For the record, this community is not directly affiliated with the guild Legends on the Kirin Tor server, however at least one officer of that guild is a member of this community. Namely me.
Any interest in me posting the RP history of Legends?
Good to see you folks posting here! Keep it up, I'm looking forward to more. Hopefully I'll be able to post some more myself in a short while. Until then, keep it up!
- Willhelm [Human/Warrior]
Her Brother’s Keeper
Maharete had only been in Kharanos for a day when her mother’s letter arrived, still smelling damply of the Wetlands.
Your brother decided to leave home today. I tried to forbid him, but he just smiled and me and hummed quietly, not saying anything, mind set to go. You know how he does that-- drives me mad. But I knew there was no stopping him. I found him an escort to Anvilmar, so at least he won’t die on the way, or get distracted playing with squirrels, but once he gets there, he’s your responsibility. You’d better take care of him, girl. If I hear that you’ve let him get hurt, or, Light forbid, DIE, I will give you a tanning so bad it’ll never heal, blessed paladin powers or no.
Good fortune in your studies, dear heart.
Maharete sighed heavily and slumped down, forehead knocking gently on the mailbox. What in the Light’s name am I t’ do with Athel? He’s got no sense in his head! I’ll always be chasing him off from the ice-bears t’ keep him from getting eaten as he tries t’ tame ’em! Grumbling, she straightened up and went into the inn to take her leave of her trainer, Sir Azar, then headed down the road to Anvilmar, grouchily thwacking boars along the way with her hammer so that she could pry out some ribs to take to Mr. Thunderbrew. May as well take care of what I can now, since Athelston’s gunna take up most of my attention soon.
Arriving in Coldridge, Maharete scanned the snow-covered hillocks for her brother’s bright red beard. Ah, there he was, playing with a wolf. Maharete sighed, then looked again. No. He was hitting the wolf with an axe. Maybe he’ll learn yet t’ beh useful! She brightened up a little with pleased surprised, and jogged down the hill to where Athelston was clumsily trying to skin and butcher the now-dead beast.
She arrived as he surveyed the results of his attempts, smiling proudly at the raggedy, bloody hide and a rack of wolf ribs. He noticed the approaching shadow and turned towards the crunching footsteps. Maharete saw the pride fall from his face, to be replaced by its customary, though now slightly sulky, placidity. He hunched a little as though awaiting a blow.
“Stop it, yeh nit. I’m not gunna smack you, though I think our Mum wants to. I’m t’follow yeh about, ’n make sure yeh dun’t get yehrself killed. What, d’y’need more wolves for Mr. Stoutarm? Here, lemme help yeh.” Maharete hefted her hammer and began to move towards a rangy, unsuspecting specimen. She was stopped by a hand on her arm.
“No!” Maharete turned to look at Athelston. He looked frustrated and a little angry. He kept ahold of his sister’s arm as he took a deep breath and worked his face back to its usual calmness, standing very straight and still. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled and deliberate. “Nah, Ma’ret. Let me do it m’self. I don’t want yeh t’ help meh. Yeh ken follow meh around, ‘cause I know Mum’ll get mad if yeh don’t, but let meh do this stuff m’self. I ken do it on m’own, yeh know.”
Maharete stared at Athelston, eyes wide. This is more words that I’ve ever heard him speak at once. “Well, a’right. I guess. But I’m gunna follow along behind just in case. Here, will yeh at least let meh give yeh this blessing they taught meh?”
Athelston looked his big sister in the eye and nodded. “Okay. Yeh ken do thet. But nothin’ else. No whacks with that monstrous mallet til I say.”
Maharete nodded back. “I hear yeh, little brother. Now git on and smack s’more o’them wolves with that axe yeh got. I’ll just sit up by the wagons and wait til yeh get back.” Athelston grinned in response, and stood still as Maharete gave him the Light’s blessing, then ran out across the snow to another wolf. Maharete made her way back up the hill to sit in the cleared area near her brother’s current employers, all the while smiling to herself. Maybe the boy will yet stand on his own.
[OOC]: Hi all, I just found out about this community! I'm going to post Ma'ret and Athel's stuff up to keep it from getting lost in the ether, 'cause it's not getting bumped on the realm-forum. More later, if anyone wants to keep reading.
