â˝Â A new night market has appeared on WrA nestled in Revendreth. Have some unconventional wares you can't sell without being side-eyed? Are you a rather unconventional vendor looking to sell your merchandise and not get questioned by the guards for âsuspicious activityâ? Look no further, you are most welcome here.Â
â˝Â A partnership between the Sanguine Order and the @fence-macabreâ brings you this brand new market and we hope youâll join us in the Shadowlands!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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đśâ ď¸ B A T T L E  of the B A N D S đ¤đľ
When: Sunday, November 22nd at 5PM WRA | 7PM MG
Where: Waycrest Manor, Kul Tiras (33.89, 8.48)
Neutral and cross-server!Â
Ever wondered who all the hottest bands are in Azeroth? Are you seeking to meet them? Maybe you heard one or two but are dying to rock out to more? Well, this is a call to all the bands of Azeroth to take the stage and battle for the right to be the best band! The spirit of rock and roll is real in all of us so kick those nerves to the curb and get out there to bring the house down. And for the fans, whether you jam out to alternative rock or scream to epic metal ballads you wonât want to miss this!Â
LA MASQUERADE events presents a night like no other to bring together all the eclectic houses of Rock n Roll! Come out to mosh harder than ever before in a breathtaking manor that will enthrall with its atmospheric vibes. And the Fence Macabre caravan will be serving aromatic and robust drinks to keep you energized all night long! The Harpies will be judging the competition with a special guest and there will be three winners for the night. All bands must pre-register to compete and the first place winners will get artwork of their group!!!
đ¤đżđ¤đžđ¤đ˝Â Band Registration Form- https://tinyurl.com/BandSignUpx
A blacksmith would have taken different steps. Forge the blade, give it a handle, wrap the handle. Something like that, at least. Thankfully she was able to skip most of that by designing a mold and taking extraordinary care in its production. A perk of being smart, as she figured it.
The metal was nearly ready. It wasnât the colour of anything sheâd seen back on Azeroth, instead shedding four different glows at once. They overlapped and intertwined because nothing here was ever simple. Ilandreline wasnât one for metaphors, but even she could recognize this one: four ores, wildly distinct, that could only be properly alloyed through the use of a fifth. Naturally the alloy was stronger than any of them independently. Also it was a bastard to work with.
She fed the ingots into the crucible, watching as the forgeâs heat quickly liquefied the elethium. A pull of the lever and it drained into the waiting mixture, which one more movement injected into the waiting mold. That had been the real work, creating the exact negative space needed inside a block of solid stone. Not just any stone, of course, but the kind that wouldnât melt in a furnace designed to bind souls to metal. Getting pieces of the Black Empire was hard enough even before one crossed into the realms of the dead.
Once the mixture had filled the block, Ila grasped it with the tongs sheâd liberated from the soulforger whose workspace she now used. Steadiness was required to keep the metal from sloshing out or the whole thing from upending. Her movements were slow and deliberate, never jerking. A device was only as good as its craftsmanship; she intended this one to be her masterpiece.
Typically one would quench using a specific liquid. Fresh water, salt water, olive oil, certain beverages made by the dwarves⌠what one used depended on the desired outcome and the materials involved. For this it was something a bit more unusual. The Maw had recently become the destination for a great deal of anima drawn from the spirits being repented in Revendreth. This made for a sharp, hungry quench, which was precisely what she needed. She lowered the discomfiting block of slick stone into the roiling crimson, listening to the violent hissing as the alloy took shape.
Once the soul-steam had cleared and the little barrel was minutes removed from its moment of boiling, she fished the mold out with her borrowed tongs. "This better have worked," she muttered, mostly to externalize the worry. Better out than in, that sort of thing. "Only one way to find out."
Placing the black brick on the anvil nearby, she inspected every side for cracks or gaps. The only one she could find was the little hole where she'd added the molten metal, so⌠maybe it had happened? Picking up the hammer she'd made for just this purpose, Ilandreline closed her eyes and sought the resonance. It was so much easier now than that first time. That was how she'd survived the darkest path into the Shadowlands, and ever since she'd found herself increasingly aware. Now it was almost as easy as making saltpeter; not necessarily fast, but a simple task for the experienced. She felt for her core, dove into it, releasing her perceptions through the nightpurple veins bordering reality.
