WTT: [RP] » north

Wrathgate Wednesday: Blinding Fury Edition

Bricu — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 13:30:01 +0000

The Wildfire Riders – Chryste by *JRinaldi on deviant ART

For the record, the Wildfire Riders do not typically employ individuals who have committed mass murder. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Case in point: Chystal Kaleigh, a woman who has been through hell and back–typically by escorting unsavory bastards to their proper demise–is one of the few Riders who has done really bad things and been forgiven. Repeatedly. It has something to do with her history and something to do with the way she fills out her armor…

Chryste went North with her family to keep them safe. But the North made her remember aspects of her past she frequently tries to make right.

An unspecified amount of years earlier; North Hill – Duskwallow Marsh…

Bodies lay strewn along the makeshift road leading up to the half-constructed watchtower. Several of them bludgeoned and gashed, some with what seemed to be burnmarks upon their flesh and armor. Armor signifying the men as members of Jaina Proudmoore’s loyal followers.

Towers were being constructed along the road, allowing the Theramore military a strategic advantage against any would-be invaders in this new and strange land of Kalimdor.

What fear should one have of invaders, however, when the natives were the ones on the offensive?

The North Hill Massacre is a quiet story in the fortress port. It’s not often told, and when it is, one in the service at the time shall quickly quiet the speaker of the tale.

The tale of a Demon Witch; a heart as cold as the north, and the beauty of a Stranglethorn sunset; and how she rained down hell upon twenty of Theramore’s best for tresspassing upon forbidden lands. Of how she drained them of their life and crushed their souls within her palm…

Superstition is a powerful motivator for exaggeration. Though the brutality of the story might not be so far off…

The last of the twenty men scurried away on the ground. Trying in vain to stand upright, he simply could not get his body to rise. He clutched at mud and stone – the sight of a sword and shield on the ground before him was salvation – and if he was going to die this day, this murderous harlot was going to come with him.

Grapsing the armaments, the man rolled onto his back to make sure his aggressor was not on the attack. She had, after all, been slowly following behind him for several yards now, taunting him with her steps, torturing him with the knowledge that he was the last of his comrades to die.

His gaze stuck as it landed upon her. This was no demon – nor was it even a full-grown woman. Seventeen at best, and well beyond her age in beauty, she slowly continued to approach, looming over the frightened soldier. Blackened dagger in one hand, and crackling warhammer in the other, she paused her scantily-leather-clad body over his. A massive longcloak whipping in the wind of the impending storm and crystalline eyes glowing like a fire, the raven-haired murderess twirled the dagger in her fingers. She was toying with him…

Whatever words the man screamed in protest were lost to the crackle of thunder, and quickly interrupted as she reached for him. Somewhere deep down, he had found his resolve, and rolled aside, staggering to his feet. He readied sword and shield, only to find the former useless as the murderess set upon him, bringing the warhammer down against his shield with deceptive strength, sending the man stumbling back and regaining his footing with a more well-trained stance.

Again and again, she battered the shield with the hammer; she moved at an unreal pace – her fury was absolutely blinding. She never seemed to tire, and her blows only grew stronger.

She reared back and brought the hammer down a last time, shouting a word of unknown origin in it’s arc. As the weapon connected with the shield, the burnmarks of the deceased became readily apparent; sparks flew into the air and an arc of lightning passed through the shield and along the body of the brave young man. He screamed in his last breath and crumpled to the ground; the last of the men had fallen.

Mavalos would be pleased. The first of her missions was more successful than he could have hoped.

Tearing her gaze away from the deceased, she turned to stare upon the blazing wagon of supplies, a smile of pure malice upon her lips.

She stared upon the roaring blaze from her seat on the log, hood covering most of her head, and thick cloak protecting her from the frozen climate of the Dragonblight. Stray strands of hair settled before her face, and the length of everything else on either side came down to two braided tails that rested short upon her shoulders. A veteran of many battles, and the killer of many men; the blank expression upon her face was entirely too uncaring for anyone with a shred of humanity in their heart.

Her hands clutched tight to the menacing axe that stretched across her lap. It’s obsidian-black blade glowed an eerie orange in the light of the fire, almost making it seem as if the weapon itself were ablaze.

There was still many things she never told those of her ‘family’. Many horrors and crimes that haunted her dreams. Every time she fought, she would see those soldiers at Witch Hill.

