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Many people react negatively to the fact that there is no other name than that of Jesus to call on for salvation. Yet this is not something the church decided; it is the specific teaching of Jesus himself. He has no equal.
I saw @praxisandfuturity yesterday and I truly am in awe of their bookslanginâ prowess.
đ Desire - What relationship did they have that they knew was a bad idea?
âBack when I performed more than I doctored, the attention of wealthy patrons was what kept me in nice performance outfits and hearty food. There was one man... Dark-haired human, crisp features, cold eyes. He would show up occasionally in the front row of performances where Iâd been on the playbill when it was posted.
âEventually, he made it clear that he was interested in some private shows and I found him strangely enticing. It was never a relationship in the emotional sense. Iâm not sure he had emotions. I knew it wasnât going to end well. I didnât think it would end with me running to Silvermoon because that was the only place he couldnât reach me.â
Bertram K. Thorberly, Esq.
First encountered in the late summer of 2012, this Gilnean nobleman stole the very essence of undeath from Colonels Eredis and Valdiis, leaving them to believe for a few weeks that they were living commanders of an undead unit. It took a great deal of investigation, some broken feet (excuse me, paws), a few gruesome murders, and an exceptionally dangerous mission to confront powerful undead commanders who had forgotten they were undead and thusly forgot to feed their addictions â but the essences were eventually returned to their proper places.
However, Thorberly became irate at the Knights' interference with his work and set out to destroy them. The Knights went on the offensive and hunted him down as he gathered his power, but he managed to stay at least one step ahead of their investigations until he was cornered trying to use the restored Sunwell to summon a man'ari commander. The Knights thwarted this plan and Thorberly was last seen falling into a portal into the Twisting Nether.
See: the Without Equal arc.
(As an aside, we'd originally intended for this to be a three part arc which took the Knights through each of the raid challenges between Classic and Wrath through plotted storyline, including a large D20 event with an undead gronn and exploration into the nature of insanity and what made a villain tick. However, circumstances forced us to end the arc after Act One and the remaining Acts may or may not be revisited in private, small group RP.)

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Without Equal: In Passing
Written by Valdiis.
The massive stone gates which once protected Blackrock Mountain stood open. Then again, they'd been standing open for many long years now, broken by the orcish invasion. Sitting with their backs against the shattered stone edifice, two Dark Iron dwarves paid no mind to the open gates.
âOy, pass that here, y' hoardin' bastard,â groused one, his waist-length black beard smoldering at the ends from the slow-burning fuses he kept tied into it. Somewhere, Rufus Sootfoot had heard that it was an old pirate's trick, and he fancied himself kin to pirates despite having never seen the sea â or indeed even a boat.
âHog,â shot back his companion as he passed the flask of ale over anyway. Fearon Blackmaul shook a few drops of ale off the tips of his heavily-waxed mustache. âLeave me 'alf a draught, aye?â
Rufus's response was a loud belch. Both dwarves laughed heartily, their mirth ringing hollowly against the fragmented stone. Before them rolled the foothills which dropped suddenly down the gorge from which the area got its name. The gorge gave the darkened horizon a familiar reddish glow, echoed by the pool of lava some several hundred feet down the hill from the gates. The red glow painted Rufus and Fearon in warm, dark colors as they exchanged their treasured flask back and forth, slowly building quite a comfortable drunkenness between them.
The flask was nigh empty when Rufus heard a leathery flapping sound â flap, flap, SHIK! It kept a rhythm with a long pause after each SHIK sound. In fact, it sounded a lot like...
âDRAGON!â Fearon shouted, scrambling to his feet and hauling Rufus with him by the upper arm as he dove for cover behind the shattered stone door. Some magical feat of juggling which would've marked his ancestors as carnies instead of pirates had Rufus managing to not spill the ale as he was dragged behind the door. From habit long borne of finding themselves dinner to the unwilling denizens of Blackwing Lair, the two suddenly-sober dwarves watched from behind the safety of stone as the danger passed overhead.