Jiggling a pocketful of two shiny silver coins and a few coppers, Rakarech wandered into a busy forge in the middle of Brill. All around him Forsaken were either banging away at an anvil, or selling various kinds of armour, weaponry, and clothing from different corners in the smallish building. Spying a cloth vendor, Rakarech wandered over.
“Ahoy there matey!” cried Rak cheerfully.
“Yes sir, may I help you?” The undead standing in front of Rak did not go gently into the cold, dark night. His lower jaw was missing, and some sort of leathery strap had been attached to his face. Nonetheless, he did his best to look down his nose at the massive orc, speaking in a cultured, snobbish tone.
“I’d like t’buy a hat. Bleedin’ hot weather out there, y’know? It’ll keep the sun offa me face when Aggie an’ me be headin’ off ta the Barrens, once we’re trained enough that is.”
“A hat, sir?” replied the snobbish Forsaken, arching a hairless eyebrow.
Rak blinked, unprepared for the condescending tone. “Yeah, a hat!”
“Oh dearie me, sir. You see, there are two problems with that. Firstly, we do not sell hats here in Brill, oh no not at all, sir. Secondly, hats are the garb of the experienced adventurer and… I do not believe you are quite experienced enough. How many seasons do you have?”
“Uh, seasons?” asked Rak, staring stupidly at the vendor.
“Well, yes sir. Your… you know, experience?” replied the vendor, winking at Rak. After a moment, it became clear that Rak did not know, and the vendor let out a miserable sigh. “How can I put this tactfully? Your, ah, level of training in your craft?”
“Ohhh!” Rak smiled with pure understanding. “Me level!”
“Of training in your craft, sir. Please do not just say level, it is an affront to common decency.” The Forsaken shopkeeper sniffed disdainfully with what was left of his nose.
“So uh, me, uh level’a trainin’ in me craft?”
“Precisely,” the vendor tried to smile condescendingly, but his lack of jaw made it difficult. Rak suddenly wondered why he was unable to speak without a jaw, but thought it impolite to ask.
“Eight,” said Rak after a moment, looking sheepish.
“Yeah, eight uh, levels’a trainin’ in me craft. Is that enough fer a hat?”
The Forsaken shopkeeper sighed miserably, rolling his eyes at all of the stupidity in the world. “No sir, eight is most definitely not enough. Thirty, at the least.”
“THIRTY?!” cried Rak incredulously.
“Yes sir, thirty. A hat is a very special privilege. At thirty you should be able to wear, oh, a baby blue bonnet to start you off.”
“Yer tellin’ me I gotta have thirty seasons t’wear a bonnet?!”
“Indeed sir, and might I say, it would go swimmingly with your pants.”
Rak looked down at his lime green pants, and he let out a miserable sigh.
“Whatever, thanks anyways.”
“The pleasure was all yours, sir.”
Shaking his head at all of the stupidity in the world, Rak stomped over to the weapons vendor, a nervous looking Forsaken woman, and he put on his best smile.
“Afternoon there lass, I’m interested in tradin’ up in weapons! Got any spears fer sale?”
One minute later.
“IT’S A POINTED STICK! I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH FER A POINTY STICK?!”
The vendor stared at Rak, her undead lip quivering. She was a small, nervous girl who’d been taken by the plague at the tender age of sixteen. It had only been a few months since she had awoken into this horrible half-life, and since then she had been assigned to sell weapons to aspiring adventurers in Brill. It wasn’t bad work, but the vendor trash was becoming a problem.
On her first day it had utterly shocked her. A staggering number of customers came in day and night with absolutely no regard to the fact that she might want to rest, and sold her random junk. The variety was awe inspiring. Bat claws, bits of linen, old broken weapons, dog paws, some sort of vile green goo, murloc scales, broken spider legs, the list went on.
She had to buy all of it, no matter how disgusting, vile, or ultimately useless the item was.
Then, she’d have to store it in the catacombs
The catacombs beneath the forge in Brill were breathtaking in their size, scope, and utter uselessness. Every single bit of random junk that had been sold to the vendors was stored down here, and she was responsible for all of it. If some jackass called LovelyPrincessGrrl showed up with eight pounds of tattered cloaks, she’d have to take it, stuff it in a wheelbarrow, and travel what had to be six hours underground until she found the appropriate warehouse, and throw them on the pile. The catacombs had to be as large as the interior of Blackrock Mountain, and definitely less pleasant.
