instant. He felt the pressure rise off of his chest as something pulled the ghoul free, watching its limp corpse clutter to the ground.

“Is the best you wretches can do?!” snarled a gruff voice “My grandmother fights better than you,and she’s dead!”

The Ghouls turned their attention away from Alistair, flocking to the figure who had saved his life just moments earlier.

“You call yourselves monsters?! You aren’t fit to haunt a child!”

Alistair's saviour cut and cleaved through the undead with slow, forceful movements. He did not fight with grace, but the calculated practicality of a man who had seen countless battles. Whenever one of the ghouls got close enough to land a hit on him, the figure would run them through, before turning his attention to another of the rotten creatures.

It wasn’t long before a pile of twisted bodies lay at his feet.

The figure stomped over to Allistair, offering him his hand and then hoisting him up onto his feet.

His saviour was a large man, with broad shoulders and a thick form. He was dressed from head-to-toe in silver and red platemail, and had a flowing bead of thick grey hair.

“Old man Winston?” Alistair peered at him through a haze of disbelief.

“You wait til you hit seventy, you blonde bastard!” Winston snapped.

“Sorry…” He muttered, still very much in shock.

“What’s yer name, son?” The old man asked him in his deep, booming voice.

Alistair gave him a puzzled look “Its me, Allistair! You’ve lived next door to me since I was a boy!”

“Lad,” Winston began “I’ve been shit-faced for the past decade. My memory ain’t what it used to be. Lucky for you, my sword arm still is.”

Whilst parts of his armour were ill-fitting, and his skin looked like beaten leather. Alistair had to admit that Old man Winston still had the undeniable air of a warrior to him. Age might have withered his body, but he was still as big and muscular as any of Brittlepond’s guardsmen had been.

“Winston! Allistair!”

Beaudriyah Runegaze slipped into view, her long cloak flapping behind her as she came rushing down the street towards them.

“Miss Runegaze,” Winston bowed his head respectfully “Glad to see yer still with us.”

“Oh, so he remembers her…” Allistair muttered sourly.

“Those few fighters which remain have gotten who they can out of harm’s way,” Beaudriyah explained, more than a little out of breath “They’re as safe as they’re going to be. It's time to rally the Stalwart.”

Winston reached down to his belt, where there hung a horn carved from the sharp point of a ram. The old man pressed the horn against his withered lips, and blew with all his might.

A deep bellow rumbled forth, calling the guardians of Brittlepond to arms.