“Uther’s Balls, Bert. I thowt ye… an’ Stratholme. An’ ye foun’ me here? … bloody hell.” She stood up, looking him clean in the face, eye to eye, before looking away.

“Aye, bloody hell’s about the size of it. Been through it once, looks like tomorrow we get to do it all again. How the nether are you here? Someone said there was a redhead just arrived at the medic camp, with an accent that’d put a Dwarf to shame. I thought it might be you. I hear you still talk like you’ve a mouth full of marbles.” He laughed, and the sound hit the fog and disappeared.

“Oi, an ye still think y’ve go’ better than th’ lots wha’ do. Y’great ponce.”

More laughter, and he reached out gingerly to touch her hair. “You look just like I remember…”

She peered at him, glancing over his face, looking for some shred of the young man she’d grown up with. “There’s nae much th’ seventeen y’r ol’ left in ye, thow. Ligh’, bu’ ye hardly e’en look like y’rself.”

“I’m… not. Well, I am, but – it’s a long story. You haven’t answered my question though – how did you end up here? This place doesn’t seem to fit the likes of an up and coming Paladin.” His eyes found the jewel on her left hand. “… let alone a woman about to be married.”

“Tha’s.. well, tha’s a long story ‘swell, bu’ then ‘s been near 10 years. F’r now, I’m here ’cause m’ Boss sent me, after th’ fecking Cultists took out half a camp a’ Medics an’ Fordragon put a call f’r th’ independen’ camps t’ send a healer each. I’ve skill wi’ combat healin’ – ‘s wha’ I did f’r th’ armies fightin’ th’ Bloody Prince th’ last time. After allat, an’ a fair bit t’ myself, I’m up wi’ th’ Wildfire Riders, ap Danwyrith’s crew.”

He stepped back, eyes wide in mock surprise. “Oh you’ve taken up with /that/ band of ruffians and ne’er do wells, aye? I should’ve known. Even as a Paladin, you end up in trouble.”

“An’ th’ bes’ fecking trouble I’ve found in awhile, too. Better lot than th’ ones ye seem t’ have taken up wi, thow I cannae say I’d prefer th’ other option, given th’ circumstances.”

His face fell slightly, as somewhere in the distance a low bell rang, the sound hanging in the fog.

“And that’s for me, and my troubles. I’ll be on the line tomorrow. If you have any of the faith they say you do, pray you don’t see me until after this is over…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the bandages and the medic’s flag on the tent before resting back at her face. “I can’t say I’ve much left in the way of Light, Aely, but knowing you’re here, that you made it… well, it’s something.”

Silence crept between them.

“I… aye… An’ Ligh’ go wi’ ye. E’en if ye dinnae recognize it.” She placed her hands gently against his forehead, murmuring a blessing. “Go wi’ peace, Bert.”

Closing his eyes, he turned away, and she watched until he disappeared into the fog.

–

Haemon

Haemon had never minded the cold. It was a fortunate quality since, unlike the man he’d come to protect, he was almost entirely unburdened by supplies. No tent, no sleeping bag, not even a thick winter coat beyond that afforded him by his spirits. His leathers kept him plenty warm, and once he grew bark the temperature didn’t matter at all. He’d spent the night in silent vigil five paces behind Laurus’s tent, periodically watering himself. It was better camouflage than black fur on the white landscape.

The druid stood apart as ap Danwyrith delivered his brash, hopeful message to his troops, his heroes and anti-heroes. It was a real, physical effort not to laugh. Teach the Lich King fear? Pep talks required hyperbole, certainly, but that kind of impossible goal was dangerous. Hope for the wrong thing is more dangerous than no hope at all. It was a lesson he’d recently learned through experience. Hope was the only true neutral, a tool that could be as painful as it was helpful. Point it at the wrong thing, and it could backfire horribly.

Were they there to inspire fear? And in whom? In the mindless minions? The brainwashed commanders? The Lich King himself? Even Tirion Fordring acknowledged there was nothing left of the man who had been Arthas. What remained was a mutated creation of a demon, nothing more than an embodiment of the forces of darkness. Mortals feared for their own destruction. But what cause had Arthas to fear, when he had become the element he represented?

Darkness could never be destroyed.

One would think that the Riders would know that better than anyone.

Smaller, simpler, more logical goals, those were the order of the day. Hold the pass. Guard the flank. Live. There was no need for frightening visages or roaring battle cries, for fear was not their tool to use. Craft, strength, light and life. He glanced to Laurus. And love. The noble’s fingers fidgeted on a rune. The plan, no doubt, circled through his head.

Do the job. Make our mark. And then get the fuck out.

Silent through all the Riders’ multi-lingual cries, Haemon watched the column of saronite soldiers advance on the gate. His golden eyes narrowed at the brazen banner that deflected all protests with its icy stare.

“Balah ishnu,” he hissed.

—
Dravir

It was cold. That was all he could think of, as the crew set up camp along the rocky walls, Angrathar looming over them. A bitter, malevolent chill, seeping past armor and furs, something that sought to leech the life and hope from your body and soul. No rest would come for those who fell here, in this land of ice and vile magic. The night was long, and the dawn would herald a terrible reckoning with a foe that had cost everyone, all those who surrounded him for miles, something precious.

Of course, it could be the lack of sleep talking. No one had slept through the rush through the Dragonblight. Odurd kept them at a vicious pace, his little goblin eyes alight with a strange hunger as the miles shrank between them, and the staging grounds at Angrathar. Gotta be there, kid. Big things at stake. Business opportunities of the century. And besides, it’s big cred to the bosses back home if we kill something that’s valuable as a corpse in a famous battlefield.