After seeing the Journal of Mavalos the Black, Jaina saw no need to fault Chrystal. The Black Butcher was dead, and Kaleigh no longer under his sway. She was free to be her own woman now.

It didn’t mean much to Chrystal.

Mavalos’ will be damned, it was still her hands, saw through whatever eyes Mavalos gave her – they were hers now. And they saw every last detail of the slaughter.

Her gaze lowered from the fire to the ground, and the plated boots that covered her feet. Soon after, she pulled her cloak tight and curled up on the log she sat, closing her eyes and resting her head on the flat of the axe’s blade, attempting to sleep.

She came to Northrend, not only for her family; she came to Northrend for that One Great Deed that would make those men rest in peace.

The blood of The Lich King would suffice.

Wrathgate Wednesday: Northmen Edition

Bricu — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 22:01:03 +0000

The lands of Lordaeron were damaged–nearly beyond repair–by Arthas and his betrayal of Lordaeron. While the scars on the land are visible to everyone who plays WoW past level 55, the damage done to the psyche of the Northmen is more subtle. Few groups cry for justice louder than the people whose lives were ruined by Arthas. In our circles, Arthas went from the Bonnie Prince Arthas to the Bloody Prince.

Jolstraer, from the Wildfire Riders, was the first Northman to take up the Wrathgate Event. In his piece, we meet Jolly as he deals with the fallout and scars from Arthas’ betrayal. Jolly’s writing is a brilliant example of how an In-game event can spur on Fic-Rp. I hope you enjoy it as much as we have.

The camp around Fordragon Hold bustled with steady craft work of a world of war. The old man who plowed through the throng of run-of-the-mill soldiers and 7th Legion elitist knew it well. His path could be easily traced by the effrontery and cursing of men and women half his age, who thought themselves twice his better. The shield that hung from his back quieted a few in the crowd here and there, and made some sneer more. He didn’t pay them much mind; hell, he had more important things to worry about. His armor was strapped down tight, fitted with spikes and stained with old blood and new, and spatters of gore here and there. The pain in his side had seemed to lessen from a constant throbbing into a dull ache that he had taught himself to ignore. His one eye would flicker amongst the other warriors in camp and dismiss them quickly. Three feet of steel on his hip shied off those who might think to confront him for his ooks, or his attitude, or the simple manner in which he didn’t give a damn about most of the folk around him.

Striding up the hill, leading Soarer by the reigns, Jol Taborwynn made his way through the camp.

“Hey, look at this one Lem. Oy, old man, the pensioner’s quarters are in Stormwind, you daft old bat!”

Jol stopped in his tracks. The look on his face widened the circle around him by a fraction. With a slow, wolfish grin, Jol turned and regarded the pack of four that were heckling him with sneers and caterwauling. One was short and overtly fat, his armor greasy in spots and not doing a good job of covering him. Next to him was a lanky lad with too much nose and too little hair on his chin to be more than just a lad. The other two…well now, they were the real fun.

‘Lem’ had to be the one on the left, with the brutal glimmer in his eye and the look of someone used to a blade. Jol took note of him, but made as to dismiss him immediately. The old paladin was rewarded with a sneer he was hoping for.

“‘Scuse mah?” was all the Lordaeron-born said.

“See Roj? Old folks can’t hear so good,” Lem sneered, spitting at Jol’s feet. ‘Roj’ was exactly what Jol expected – the chiseled prettyboy with a Knight-Lieutenant’s sword emblazoned on his shoulder. Jol was going to enjoy this all too much.

“S’raight. Ol’ folks ten’ tae tune out arrogan’ pricks ‘et shouldnae be off’n ‘ere momma’s teats.”

The crowd went silent, and four hands went to swords. Jol just kept his grin, unlimbering his shield and driving its base into the snow, as to make it stand on its own. The crest of Lordaeron seemed to shimmer for a moment before his hand moved away from it, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing scabbarded sword into the snow.

The four looked between themselves in confusion as the old man tugged of his steel backed gloves. They didn’t say a word, but each of them begrudgingly let go of sword hilts and hastily unbuckled them. They were still working on getting off their gauntlets when Jol hit.