The Black Empire remnant was anything but dark now. Even the Maw's dolorous half-light caused a reaction, oil-slick scintilla flaring across the infinitesimal pockmark surface. In a way, it sang. Not like a voice, but a tuning fork, a frequency of sensation manifesting multitudinous waves into singular tone. Where her family's faith resided she felt the echo of kinship. Reaching through herself, she grasped the thread of the stone's structure and pulled.
In a sweater, such an act would have been the destruction of order that caused its unraveling. The bedrock of those who dwelt between the stars was made differently, however. What she had done manifested as an ordering matrix, leaching the inherent structural chaos out, snapping the minerals into some kind of grid. Gripping tightly through the depths of her soul, Ilandreline raised the hammer high and swung.
The hardened shadowghast strikeface tolled as it impacted the ruthlessly ordered block. The sound was brutal in its discordance, an archetypal resonance of shattered chains. What was held tightest become most undone; the black stone crumbled to dust, its forced structure inverted until it could no longer hold together.
Ilandreline felt her entire self ringing as she set the hammer aside. The reverberations rattled through her bones, trying to unmake her as thoroughly as she had the old gods' relic. But she was a Glimmerbow, born of those dark blessings, the ancient primordial unmakers' essence suffusing the deepest fibers of her being. The resonance traveled through her, unable to find an outlet to erode, equally unable to escape until she opened her mouth.
She didn't scream; this wasn't pain. Instead she had become an accidental echo chamber, an acoustic amplifier not unlike the elegant curves of a bell. From inside her structure rang the peal of uncreation. Open-mouthed she exhaled it into the stygian plains, unable to cease until the note was spent. Unable to hear, she could still feel the rigid structure of forge beside her eroding beneath the reciprocal action to what she had done.
As suddenly as it began, the moment ended, buckling her knees. Reflex alone allowed the elf to catch herself, weak-legged and bent over the anvil, eyelids only now able to pry themselves apart. Unsteady, Ila exerted her focus once more, willing herself to stay standing. As she did so, refusing to acknowledge the possibility she might collapse, she examined her work.
Atop a fine pile of utterdark sand lay a blade. It was a single piece, cast-forged, with a tapering, triangular blade emerging from one edge of a metal-wrought vertebra. Opposite the blade extended the cylindrical smoothness of bone, flaring into a double-knobbed pommel. It was far more beautiful than she'd expected, or perhaps that was the wrong word. Elegant? Fitting. This was a blade made with purpose, for someone very specific, and such certainty was apparent in its aesthetics.
"Almost done." Her voice was hoarse though she didn't realize it. She hardly knew she'd spoken, what with the ongoing ringing in her ears, and the way structures sounds such as speech fell apart in the fading wake of the hammer blow.
Ilandreline forced her legs to stillness, stood straight atop them once more. Grasping the weapon's handle -- she would wrap it with aged linen later, to give it the feel of something found in an ancient mausoleum -- she turned its stiletto point toward herself. Her other hand moved to expose an expanse of pale flesh, against which she set the blade.
"Freely given," she murmured, the spoken fraction of a larger recitation mostly contained within her mind. "A gift for another, made with intent. A part of me to carry with you." It was almost embarrassing to say it. Hearing herself speak so openly brought heat to her cheeks, but it wasn't so bad to shake her from her plan. Not after coming so far. Â
Shutting her eyes, Ilandreline exhaled slowly. Her free hand rested along the cold curves of the pommel. Freely given. Lungs fully empty, she braced herself and pushed.
The blade slid in more easily than she'd expected, quickly piercing through skin and fat and muscle. Farther and farther she guided it until the change in resistance signified she'd reached her goal. Just the barest movement more, pricking the exterior of her still-beating heart. Now the hard part.
Pulling the blade back out was the most excruciating experience of her life. It was a tool of purpose, to pierce through barriers and bring an end. To remove it without having killed was to deny it that fulfillment, and so the blade fought her every fraction of the distance. Blood -- her blood -- flowed over its pyramidal smoothness, slicking everything, trying to undo her efforts and allow the blade to feast on her life. Gritting her teeth, she looped a finger through the hole in the center of the guard, using the extra leverage to force the dagger out of her flesh entirely.