Of course, they arrived rather late. Stern Alliance infantry directed them to the masses of irregulars, far from the front lines. South and west, they found a nice little hill that barelyy smelled of the nearby open latrines if the wind was right, and began to dig into the frozen ground as the sun set. The trolls started a cookfire, building a semblance of a meal from their hastily gathered supplies, while the Boss went walkabout to find his fellow gobbos and sniff some information. Dravir savoured the quiet time. No shrieking goblin, and the orc was happily stacking small stones on top of the other. The dwarf was getting drunk in another camp, and the elf…

The elf was preparing for war.

A small trench dug, arrows were sunk into the frozen earth, the heads carefully wrapped so the ice that would grow in the night would not lock them into the dirt. Already his long, enviously amazing hair was bound into braids tight against his skull, war paint adorning his brow, to block sweat that would drip in his eyes and spoil his aim. For a moment, their eyes met, and he could almost respect this elf, a traitor to his people and the greatest ass Dravir had ever met, one professional to another. They shared a nod, before a familiar toned shriek erupted across the small camp. “Everybody get to the center! I have things to talk about now!”

Those who were able clustered around their diminuitive leader, watching him pace. And pace he did. He muttered with arms crossed, glaring a the ground. There was no acknowledgement of anyone, just goblin rage vented at the poor permafrost. Minutes passed, before he stopped, and looked up at them, his face a more usual businessman calm. “Alright. So. We’re not getting paid for this gig.”

Amid the moans and frowns, he waved his hands for quiet, then adopted a thoughtful pose. “Now, I’m a good gobbo, and like a profit as much as the next. Probably more,” he admitted with a smirk. “But there’s no pay here. Wrynn and Thrall are cheap bastards and have all these thoughts about “glory!” this and “honour!” that. The first gobbo to ask what the going rate was had himself and his crew escorted in chains to Venture Bay.”

Odurd paused, scratching his green head. “Now, normally, I’d not stick around. No gobbo would, but we have a bunch here. And there’s a good reason why. All the humans, the orcs, trolls, tauren, all of them, they’re in it for the same thing. And right now, we are too. Because when it comes down to it, this Lich King made one big mistake, far as us gobbo’s are concerned. He tried to screw with us. Make us look bad. And sabotage our business.

No one, no one, screws with another goblins business ‘less it’s another goblin. So get some sleep, ’cause tomorrow, we are going to send this man a message.”

I’ll be honest, we skip this issue. We let the people of our RP group decide when one of their characters are “finally dead” or just “mostly dead.” This extends to foils too. The person in control of the story determines what happened to the NPC. This is not a perfect solution by any means; however, it works for us.

How do other RP communities handle the question of death in WoW?

Kaldorei. Night Elves. They have a majesty that comes across even in the heart of battle. Their druids are noble and wise. Sentinels define stoicism. There are, of course, exceptions to these portrayals–and of course those exceptions find a home in the Wildfire Riders. In a previous story, Bellesta demonstrated a spiritual born savagery that shocked even the most cynical of Riders. Her role at the Wrathgate was just as stunning.

–Just a side note. Wrathgate Wednesday is the Wildfire Riders take on the Lore Event at the Wrathgate. While this is an example of an extended and closed RP event, please feel free to write your own characters take on events.

“Eh. Help me here, will you? It’s not easy to do this alone.” Feliche grumbled, twisting about to try and connect ties on the side of his armor, shifting in the empty space. The metal shuffled and clanked, hanging loose over a warm fur covering.

“This is why I had my armor made with all the ties in the front, Fel.” Bellesta grumbled, reaching to tighten down the metal coverings over his chest and back with practiced ease. The dark blue metal was battered in several places, but despite it’s desperate need for repair it would last one more fight.

One fight. The first of many. To Bellesta, it felt as if this was truly the beginning of the war and all before had simply led up to this point. She had not been called by the Alliance army, given her lack of standing with them. Despite this, she would march onto the battlefield to preserve the world for her future… for Omen’s future.

“It’s almost time to leave. It’s going to be a bit of a walk, perhaps a couple hours across the snows. You should get into your armor.” Feliche remarked, adjusting the scabbard over his shoulder that held his weapons in place.

“I am anxious to get this over with.” Bellesta grunted, slipping a waterskin around her neck. It hung somewhere around her stomach, the strap sized to fit her neck in an animal form. Feliche glanced sidelong over his metal shoulderpads, twisting his wrists before slipping them into the protective gloves. “Expecting to have enough downtime to drink there?”

It’s Firewater.

“It’s healing drought.” Bellesta said, lips twitching with a lie, unseen by the other elf. “For when I need it.”

He nodded, turning his gaze to the snowstorms that swirled across the Dragonblight. The fields looked unnaturally empty, dotted only by a few roaming Magataur and the vast shadows of whatever beasts currently ruled the skies. Bellesta could only hope those beasts were alive. A metal-plated hand slid up her back, coaxing her to turn. Feliche leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers, whispering in the elven tongue. “Tonight we will celebrate victory, my love.”

“Omen guard us both, in the fight ahead. It shall not be an easy one.” She whispered back, turning her head into a kiss. The touch was brief, but emotion undoubtedly genuine. With that, Bellesta slipped back away from him, falling onto all fours. Her body rippled with fur and muscle, inhaling sharply with the sudden warmth of her girth. She swung her massive head around before turning, plodding over to a rock where wooden armor was propped up. Shoving her nose between the armor and the rock, she bounced it up onto her back, where it lay crooked over her form. A few shakes of her large neck and it settled down over her face and back, fitting around her features. Cloth of black and red hung from either shoulder, whipping around in the light draft.

Omen, Twin Deadkeeper, He of Life and Death. Bless this day and this fight, for it is fought in your name.