Wrathgate Wednesday: Responses

By | June 3, 2009

The Wrathgate event, the cut scene of Wrath of the Lich King, is not just a seminal moment in lore. The Wildfire Riders of Feathermoon took this opportunity to RP their characters roles during the siege. Wrathgate also allowed for an expansion of the guild. In this post by Illithias, we see how a character takes an event in game and uses it to RP eventual entry into a guild.

The squalls threw the falling snow every which way. Visibility was low – the sky and ground dissolved into a white haze a hundred or so paces in every direction. It was mid afternoon, and still struggling torches were being used to help augment the diffused light. Despite this, the Hold was a hive of activity – military preparation with a distinct air of desperation about it. Sound was muted – not so much from the flake laden air, but also from the opressive glare from the peaks to the northwest.

She came in from the south – trudging through the haze, wrapped in oilskin and hood. The figure coming up behind resolved slower, the hulking hippogryph keeping a good few paces behind the elf. The whistling of the wind was interspersed by the crunching of her footfalls, the cartwheeling snow before her face brusquely interrupted by each cloud of hot breath. Step by step, she drew closer to Fordragon Hold. A sentry pushed himself up from leaning against the nearest stack of crates, and yelled back over his shoulder.

The Hold, and the temporary barracks-town which had sprung up beside, bustled with quiet activity. Humans and dwarves busying themselves in preparation, needless banter and jocularity forgotten for the time being. It reminded Illithias of Stormwind markets on a funeral day. She led Pinion gently by his reins down the packed snow-and-gravel path that served as a “road”. Despite the activity, she was receiving a share of sideways glances and appraisals. There wasn’t terribly many other kal’dorei in the Highlord’s corps. Or it could have been that she had stowed her cloak and hood after arriving at the Hold. She’d made that concession to the nervous sentry who’d met her. She had kept her weapons.

Personnel Officer Schrodinger looked up from his pencil scratchings at the person who’d just stepped up to his desk. He saw a breastplate. Schrodinger binked, and craned his neck further to meet the gaze of the white haired elf looking down at him. Her eyes were silver, but unapproachable. She looked unimpressed. His eyes couldn’t help straying to the ruin that was one side of her face. It was quite unsettling on what would otherwise be a reasonably attractive face. For an elf. For once, Schrodinger wished that his gaze was drawn to her chest. He swallowed.
“Uh, yes… ?”

The elf broke their gaze, glancing back and forth, taking in the tent they were both standing in. Schrodinger hadn’t managed to warrant a room within a building, but this tent was better than nothing. Even if the floor was sodden. Chests of paperwork essentially provided makeshift walls and furniture. She looked back to Schrodinger.
“Yes. The sentry on duty I met told me to come here. Tell you that I had arrived. I’m going to help.”

Schrodinger blinked. It was just another recruit. But it wasn’t just another recruit. He swallowed again.
“Well… uh, okay… I mean yes. Yes. Ah, certainly. I will need to know your name, of course, and then…”

The elf cut in.
“The name is Illithias.”

Schrodinger furrowed his brow. The name was familiar. He’d encountered in stories or print before, he was sure of it. He couldn’t place anything, however.
“And, ah, your last…”


The look on the elf’s face told him better than to press the point. He gestured in the general direction of the armoury tents.
“Well, uh, we’ll need to get you outfitted, and uh…”
The sentence struggled in his throat, crippled by the realisation that the armour she was in was leagues better than the mass-forged plate and arms available in the barracks’ armoury.

The elf spoke again.


“It’s Corporal Illithias. I served with the Dabyrie Reconnoiters in Arathi. I was awarded rank by your superiors for my actions. I am no Private.”

This was not what Schrodinger was expecting. This was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. Part of Schrodinger kissed goodbye the happy little fantasy of elven women he’d treasured since a lad, this alone was hardly worth the effort…
“Oh. Uh. My mistake, just let me confirm this…”

He flushed. Put on the spot, he had to confirm the commission of a non-enlisted, non-human combatant from a number of years ago. The beginning of the Arathi conflicts. Schrodinger swore underneath his breath. He managed to find the right chest, then the right ledger. He scanned down pages, cruelly non-alphabetically listed, as the elf continued to stare at him. Sweat prickled his brow.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Corporal Illithias. I, uh, will find a unit to place you in charge of, there will be, um, seven privates that will be under your command, um, of the Everstill company where…”

The elf’s laugh was short, sharp, and loud. It was a worg’s bark en-trysted in a blackpower blast. It wasn’t appealing. The flaps of the tent’s doorway moved aside as a hippogryph stuck it’s head inside, looking at the elf. Schrodinger decided to ignore that. It was easier that way.
“I am going to fight. I am not here to lead a handful of humans and dwarves, who do not know how to swing an axe, into the jaws of death. I am here to slay the Nether-damned as Goddess wishes. I was told to come here by the Life-Binder of the Red Flight herself. I was merely here to let you know. A courtesy.”

The last comment dripped contempt. With that, she turned on a heel and paced out of the tent. Schrodinger could just see the bulk of the hippogryph follow as the clanking and jingling of the elf’s walk receded away. The general ruckus of the Hold swelled, resuming it’s previous volume. Schrodinger wiped his brow.

A small part of Illithias enjoyed that. Still leading Pinion, she walked away from the cluster of tents, threading her way through clusters of soldiers huddled about their fires. She wasn’t going to play “human conscript” and march lockstep to an ignoble death, but she wasn’t going to stand before Angrathar alone. She stopped by various groups, investigating whether anyone she knew had been seen. Any of the Tower, or the Rose, any skirmishers of the Dawn. It wasn’t until slipping a slightly inebriated dwarven rifleman a handful of silver pieces that she heard tale of the Riders’ encampment. The company of morally crippled vagabonds was perhaps the best she could get. Outside of her own company of similarly fatalistic kal’dorei berserkers.

Mounting Pinion, Illi spurred down the slope towards where the dwarf had said the Wildfire Riders had set up camp.

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