Slamming the bloodied weapon back on the anvil, Ila scrambled to the forge. There she snatched up the last of the prepared tools, a length of featureless iron, brilliantly glowing from the infernal heat. "Fuck, this was a stupid idea." Laughing at herself, she pressed the white-hot implement against the triangular piercing in her breast, allowing her rasping scream to drown out the sound of flesh cauterizing.
She didn't know how much time elapsed between keeping herself from bleeding to death and when she was able to stand again. It didn't matter, not really. The important thing was Loira's gift was finished. Complete, even. Totally worth it⌠but if she loses it I'm gonna kill her.
Chuckling at that, Ilandreline scraped herself together. Time to get out of here before the Covenants' assault wavered and the Jailer's forces had time to look for things like wayward elves with bad ideas. She took another quick look at her handiwork as she vacated the premises. There was no trace of her blood any longer, though she didn't remember wiping it clean, and every now and then the faint ghost light would reflect off a fleck of gleaming darkness. Sand in the blade? No, not sand; the dust of the Black Empire. Absorbed somehow following the sanguine consecration. Curious, but probably not a big deal. She hadn't felt anything strange, and her instincts were usually good about that sort of thing.
"Thanks for the help!" she told the forge's previous user, stepping over its hollow corpse. The spiked helmet that had been something like a head was mangled beyond recognition, as if repeatedly bashed by some kind of heavy blunt object. Ilandreline hefted her oversized wrench, rested it on her shoulder, and set off. Hopefully the blood loss wouldn't slow her down too much. It would be a shame to die before she could actually give Miss Winford her present.
As the frost melts away, and green sprigs of new life begin to break through the icy ground, we welcome in a time of renewal, hope, and change. There's a bony rap of knuckles at your door, and an invitation written with care slid into the mailslot, as Fence Macabre invites all to celebrate their very first Deathday anniversary.
Join us for a night of sharing stories and tales of endings and new beginnings!
Bring some food for the potluck, something your character has a precious memory related to, or just really loves and wants to share. Potluck contributions will be taken in via Google Forms day-of and compiled into an easy-to-access menu when the buffet opens.
Tell a Story!
Have a story following these themes to share? [Submit prior using this form here!] to tell an enraptured audience around a bonfire (ten minutes maximum timed). Please send us your submissions for stories by April 9th, and we hope to see you there!
Enter the Raffle!
Enter at the event for a chance at a fabulous prize such as:
World of Warcraft: Series 6: Goblin Tinker: Gibzz Sparklighter Action Figure
We here at the Fence Macabre couldnât do what we do without you, the role-playing community. And so we aim to celebrate our first year as a part of the RPC and to thank you for your stories, kindness, patronage, and enthusiasm.Â
This Deathday is as much yours as it is ours: an event curated for members of our vibrant community (you!) to share stories of turning over a new leaf, great revelation, or perhaps yes even literal death and rebirth. Bring us your stories of feeling lost, outcast, and abandoned, to becoming new, different, and wonderful to behold!
Event Flyer Art by @hinahinagrayâ
[Join Fence Macabreâs Event Discord by Clicking HERE!]
âCalling all Fence! Where the hell are yâall?!â Nothing but static played over the communicator as Remington fanned the hammer on an incoming squad of six Chosen soldiers coming over the hill. Six shots made six corpses. The earth rumble under her spurs as a gargantuan abomination bigger than a barn charged toward her.
The bruteâs massive frame would have trampled her if she didnât shed her physical form. Fading into a cloud of shadows, she shifted through the abomination and jammed her shortsword into its spine. The construct roared louder than a hundred angry bears. Like a pair of icepicks, she stabbed her way up the abominationâs back and climbed onto its stitched nape. The cold metal barrels of her sawed-off pressed against the back of goliathâs thick skull. Rotting brain matter mixed with gunsmoke as she squeezed the trigger.
âUp there on the corpse!â Rem barely had time to react before the whistle of arrows cut through the putrid air and homed in on her. She scrambled off the abomination. A surge of pain shot up her arm. Her eye fell to the source, a serrated arrow punched through the bicep, shattering the humerus. No time to reload the sawed-off with a dozen pairs of sabatons beating against the ground and converging on Remâs position.
She squeezed the familiar grip of her single-action pistol and swung the cylinder out. It was time to tap into her reserves. Rem jammed her eyes shut and whispered. âAsh. Annihilate. Burn.â As she spoke those haunting words, a malevolent presence answered the call. It spoke alongside her voice like a discordant demon mimicking her.