Crimson light painted a florid glow along the reptilian underbelly of the massive winged lizard as it flapped twice before extending its wings out in a long glide. Amber scales blended seamlessly into light-eating ebony as the winged horror slid into the inky night with nothing more than flap, flap, SHIK! to mark its passage.
Without Equal: A Step From Exile
Written by Eredis Orill.
Ebon Watch, ZulâDrak â Northrend Northrend is understandably (in areas without direct Titanic intervention) a cold place. Jagged peaks and windblown glaciers batter the crystallized trees while frozen herbs sparkle in the dim sunlight made blinding by the refraction due to snow. Habitability is in the eye of the beholder in the North, where areas on the periphery of the icebound Citadel graciously allow the âsouthernâ races to explore crude settlements. The North was meant for creatures too fat, too magical, or too dead to care about the bitter cold. This was why it was a colony for criminals or those who wished to escape their past. The proximity of the Scourge â and the Ebon Blade who chose to man the ramparts and stand the Long Vigil â ensured that anyone wishing to forget that past would more than likely have it come back to haunt them. Few ventured to visit the Ebon Blade because of those uncomfortable notions; to the living, after all, a Death Knight was simply an agent of the Scourge who was waiting for the right moment to strike. It was a notion that the exiled former Brigadier of the 1113th was not readily keen to dispel at the moment. Eredis Orill stalked (âpatrolled,â he called it) the perimeter of the Ebon Watch for what seemed to be the six-hundredth time. The Ebon Blade camp in ZulâDrak was a shadow of its debatable glory during the height of the Kingsfall Campaign. The small camp had only continued to contract, keeping a baleful eye on the remnants of Scourge and Trolls in the area. Argent Crusade, Horde, and Alliance forces all had taken a severe toll on the hostiles in the area, and anything they had not put to the sword had been crushed underneath a size five-hundred boot belonging to a particularly irate Storm Giant. The result was a squad of Knights who were cycled in and out on a weekly basis to find a target to sate the urge they all shared â all, it seemed, save one who had fallen to the bane of all military units to ever exist: misfiled paperwork. Every Knight there knew this was a dangerous game that Central played with Eredis; the officer had been on every major and minor battlefield that Northrend presented during the height of the campaign. If there was a foe to be slaughtered, information to be gleaned, or tasks to be undertaken, Eredis had been there and done it. Now, years after Arthas had been deposed and the living had long since returned home to kill each other in more receptive climes, Eredis was reduced to walking the perimeter of a post nobody cared about, scanning the skies for a messenger he knew would never come. Nobody approached the Ebon Watch unless they were already dead or running from something. It was a desolation post, nothing more and nothing less. Such certainty in the remoteness of the outpost provided surprise for everyone involved when the clattering of a gyrocopter, punctuated by the odd concussive blast of a bomb exploding, grew over the bitter wind that only served to further irritate angry Knights, chief among them Major Eredis Orill. âEbon Blade!â the Knight roared, âPositions!â Each Death Knight of the Watch scurried to their designated positions. Each was selected to ensure that no Knight would endanger another from wayward ordnance while the positions themselves forced airborne foes to take a Hobsonâs Choice of exposing themselves to strike or forgoing a probable kill altogether. The Ebon Bladeâs own airborne assets could have handled any threat provided the Watch had any â they had sent them away entirely as to provide entertainment during the long stands in the middle of nowhere. Verdein, the Netherdrake who worked with Eredis despite his handicaps, would âair dropâ the occasional Ghoul while on a bombing vector. If the Knights could disarm the Ghoul while Verdein still held it or before it hit the ground, it was considered a victory for the Knights stationed there. They could always sew the arms back on afterwards, anyway. The clatter of the gyrocopter grew louder. The assembled Knights tensed, waiting for the vehicle to be picked out of the sky. Bluer-than-blue eyes scanned the horizon, waiting for the machine to crest the jagged hilltops that protected the post from wind. Each could hear the whine of the rotors and the flutter of the turbines as the craft fought for altitude. One of the Ebon Blade group began to snicker as it grew louder. âThe pilot has unwanted guests!