When she had asked the Deathguards if she could have an assistant, or one of her co-workers to help with the monumental task of sorting through the vendor trash archives, she was laughed at. The newly dead always get the vendor trash, they said. One day, she had thrown a temper tantrum and demanded to know what the hell they needed sixteen tons of bat claws for. The response was simply “The Dark Lady works in mysterious ways, now do your job.”
Screw the Dark Lady. If she ever met the Dark Lady, she’d kick her in the shin.
The vendor’s name was Tania. When she was a living, human girl she liked kittens, love ballads, and cold milk on a hot summer’s day. Tania was not fond of being undead, she did not like Brill, she hated the green goop everyone seemed to bring in by the bucketful, and she loathed rude orcs.
With a miserable sigh, she stared longingly out the window.
“HEY! I’M NOT DONE YELLIN’ ATCHA!” roared Rakarech at the top of his lungs. Tania gave a small shriek and jerked her gaze from the window to rest it on this enormous, furious orc in a ridiculous pair of lime green pants.
“Uh.. I’m sorry but I don’t sell spears. You need your fortieth season to even consider using one,” stammered Tania in a quiet, breathy voice. “Would you like a nice sword? I have very nice swords!” She smiled endearingly at Rakarech, wishing he’d go away.
“I don’t –want- a sword, I want a spear! A spear be th’most basic weapon ye ken use, I know this. I fight fer a livin’. It’s a pointed stick! Are ye tellin’ me that a sword, a piece’a beaten metal is easier t’get fer an inexperienced warrior than a pointy stick?!”
Tania swallowed, and nodded once.
“Thrall’s balls!” cursed Rakarech, storming off angrily outside. He turned to called over his shoulder. “I’ll keep me hard earned money then, and ye ken choke on yer stupid swords! Useless bloody deaders.”
With the orc having left, Tania let out a sigh of relief. The other Forsaken in the busy forge ignored her as they always did, but she didn’t mind. For a brief, shining moment, she enjoyed a bit of peace. All of the vendor trash had been sorted, the adventurers weren’t really out in force today, and the sky was a particularly pretty shade of green today. She allowed herself a bit of a smile.
Suddenly, a miniature, mustachioed man charged in through the door, panicked screams and shouts following him. The vendors around her ignored him, as they did everyone, but she knew a gnome when she saw one, and for a moment, she felt fear. He wandered up to her, looking at her with adorable blue eyes. The name “00berD00d27” hovered over his head as continued to stare at her.
“He…hello?” she asked, tentatively.
“Bur,” said the gnome, before he sank his dagger into her neck.
Brilliant, breathtaking colours shot across the darkening sky as the sun began to set over the western ocean. Cool greens and blues battled against the fiery oranges and reds of the sunset, giving the lands of Tirisfal Glades an eerie, breathtaking beauty. Night slowly continued its conquest of the torn land, and as the woods were plunged into sickly, green-tinted darkness, the dead began to walk.
The battle cry echoed throughout the glades, shrieked in a gravelly voice, thickly coloured with the accent found in Booty Bay. The roaring sound of flames was accompanied a high-pitched squeal, all of which was abruptly cut off with a wet thud.
Rakarech Skitzog pulled his enormous, two-handed axe out of the flaming corpse of the duskbat, grinning toothily over his kill. The orcish warrior kicked the bat once, and bending over he pulled two copper coins and a pair of rusty mail pants out from under it.
“Not bad…” mused Rak as he peered over the leggings, absently tossing one of the copper coins to the white-haired orcish woman standing several feet from him, smoke trailing from her fingertips. Agdamakha Graka, known to pretty much everyone as Aggie, snatched the coin out of the air, pocketing it.
“Why did that bat have pants?” asked Aggie as she kneeled down by the corpse, poking at its smoldering hide. After a moment of no response, she looked to Rak, who was trying on the pants. Sighing, Aggie took a hold of the hide, and deftly ripped it off with a single, smooth motion. “That’s it,” she said, folding the hide up and tossing it in her pack. “I’ve got all ten.”