Each syllable grated the ears like raking claws, the very sound like an anti-thesis to reality itself, an abomination to all that was sound. She let the presence take the wheel. Her eyes flared with shadowflame. The roaring blaze flowed down the neck and surged to all her limbs to engulf her entire body. The pain was nigh-unbearable, but she forced herself through as she trained both eyes on her pistolâs cylinder. She forced down the urge to scream, choking her voice down in the pit of her throat and locking it there.
She wouldâve given in if the will to stay alive wasnât greater. With a restrained growl, she directed the chaotic flame and forced it into her pistol. It was like corraling an angry swarm of wasps jabbing your hand. Each chamber of the pistol flared like a grim furnace. Ghostly smoke wafted out from each as Rem peeked out from behind the abominationâs corpse and squeezed the trigger.
The pistolâs recoil kicked harder than a quad-barreled shotgun. Shadowflame roared out of the barrel and engulfed the dozen enemy soldiers in a gigantic fireball. The only thing remaining was the ash in the wind.
All strength in her limbs withered as she crumpled to the ground. Her palms hissed with still-smoking burns. Despite fighting to keep her eyelids open, they grew heavier by the second.
âSheâs a caster!â the yell echoed in her ringing eardrums as darkness overtook her vision. Exhaustion. Pain. Hunger. All these lost sensations returned at the worst possible time. What was this place?
She awoke to tightened manacles around her wrists and ankles. Shifting even slightly raked the cold metal against the skin. Rem groaned. Her dry mouth and parched throat felt on fire as her vision acclimated to her surroundings, a cramped cell packed with maldraxxi undead. Some were already corpses. Some were pretty close, missing limbs entirely or haphazardly thrown into the room still bleeding.
--
Captured
A pair of red eyes peered across the room and met her purple gaze. âYouâre the newest, huh?â
Rem opened her mouth to find her speech blocked by a metal mask strapped over the lower half of her face. She made out a silhouette in the darkness across from her chains. Two pointed ears poked out of disheveled snow-colored hair. The figure across from her sat criss-crossed, her metal jaw perched onto her pale fist. All Rem could offer in response was a muffled groan to the other prisoner.
âShit. Forgot about the Spellguard. Youâve been muzzled,â she said as those red eyes inspected the metal mask. âThey only do that for dangerous magical inmates. Mustâve given them a real fight.â
Rem stared back at the elvish figure.
âBlink once for yes. Twice for no.â
Her purple eyes flickered once.
âGood,â the figure growled. âEvery casualty of theirs means an easier time breaking out of here.â
Rem pulled against her wristâs manacles. The metal dug into her flesh, jabbing against the bone. She winced and flicked her eyes up to each one in sequence. The runes carved into the restraints hummed.
âNo use. Chains donât come off unless they bring in one of the liches to break the spell.â
Rem tipped her chin toward the figure across from her. The gestureâs meaning managed to get across:Â âWhoâre you?â
âCelaryn,â the figure offered. âJust Celaryn.â Celaryn panned her crimson gaze across the room filled with maldraxxi in varying states of decay. âBeen a while since an Azerothian was down here with us.â
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Setting Prompt:Â A crowded market on a humid night where you keep getting turned around - haven't you passed that stall five times now?
âShall I peer into your fate, lost one?â
Calria slows her steps and looks to her left. A woman both young and old sat beneath the shade of an elaborate, deep blue tent. The stall sat skinny and high, cloth top held by a gnarled tree branch. She sat in a darkwood chair on the right side of a table with her hands rested neatly atop a silk covering. One hand was smooth and pale while the other had curdled with time and shook uncontrollably. The aged fingertips tapped broken fingernails at the edge of the table while she regarded the Sindorei with interest.Â
Deja vu rose in her stomach and alarm throbbed at the forefront of her head. Calria regards the seer cautiously then turns, trying to determine where she was. No...she was not mistaken. This was the third, maybe even the fifth time sheâd passed by this stall. Sheâd been walking a straight line as far as she could tell, searching for the friends sheâd tended to the Festival with. The Knight runs a hand through her hair and knits her brows. She ignores the call and quickly starts down the main stretch of stalls, this time going the opposite direction in hope this would prove more yielding results.