The fat one went down like a sack of potatoes from the full-on punch Jol threw; folks that watched had to have been amazed at the old man’s speed to cross the meager distance and deck him in a near blink of an eye. The lanky one’s knees buckled as Jol’s spinning backhand broke his nose, and he was out of it before Jol had moved onto the third.

Roj and Lem moved far more quickly than their hangers-on, diving apart to divide Jol’s attention, but not doing a very good job. Roj’s hair – shoulder length and flopped to one side like some noble poof – was caught in one big paw, and he yanked back hard to jerk the young man’s neck and stun him to a hat. Lem came in at Jo swinging, but Jol caught the blows with his arm and shoved his armored shoulder into the fighter’s gut. Turning his attention back to Roj, he yanked on the hair again and was rewarded with a girlish shriek, before slamming the man’s face into Jol’s upright shield. A thump and a crack was the reward, thanks to the shield’s refusal to budge. Letting go of Roj’s hair, Jol turned to Lem and regarded him coolly as the man was crouched low, considering his best chance of attack.

“Yeh ‘ave anah idear who’n tha feck ah am!?” Jol roared at the man, sending him back a step. Lem shook his head faintly, and seemed a little surprised at managing even that for an answer. Jol strode toward him purposefully, and the man hunkered down before lunging in a strike. Jol twisted, catching the man awkwardly before headbutting him square between the eyes. Lem’s eyes rolled up in his head as he crumpled to the snow.

Four arrogant Stormwind guards were sprawled out around him. Jol, turned and surveyed them with a grimace as more guards pushed through the watching throng and seized him by the arms.

“..the hell is going on here!?” Commander Galliwick demanded as he stormed up, red faced. “What in the hell happened?”

“Commander, this man here attacked these four without provocation–”

“Feck ‘at,” Jol grumbled. “Fecker d’served ‘et.”

Galliwick looked as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. “What in the hell is your problem!?” he all but railed at Jol. “Who in the hell do you think you are!?”

“Ah’m Jol feckin’–”

“To hell with it! I don’t care! Of all the damn days, I care less today! Clap him in irons and get him out of here!”

“HOLD!”

Galliwick visibly winced, squeezing his eyes shut. His face went through enough shades of red and purple to color a quilt. Why, Jol had no clue, but he knew the other voice as sure as he knew his own. It was then one of the few Southerners Jol had respect for moved through the widening throng.

“More trouble today, Commander?” Bolvar Fordragon asked in a calm and even tone.

“This man–this Rider,” Galliwick spat for emphasis, noting Jol’s tabard displayed proudly, “Attacked and harmed four soldiers without provocation. Sir, as if a mutinous ruckus weren’t enough, he attacked Knight-Lieutenant Roj Haermon–”

“Haermon usually finds trouble on his own, trouble does not find him,” Bolvar cut off, surveying Jol’s handiwork of the four with a faint glimmer of a smirk. “I don’t care who his father is, he wasn’t supposed to be this far up on the front in the first place.” Bolvar turned his piercing look back on the old paladin, taking him in from head to two. “Northman, by the look of that stubborn set to your jaw. What’s your name, man?”

Jol straightened a little taller, a defiant look on his craggy face. “Jol Taborwynn.”

Bolvar nodded briefly. “You’ve been in the wars, then,” he said, not asking.

“Fifth Lordaeron. Stag o’Stratholme.” A few murmurs passed through the crowd, and Bolvar’s brief glance shushed them.

“Those aren’t Lordaeron colors I see you wearing,” Bolvar said casually, though there was a weighing look about him.

“Me ‘ome’s tha Ridahs, Haighlohd. Ah’m heah tae beat sommat doen. If’n ‘et’s young fools in tha stocks ‘er ‘em Scourge monstrositahs, ‘et dunnae mattah tae mah. But ah aim tae carve me feckin’ name in some Scourge ches’ but good. Fer Lordaeron.”

“Light remember Lordaeron,” Bolvar murmured, and it breathed through the crowd at a whisper. “Your fellows are camped in the mountain passes, with a few other irregulars. Best see to getting yourself there.”

“My lord–!” Galliwick gasped.

“After, Commander. There will be plenty of time for settling debts after.”

Jol nodded casually to the Highlord. “Ah always keep me debts. M’lohd.” Picking up his shield and sword from the snow, he buckled them back on before retrieving his gauntlets. Moving on up into the passes with Soarer in tow, Jol didn’t need to push through the crowd.