â he called to the others. âPrepare!â The gyrocopter crested the hills with a cough in the engine as smoke began to billow from the craft. Two Trolls hung from the vehicleâs skids as the Human pilot swore in an undeniably Gilnean cant, tossing a short-fused Cobalt Icebreaker over the side in an attempt to dislodge one. Each Troll worked furiously to try and pull themselves up on the skids to get a hold of the pilot, only to be rebuffed by a grenade blast or a smack on the head with a battered mace. The crack of the blast washed over the assembled Knights, and the mood began to change in the camp. No longer despondent, the squad stilled behind their cover and waited for the perfect moment to free the gyrocopter pilot of his heavy passenger load. They did not have long to wait. Losing altitude, the pilot of the gyrocopter threw both hands on the stick and cut power to the bare minimum. The vehicle dropped out of the sky, both Trolls nearly losing their grip on the skids. The motley arrangement was on a direct collision course for the Watch post. It was also close enough for the Knights to pluck the Trolls off the craft with timed Death Grips as the âcopter roared in. The whine reached a fever pitch as the pilot attempted to soften the landing as the vehicle plowed into the snowy ground. Eredis was the only one to stride out from cover towards the dazed pilot and the damaged craft. The cries of surprise, then pain, then terror from the Trolls suggested that the Ebon Blade had matters well under control. - âBadger,â Eredis said to the Gilnean huddled before a bonfire made specifically for the only living person in leagues, âBy Kilâjaedenâs purple teat. What are you doing here?â âWellâŠLookinâ for you,â replied the petulant, plate-clad layabout, holding his hands out to the fire. â âAd a bit of a discovery I figured youâd want a look at.â Both the warrior and the Major remained within the Ebon Watch perimeter. The circumstances of Badgerâs arrival afforded them some privacy, though not out of the kindness of the Ebon Bladeâs heart cavities. The faint cries of agony from a pair of Trolls could be heard on the bitter wind blowing through the camp. Badger had paid one of the finest bribes one could give to a Death Knight: a living Troll with full regenerative capability was the gift that kept on giving. In thanks for the serendipitous circumstance, the Knights had retrieved enough wood to have a crackling bonfire available for their guest, and Eredis had enough preserves in store to make a rudimentary meal. âWhy didnât you go through the Broker?â Eredis asked. âThatâs why sheâs there, to package the information and get it to me and my people. Nobody in their right mind comes out here willingly.â âIâŠfigured it was real important,â replied Badger, hunching over the fire. He avoided looking at the Death Knight, instead sniffing around the cookpot that the aforementioned had set up close enough to the bonfire to get bubbling. âThem beans almost ready?â he asked. âCouldnât âave an in flight meal, if you catch my meaninâ.â Eredis opened his mouth to admonish the Gilnean again, but something in the manâs tone made him consider his words carefully. âBadger,â Eredis said slowly, âYouâŠhavenât even met the Broker yet, have you?â Badger snarled at Eredis, his white teeth looking all the world like they were about to elongate into fangs â with a snout to carry them. âDonât âpreciate your tone,â he spat. âI ainât takinâ orders from no-â He broke off, looking at the Death Knight. It was a reaction the scoundrel had never seen before, not in all of his days of working with the dead, not in all of his jobs. Eredis was laughing. No, the Death Knight was doubled over, decaying lungs heaving in breaths as fast as they could muster. If he was capable of crying, Eredis may well have had tears rolling down his cheeks. One could even hear his Bloodworms chittering as if they shared an emotional link with their host. âFrom what?