“Whaddya think?” Rak turned around in the pants, modeling them. They were lime green, and looked like they were formed of fish scales. A small, flaming imp named Volyap at Aggie’s side promptly burst into hysterical laughter, collapsing on his back and kicking his heels wildly.
Rak snarled, raising his axe menacingly. “If it weren’t fer blood pact…”
“Rak, stop it,” said Aggie firmly, moving in front of the giggling imp and planting her fists on her prodigious hips. “Lay a finger on his little head and I’ll light your beard on fire!”
“But... but...” whined Rak, staring at Volyap, who had not stopped laughing.
“Not one finger!” warned Aggie, drawing her wand to wave it dangerously at Rak. Rak sighed in defeat as Volyap got to his feet, hid behind Aggie’s leg, pointing and laughing at Rak.
“One’a these days,” scowled Rak, shaking his fist menacingly. Volyap stuck out his tongue, but quickly turned to bound alongside Agdamakha. Rak let out a disgusted sigh before slinging his axe over his shoudler to follow the pair back to Brill, to claim his reward for a day's hard fighting.
I came over the crest of the hill, and saw it. Finally: the Charred Vale. Blood was dripping from my cheek. I wish I could say it wasn't mine, but those wyzerns got a few good hits in. I knew I was in over my head, but that damned dwarf, Longbeard, wanted horns from the chimaera here. If I wanted that armour from him, I'd have to go in and get them. But I was a long way from Stormwind now, and this place was like nothing I've ever seen. I could taste the ash, smell it. This place was a wasteland, filled with all manner of unfriendly beasts. That was nothing new, but this place was different. I was already sweating like a pig beneath my armour, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold out. But I'd gone this far, and I wasn't about to turn back. Then I heard a screeching sound - like a nail on glass. A harpy soared towards me, that awful sound piercing my ears. I raised my sword and shield, readying for it. But it bowled me over and flew past, unfazed. I got a decent hit in, but it didn't slow. Blood spilled out in a long trail behind it, and my brow furrowed in confusion. Then I heard a deep bellow: "Stand aside, friend!" and an armoured figure rushed past, carrying one of the largest broadswords I've ever seen. I took note of that - it was strange, and glinted with an unearthly light. He lunged towards the beast, and cleaved its lower half clean off. A wet thump greeted my ears, and I grinned in my bloodlust.
The feeling faded gradually, and the figure cleaned off his blade as he returned to where I stood - still grinning like a madman. "My apologies, friend," he said, "but I've been hunting these cursed beasts all day and I wasn't about to let one go." He sheathed his blade, and held out a hand in greeting. I took it. "I am Beromalann, Paladin of the Light. And you, friend?" My voice was cracked - I was still out of breath. "Willhelm, of Duskwood." He nodded and straightened, his eyes narrowing as he looked me over. "And what brings you here to Stonetaln Mountains, Willhelm?" I explained my quest, and he nodded knowingly. "Ah, Furen gave you quite a task, didn't he?" I nodded, and he clapped me on the shoulder. "Here, friend, if you're not opposed to it, I can help you hunt those chimaera down this very day." He smiled broadly, and seemed genuine, so I accepted.
The next half-day was filled with glorious bloodshed. We slew the chimaera soundly. Though I have to admit, Beromalann was the better of us. So I swallowed my pride, and we continued on, stopping now and then for some drink and food - but never for very long. When dusk had set upon us, the deed was done. I carried a sackful of chimaera horns, and was grinning like a fool. The smell of ash and blood had blotted out my sense of smell almost completely. I made my way back to Storwmind over the next few days, and put them in a safe place. Next was some gnoll called Roogug. Considering how much trouble I had on my own, I figured I'd need a hand with that one too. So, I packed some food and supplies and headed out for the barrens - the desolate plains, dominated by the bloody orcs.
- Willhelm (Human/Warrior)
The fat oaf had talked all night. He was really beginning to wear on me. Time was, not long ago, that a man could drink in /peace/. But not anymore, oh no, this fool's got to ruin it with /conversation/. The Pig and Whistle used to be a decent place. Okay, so it was never decent, but it was at least bearable.
