#guild plot

(Image of Zul'mashar in current Retail WoW) The Eastern Plaguelands were always a place of death anymore. Sure, the Crusaders were doing their best to mop up and rejuvenate the land, but despite these efforts, new ziggurats and new pockets of Scourge kept coming with it all and each offensive only made worse creations come about. This, however, wasn’t about either of them as Dinthoqaf came to wander through the foothills and mountains between the Dark Forest (now known as The Ghostlands) and the Eastweald (Area east of Lordaeron). Nestled back amongst it all in a hidden holler was a forgotten Mossflayer temple. The air around it smelled of stale death as no wind blew through the ever-dying trees. The ground and grass held an audible crunch of near-deathly dryness that protested Dinthoqaf’s more conventional method of approach. This was intentional if nothing else, as these lands were not his but another's and he knew he’d not only been felt on approach but somewhere here, always, was the presence of little buttoned eyes scurrying and watching in silence as hundreds of Voodoo Dolls wander and wobble their way place to place. They were his eyes and hands, much like The Nameless was Dinthoqaf’s. The Temple steps rose before him, allowing access into the boughs of its depths if one knew where to find it, knew where to look, or rather, how to find passage through its doorways. Within the air was staler, not quite rank but stagnant to the point one with any tastebuds could taste it simply by breathing it in through their nose. It was not a scent that merely disappeared because you wished it would.

(Image of The Sunken Temple in Retail WoW)

The inclined hall leading down into the earth was one lined with old troll architecture that dated back centuries, perhaps even millennia judging by the way that even down here, grooves had been left along the floor as naked soles passed across them. Stone once yelled now turned a brackish green from moss and age and dust began to accumulate in the corners so thick one couldn't tell if it was dust or dirt anymore. Despite this aging, it did not stop small wandering eyes from watching from forgotten little holes, vented wall gaps, and all manners of little alcoves that burlap or cottoned bodies could only fit within. It reminded him quite a bit of his years in meeting Nezzok, in meeting The Eventide Emperor too, a time that led to his wife and eventually a split that created the foundations of The Sanctum. In a sense, these halls were as near a walk down memory lane as he would be afforded.

(Image of The Sunken Temple in Retail WoW)

Down further and further, even here, the air began to grow humid and thick as the earth surrounding it insulated and well as protected. Bodies were kept preserved where possible, and some Dinthoqaf recognized, parts and specimens meant to be used for replacement parts for Nezzok should his undead vessel become overly damaged. A museum of sorts, but this is not where he needed to be nor was it a place he had a desire to gawk. Not because it made him uncomfortable or due to some issue with the process at all, but primarily because it held no actual interest for him as of current. No, what was needed was further within. Through twisting halls and corridors, rooms filled with working dolls, half-mummified bodies, and others being disposed of save for their hair being collected to be used later, Dinthoqaf walked. "Took ya long 'nough Bruddah. Wha'cha da, get stuck holdin' dah Weavah's shoppin' bags 'gain?" Nezzok now squat over the edge of a now dry 'pool' that once was used for some form of ritual baptism or something of the like. Maybe it had been blood, water, or something else entirely to commune with spirits or loa of some forgotten sort, but now, it housed two very specific things. Even in his given posture, the Troll was enormous and hulked over Dinthoqaf as he came to stand beside him. Nezzok's arms, the four of them, worked as the lower set knitted together hair from a pile nearby into what would later become fine cloths. Another arm perched on a knee at the elbow as the fourth worked on a Cigar that would come off as laughably large in the hands of The Defiler. Dinthoqaf would not answer this, knowing that The Collector and The Weaver would have tried to kill one another ages ago if it hadn't been for his position between the two of them. As much as they squabbled, they did not dare break that covenant and risk his ire. "And here I thought you were going to complain about me taking the scenic route here instead of doing something fancy to let myself in." He retorted, a little smirk coming about his face as he looked down into the pit. There against the wall, now that living flesh was here, were two Scourged Ghouls that belonged to the body of an elven woman and another an elven child. Their bodies were half-eaten with rot and the other half charred. Someone had tried to dispatch them and clearly failed.