Calria marches onwards, trying to keep her gaze straight. A myriad of different vendors and food stands blurred together as she set course for the exit. The elf tried to steady her mind and focus inwards. Perhaps it was a trick, or sheâd been walking for longer than she intended. Was she truly just tired? Lost? Lanterns dangled from the tops of leafless trees that depicted a multitude of different faces that taunted Calria as she pushed forward. Minutes turn to what feels like hours until the Sindorei spots a familiar face out of the corner of her eye. She turns her gaze away from the main road and rushes for a nearby stall. A hand grips the shoulder of a coppery-haired woman and turns her around.
âMiss Cassandra, we need to leave immediately--â
The human woman knits her brows and glares up at Calria. Brown, short curls wrapped about her rounded face that were pushed up by a large Pandaren plush in one arm. âWhatâs your problem?â She touts in an accented tone. She shoves Calria away then turns back to the stall, free arm wrapping around another. Calria takes a few steps back, several festival-goers brushing past her as the crowd thickens. She whispers apologies and reaches up, rubbing sweat from her face. The humid air felt like a wet, hot blanket that weighed heavily on her body. Her clothes were damp with sweat and her single eye wildly looked from side-to-side in distress.Â
âShall I peer into your fate, lost one?â
Calria inhales sharply and turns on her heel, nearly tripping over herself. The woman was sitting in the same spot under the shadow of her tent. The candle that burned fervently at the center of the table dripped no wax and emitted a soft, yellow light. The Sindorei gives a gentle shake of her head and lumbers forward, sifting through the packed road. She approaches the seer and narrows her eye, words leaving her throat in a tired, exhausted timbre.Â
âRelease this spell, stranger. I have no time for this game you wish to play.â
The woman leans back in her seat and chuckles in a low, raspy manner. The left portion of her face was wrapped in bandages, gray hair tucked over the edges pulled behind her in a messy bun. Despite the aged visage of her one hand, the right side of the seerâs face was porcelain. A calm, serene woman who watched Calria with interest with a singular brown eye. Though seemingly young, her voice was hoarse and quiet.Â
âIt is no magic of mine. And now that I can see you clearly, I believe perhaps you are not even truly lost.â
Calria curls her fingertips into gentle fists and gives a tilt of her head. The woman within the tent moves her hands, one mortal and another timeless, up under her chin. She leans forward in her seat and gestures with her head to the seat across from her. âFate calls you here and there is only one way to appease it,âshe whispers in a gutteral tone. âPlease, have a seat.â
The Sindorei closes her eye briefly and relaxes her posture. She wipes her hand across her face then ducks under the entrance of the tent to step inside. The ache that had been present in her head had moved down to the back of her neck. She felt sore and ill; her memory addled. Calria had forgotten why sheâd come in the first place, but the moment she sat across the seer something felt...right. Calria takes a deep breath then regards the stranger.
âDo as you will, then. If you insist upon peering into my future or my past be done with it so I may leave.â
The woman smiles gently then moves her hands down to the table. Her hands busy themselves with shuffling an ornate, gilded deck of cards while the flame at the center of the table burned bright. Her eye was half-lidded as she turned to address Calria. She places the cards beside the candle, fingertips resting atop the deck.Â
âCursed soul, you know why you are here,â the Seer states firmly. She lifts her hand from the deck and rests them across her lap. âAnd I, know why I am here. It would do me no good to tell you of a past you have lived. To tell you of a future you know is destined to occur.âÂ
Calria leers at the woman. Her look had greatly soured and the ache bubbled in her throat, making it uncomfortable to speak. Sweat glistened across her face as the flame danced in between them. She wipes her hands against her legs then reaches forward, picking a card from the deck at random. Her gold eye looks over the illustration presented before her. She seemed unsurprised at the draw, though her hand shook in frustration. Calria closes her eye as the seer watches her carefully, a muted expression on her face.Â
âYour fate is still unchanged, child. May this serve as a fair reminder, it is the only choice left.â
Calria slowly opens her eye and looks towards the woman. The seerâs beautiful and tarnished palms lay on either side of the candle, an offering to the Sindorei who sat across from her. Calria takes a slow, deep breath then reaches forward with the card in hand. She hovers the card over the candle and touches the flame.