â Eredis asked, his face screwed up in a rictus of expansive hilarity, âGo on. Tell us! What is the Alpha pouting about?â That did earn a snarl from Norm as the warrior jumped up to face the dead man. Dark hair flowed into dark fur as the man grew, the beast within coming to the forefront. Leather straps creaked and stretched with long-suffering familiarity as the plates adjusted to their wearerâs new bulk and height. Well-engineered boots found their soles rotating upward against the shin protector plates, locking into place as leg âwarmersâ as clawed feet pushed them out of the way. Spittle flew from the elongated jaw as the Worgen advanced on the Death Knight, the creatureâs voice dropping to a feral growl as it advanced. Eredis barely noticed, still guffawing at the situation as the beast advanced on him. The Knight felt his center of gravity shift as he overbalanced from a shove by the furious Gilnean, and before he knew it he was doubled up on his side, still laughing. Badger aimed a kick at the Knightâs midsection, yelping as it connected with Saronite plating covered in a sheet of frost. He earned another round of laughs from the dead man. Furious, the warrior started to rant. âFrom a woman!â he shouted. âThere, I said it, aright? I ent never takin' orders from no woman, even if I am still in charge on paper!â Badger shoved a slip of paper at the fallen Knight, continuing to rage. âI brought âis thing all the way from that damnedable Guard job I âafta keep, shoutin âur unner arrestâ at every skip, roscoe ân bint who wonât give me a sip of the dayâs soup, makinâ nice with folk who woulda thrown me in the clink if they knew who I was, anâ this is what I âafta deal with? That I âad to roam around a charnel âouse like I was that daft investigator with âis glasses, lookinâ all the world like âe belongs in a butcher sho-â Eredis had stopped laughing. Instead, he was looking at the paper. âWhere did you say you found this?â he asked. His tone was the chill of severity that Boyd Macnormelton, of the Tempest Macnormeltons, known by his codename of The Badger, knew well. The Knight had already started to get to his feet, somehow utilizing not hands nor arms, nor possibly even legs. It was as if the hand of Providence (the Naaru have a plan for everyone, Badger had heard a hefty Draenei say once) had picked the dead man up and placed him gently on his feet. Said corpse did not look pleased, but instead, driven. âGoldshire,â Badger replied, subdued. âIt was, er, one of them scenes you were payinâ to find out about. One of them mowed us operatics.â âModus Operandi,â the Knight replied. âHow old is this?â âMaybe two days,â Norm responded. âCame as soon as I could filch the paper, figured it was important. Are those beans-â âGood,â replied Eredis, looking at the paper again. âGo meet with the Broker. Immediately. Tell her we have a rush job to get started on, and that sheâll have Knights coming to support as soon as possible.â Badger whined, looking at the pot. âButbutbut-food!â he yelped. He could smell the delicate blend of bold and savory aromas wafting from the pot. Salted pork, hearty beans, peppers, onions, some sort of tangy sauce- The Knight looked up again, placing the torn book page into a bag. âLet her know to watch Blackrock Mountain for Gilnean carriages. Our quarry may well be heading to Nefarianâs lair.â âNow?!â âNow. You can eat when youâre dead.â âKeep treatinâ me like this anâ I will be!â âGet moving, Badger.â
Without Equal: The Little People
Written by Valdiis.
âIt's a shame,â Corporal Vickers murmured under his breath to the man standing to his left, âthat we only get rain when someone dies.â
âWe get rain at other times,â Lieutenant Graeme responded, not taking his gaze off the somber priest in sodden golden robes as the priest beseeched the Light to embrace the immortal soul of Trainee Anton Sinder.
âI swear, it only rains when we have a funeral.â
âAt least it's not a double.â
Corporal Vickers shifted uncomfortably in his squishing boots. âStill haven't found Crased yet?â
Lieutenant Graeme grunted a negative response.