(Image from Pride, Prejudice, & Zombies)

We’ve had a busy week over here in the FBC and we’re playing a bit of catch up for you in this post today! First off, we wanna welcome a new person into our ranks! Dead Dave! They’re an amazingly talented Tailor and Enchanter who’s joining our ranks as an Acquisitions Expert who specializes in acquiring much needed goods for his fellow Forsaken and Undeaders! ( I’d give his link, but I’m missing it at the moment, I’ll update this once I have it cause I know there is one! D: )

On top of that, we had a team consisting of Security Personnel (Darla, Axl, & Zokkine) and their Director (Zimble), delve into Scholomance to go after a magical power source that some renegade Cult of the Damned individuals ran off with! Once they got inside, they discovered that all of the Cultists were MIA but the labyrinth had been filled with worse horrors. Our team had been knocked out by security measures, only to discover the place full of hundreds upon hundreds of copies of themselves. Some of them quite convincing and others so far off they were near unrecognizable. No matter what though, something was off with each and every one of them to an eerie degree. ( Automatonophobia intended to be felt when looking at them.) These horrors didn’t move at first, at least not when looked at and in short order, the Security team found themselves hearing their own voices coming from their copies or slight grazes and brushes of hands touching their own or somewhere on their body as they tried to get through the sea of copies. Later and deeper in the labyrinth, they discovered that these bodies were being put together similar to mannequins and with numerous skin suits and hair pieces harvested from... gold knows where, in an effort to create more and more convincing copies of our team.

One hand strayed upward and ran through his silvery white hair, only to then come back around and strike downward against his face. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he gathered himself and eased his way off of the bed top. His first order of business, dress himself. He donned nothing more than a loose fitting shirt, black trousers, and his black knee high boots. Just as quietly as he left the bed, he slipped from the room and moved soundlessly through the dimly lit halls of their holy refuge. In the distance he heard the sounds that he had expected growing louder with each step forward. The hushed whispers of men, women, and children alike faintly echoed throughout the open chamber of their main hall. The sight that he saw upon his arrival was not one that he had wanted to see, but one that was necessary. Guardsmen and their families all huddled in their respective groups as hooded men went from sect to sect and offered them bread and water. Aerick’s features grew grim, and soon enough twisted with anger.

Out of the ten or so men that tended the newly homeless, one strode over to the Lord and shoved his hood back. Short black hair, a handsome face, with ocean blue eyes looked to Aerick. A man perhaps in his mid twenties. “Seton.” Said the Inquisitor as he approached, “M’lord,” Began the armorclad man, “All outposts and villages of ours have been cleared. Any that remain are of our Sanguine Eyes, who lingered to search for any outliers.” Aerick nodded in response and shifted his gaze to the people, “See to it that they are fed, kept warm, and have a place to rest their heads tonight. We will fill them in as we can tomorrow, and should we need it, we will clear out more of this place to make room. None are to be left behind.” As he finished, his silvered, hawklike stare refocused itself upon Seton, “Yes, M’lord. As you say.” And with the bow of his head, the Eye moved off to rejoin his brothers-in-arms. Aerick was left alone as he studied over the scared, confused, and exhausted people of his Order. At that moment, he vowed to make this right. By whatever means necessary.

He was exhausted. Pure and utterly exhausted. 

“Harriett... please write to Venreena. I ...” he leaned forward suddenly and retched his entire stomach yet again into another bucket while Lorraine gasped, shooting up from where she sat beside him and rushed off to get some more water and fresh towels. 

When he was finished, he flopped back onto the bed, sweat soaking his brow and beading along his pallid skin. “I won’t be sailing anytime soon...” he panted, catching his breath while his lungs remained on fire from gulping in the air around him. 

For two days he’d been ill. A few days prior to that he’d begun to feel odd, as if he were about to catch some sort of bug. And now? He’d seem to caught whatever bug it was and it was wreaking havoc on his health.

“Oh, of course, my lord! Of course. Here, drink this first. You must stay hydrated...” she chided gently as she brought over another glass of water with a bit of lemon squeeze in it as soon as Lorraine left the room. The woman sat beside him to help him drink it easily but he choked and sputtered, eventually getting some of it down his throat, grimacing lightly. “Yes, I imagine retching leaves an awful taste in your mouth,” she said quietly. 

“Eugh,” he groaned, wiping his mouth with his forearm and curling back beneath the covers with a harsh shiver. “Thank you, Harriett,” he said in an exhausted mumble before fatigue began pulling him once more into a restless sleep.

Harriett stroked his brow with soft fingers, frowning at Jacob’s still form. “Of course,” she whispered, barely audible. “Of course...” She looked at the glass of water before moving to stand from where she sat along his bed and strode toward the ensuite. There.. she’d dump the remaining water down the drain.

Investigation notes, Drustvar: Addressed to No’Vindere Amberbark

With The Blind King lost at sea, you had repeatedly assured me that the crew must still be alive. If it had been anyone else, I would have not believed them- but you are never wrong.

Investigation had led us to Drustvar where Dylan, had washed up, mysteriously unscathed. There was something eerie about the land in and of itself, but it was when a fog had nearly taken myself and Kurel. Following after an entranced Dylan we came upon a being, who seemed impossibly tall. Almost elven in her appearance, she seemed to be a part of the water itself- which she fled back to when confronted. We were left with her thrall--or charge, a witch who barely got a spell off before Kurel blew her brains out. Shame, too-- we could have kept her for questioning. 