"I'll bet you travel all over the lands, you do, lad! Ha-ha! That's right. Slaying the monstrous spawn of the earth!" The jolly moron continued his conversation of one, pantomiming swinging a blade. He'd have lopped his head off long ago with such impressive swordsmanship. "Yep. I had a few battles of me own back in the day, I tell ya son." I wondered if all of them somehow involved stairs, or hills, or waistlines. He kept on blubbering about himself, of his childish fantasies and utter nonsense. I tried not to respond. Kips like that will take every opportunity to blab. So, I grunted and nodded and continued about my business, imagining all the glorious ways to eviscerate the earth-bound thresher.
"That's right," I don't remember the last three sentences of what he'd been saying, seemed all the same to me. But I was getting tired of his idiocy. "grew up just near here, North of Goldshire. My father was a silk merchant, bloody good one too if I do say so myself. So, tell me warrior, where do you hail from?"
My face froze, and I looked at the row of bottles piled against the wall behind the bar. I tried not to say it, I really did. The whiskey was flowing that night, boy. Not much a drunk like me can do.
A look of surprise hitched his jolly features, and finally, /finally/ gave him pause. "Oh... I'm... I'm sorry to hear that." He cheered up instantly, and smiled, "Any family? Wife, kids?" I sighed, and closed my eyes. They opened right after. I'd rather keep the images of the bar in view, not what lie behind those dark lids. It was too late, though. The stopper'd come loose, and there wasn't any putting it back 'til the bottle was empty.
"What?" I said it with such incredulity, even this oaf recoiled. My head twisted to look at him full on, and he went pale. "Family? Are you joking? /Family/? Yeah, I got family. Plenty of family. They're all waiting for me on Raven Hill." My face contorted into a grim scowl of rage and bitterness, the land-thresher blubbered, his eyes wide as I raised a chain glove to poke him in his generous chest. "They're lying there, in the cold earth, wondering why I didn't join 'em. Hell, some of them are probably even still up and about." I smiled, at the brink of sanity now. "How the hell should I know? Guess I'll find out, soon as I get back there."
He blubbered out something useless, like, "But, but, but you can't!" I stood up, my hand left my ale. "I /can't/? How's that old man? How is it that I can't?" He stammered, the coward, and fell off his seat. I suppose it didn't help that I was still pushing at him. "B-b-because it's in-in-infested with the undead!" He said it with uncertainty, and fear. He thought he was appeasing something in me, but he wasn't.
"Oh very good. I'm glad you told me, because I had no idea!" I kicked him then, something I'm not proud of, but I did it nonetheless. He squealed like a pig.
For a moment, I saw what I was doing, as though I was any other patron in the Pig and Whistle. And I hated myself. This isn't what I wanted to be. When did it come to this? Beating a stupid merchant fool in a tavern? Is that why I set upon this path? It's so hard to remember anymore.
But the memories came back, as though from a great distance: Father's sword; Father's shield; the green armour he wore. I swore I'd get it all back, and then I'd end it. I'd go to Raven Hill and end it. A part of me, and I'm ashamed to say not a small one, never wanted to come back. It hoped that I could make my stand there, die in glory, and close the book of my life.
But I've never been that lucky.
- Willhelm [Human/Warrior]
Greetings, and welcome to this World of Warcraft fan-fiction page. For those of you who have no idea what you've stumbled upon, this journal has been created by yours truly as a way to publish my own stories based in the game of World of Warcraft.
But that's not all, oh noes. It's also intended to be an open forum for others to post their own stories. So, if you've come here to check out my own stories, don't stop there. Make some of your own. My preference is for playing members of the Kirin Tor server to post, but anyone really interested in WoW roleplay and storytelling is welcome. This community is open to both Alliance and Horde members.
Please keep in mind that this community is in its infancy, and things may change. I'm hoping it will be enjoyed by players like myself. First, I'd like to introduce a couple guidelines which are completely optional, but may help cut down on confusion.
When posting, please affix [IC] at the beginning of the subject line to indicate the story is all in-character. Also, if you simply wish to post something relevant, but out-of-character please use [OOC]. Also, I'd just like to ask people to be respectful while on this board. I don't want to make a list of do's and do not's, and I never will. But, just don't be a jerk and everything will be fine. One final thing: please include your character information at the end of your posts, so we can get to know you. :)
That's all for now. If you have any questions, comments or suggestions please feel free to e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
- Willhelm [Human/Warrior]