âGnolls are probably using her bones for building blocks.â
âShut up and pay your respects, Vickers.â
-
The entire mood of Hearthglen was somber â when it wasn't in an uproar over the recent attack by some darkened shadow entity. One of the special operations units, the Brotherhood of the Dawn, had turned it back but there had been heavy losses. A rumor was out that their leader was dead, on his death bed, still commanding as a ghost, and a fourth rumor that he'd had a twin brother who died in his stead and he was fine. Wounded filled the infirmaries, and dead awaited tending in the morgue. Tents were set up all over the grounds near Mardenholde, housing displaced and less-severely wounded.
The disappearance of Trainee Crased and the gruesome death of Trainee Sinder was written up as a prelude to the incursion by the shadow. Entire squads had disappeared because of the shadow. The Brotherhood cleaned it up; the case was pretty well open and shut. -
â...And stay out!â A six-day-stale loaf of bread came spilling out of the inn door along with the warm orange light from the lanterns. With unerring aim, it hit the worgen right on top of his head, but through some miracle of leathern construction, the loaf never mussed the floppy hat.
âBloody crazy,â the worgen muttered as he kicked aside the fallen loaf and ambled out into the night. His coin purse was about forty gold lighter for the experience, but the extra coin seemed to do the trick. Goody Groves â the keeper of the inn at Hearthglen â had agreed for that extra sum to keep her bloody mouth shut about the business with the armoire several weeks back and stop blaming the Knights for a mess they not only didn't make, but they actually came in and cleaned up for her.
Perhaps now he could focus on important matters â like how he was going to fix the mess Brenson had made with that thief who was supposed to bring the Knights intelligence, or how he was going to get access to the armoire in cold storage without six different requisition orders signed in triplicate for that git of a new 'General.' Better yet, maybe a few unsavory potions and mixes could end up in Yulenia's hands.
Plotting, the Major ambled off into the summer night.
- â'Ey, Schmidt!â A mass of steel and blue paint covered by a blue and gold lion tabard clattered into a wooden chair across from Norm as he sat at his usual table near the door of the Pig and Whistle, waiting for a good, solid drunk to appear. If he could have just gotten one more whiskey down before chubby Jaxon had to get chatty...
Norm lifted a steel-covered arm in greeting and plastered his best 'Really, I like you' smile on his face. âJaxon! Off duty already?â
âDon't tell Commander Higgs, but I scarpered.â
Norm â or 'John Jacob Engelheimer Schmidt' as his guard badge stated â leaned back in the wooden chair and watched Jaxon blandly until the chubby man cracked and began explaining.
âSo, see, King's men out in Elwynn on patrol last night brought another one to the morgue.â
âHappens all the time,â Norm dismissed with an airy wave of his hand and a heavy draw on his whiskey glass.
âNot like this it don't,â Jaxon grumbled, pausing to wave a barmaid over for a drink. âI'm off duty, Jessica,â he assured her, pulling his Stormwind Guard tabard off over his head.
âNo you ain't,â Norm hissed so she wouldn't hear.
Jaxon shook his head. âAfter what I just seen, I am now. That just ain't right, doin' that to a body. They had to bring it in with several sacks. That ol' butcher Kemp doesn't even know what type of person it is yet, only that it's red-blooded and 'probably' human.â
âAn' bein' so stout of stomach you are, you scarped off post at the morgue for a drink,â Norm drawled.
âYou'd do the same. Kemp's gone all mad scientist tryin' to put all the pieces back together. I couldn't watch it anymore.â
âChicken.â
âIt ain't right, Schmidt! King's men kept talkin' about the scene too. Said it smelled like burnt ass â like somebody lit fire to some of the bits.â
âMaybe one o' them freaks down in the 'shire got hungry. Had a barbecue.â
âSCHMIDT!â Jaxon turned pea soup green and knocked his chair over in his haste to run outside and fertilize the bushes in front of the Pig's door.
Satisfied to have regained his drinking space, Norm slumped back in his seat and finished his whiskey.