I do not know the source of what deafens our communication seals, but there were several items found in a house near where Dylan was found. Raylen has a locked case I’m interested in-- and I found a journal which I’m going to sift through. I’ll write more when I’ve had a chance to visit the other side-- something about that thing felt familiar.

Stay safe, No’Vindere

Eilithe Duskbringer

Sealing the envelope, Eilithe pressed the rising sun seal into the back before she passed it off to a courier who was bound for Zuldrazar. With a slow sip off her drink, she shifted her eyes to the barkeep. “You lot have a private bathhouse?” 

It definitely wasn’t her bath at home, which could comfortably seat her and Kurel- and maybe even a third. But it was good enough. She climbed in one leg after the other and slowly sank into the steaming water. Ideally she would have suspended herself in water, yet in this bathtub she felt the embrace of the brass sides. Eilithe sank all the way down so that only her lips and nose stuck out from the water’s surface.

And then she stopped. Perfectly still, not even the rise and fall of her chest. Drip....Drip..Drip.Drip. Her lips sank beneath the still waters.

When she opened her eyes the gray-scale domain of her mistress was blurry. The soft glow of the souls who awaited the Gate-- or perhaps something else entirely drifted in clusters to no where across the glassy black water that stretched endlessly. It was only Eilithe’s presence that seemed to disrupt them.

A wandering and shapeless soul drifted like a light gray ball of light towards Eilithe’s astral form- a trail of light left behind it. It was not until it was just ahead of Eilithe that it took the shape of a human girl, barely eighteen. “You’re here,” she said in an echo. 

Eilithe straightened in her physical body- though the projection of her merely swayed. “Where is the Lady?” 

She shifted looking here and there, “It’s not safe anymore. She’s forgotten us.” 

“Try to focus your form- your thoughts are erratic.”

“We have to hide now. When the creatures come-- The Harbinger has abandoned us. He came. He made her leave.”

“Who is he?” Eilithe asked with far more patience than she ever showed the living.

“He... Will you stay here? Will you protect us now?” 

A distant growl came from just out of sight- just beyond the horizon of the the endless lake. The girl’s spirit exploded into smoke zipping away to hiding with the others- like thousands of lights shooting to the shadows. 

Eilithe snarled back at the beasts, “Begone, these are not your dinner. Know your place, beast.” 

The creatures she kept, and the ones that were kept at bay here were of the same ilk. Souls so depraved in life that they had far decayed into monsters. Powerful when harnessed- yet here, they could--without The Harbinger’s presence to drive them back, bring havoc. 

The creature, dark bodied with white pinholes for eyes sat- like a human mimicking a dog. “Our place is shifting, elf.” And he waited. And he waited. Until he knew she could hold their no longer.

Taking a breath, Eilithe sat up in the bath and smeared her hand down her face- like it had been a bad dream. With wet hands she reached for a cigarette and sparked her lighter before she sat back against the back of the tub. 

“It’s never just one thing going to shit, is it?” She asked- to nobody but herself and the cool air of the room. 

The sounds of war filled the air. Commanders shouted orders to their units, soldiers marched in formation, and ballistae, trebuchets and catapults alike sung a blood hymn. The siege had taken days.. weeks.. months? How long had they been here? How long had the Forsaken bled them for? It was supposed to have been a quick, lightning blitz as Azurelode and Southpoint had been.. but no. The Forsaken had walled themselves off, and they had been prepared for the Halcyon's advance.

There he lay, thoughts of the day running rampant through his head. Venreena and the others, and then the bickering with Natharen.

As if the thought of his kidnapped wife and cousins was not enough. 

The nerve of his family drove him even closer to the brink of self-destruction, closer than he had ever been. He felt betrayed, stabbed in the back. They were cold, harsh, and disrespectful. Despite the fact that Cedrick proved a point, Natharen refused to acknowledge what he had done was wrong, and instead created more excuses to cover it up. 

“The nerve of some people, darling.” Cedrick begins, his hand to his mouth, the matching ring he had given Venreena in place. It would look as if he was speaking into it, “Can you believe he would not even admit his wrong doings? And instead of acknowledging it, he used the poor girl as an excuse for his nonsense?” The nobleman scoffs, “Outrageous...--” He pauses, emeralds lowering to the ring he had been speaking into. 

It’s twin rested in his palm.

Cedrick’s fist tightens around the ring, his eyes close, and his lower lip slowly begins to quiver. Carefully he sits up on the bed and hunches over, elbows resting atop the corresponding knee, free hand pressing against his forehead.

It would not take long for the man to begin to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” He chokes, “I’m so sorry.”