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1

The Campfire / A Proper Farewell

« on: April 21, 2020, 11:52:36 AM »

A Proper Farewell

"You and I, Ironclaw. We are not so different after all."

The words echoed in his mind as he placed down the last piece of the shrine. A finely carved statue, no bigger than the Orc's forearm but still immensely detailed and reaching its hand out as if seeking a gift. His eyes wandered across the shrine, nodding a little at the question from the she-Orc on his left, he sat himself down and accepted the finely crafted ritual knife. His heart pounding in his chest and his mind plagued by pure nervosity, he hesitated. He did not want to call on his friend in a way deemed unnecessary by the old one, but with a deep breath he took the hilt of the knife in to his mouth, running his uncovered palm along the palm and squeezing his blood in to the ritual bowl of herbs and spices and taking in the comforting scent of the contents, watching as the Orc on his left did the same. As their blood mixed, the bowl began smoking and chanting came from the one on the left.

"We will never be held by chains again, my friend. We will have our glorious deaths, our halls and hunting grounds."

The golden halls of Odyn had been a big topic of conversation between the two. He'd never heard of anything quite like it, but now he was almost afraid of them. This would be his farewell, he would never see the old man again. This rugged and brotherly old man. He let the scent of smoke and herbs hit his nostrils... Until screams, piercing shrieks of the damned echoed from the bowl, the smoke climbing in to his face smelling foul and deceitful. It was the smell of death and sorrow, yet not like he was used to. It wasn't the smell of the battlefield and glorious death as he'd expected, but of pure dread. His eyes widened as he reached his claws out, enveloped by the thick black smoke before finally, darkness consumed the two Orcs on the mountaintop. He clenched his eyes shut, not giving in to fear but neither being able to throw it off completely as he was thrown to a realm, so unlike his.

They were no golden halls, no. It was a terrifying place to be sure, thick mist covering the ground and the very hands of the dead grasping for the two Orcs, pleading to be allowed to drag their transparent forms down, never to let them leave. Never to let them feel anything but suffering... Yet they trudged on, guided by the black shape of a flapping raven who took them to where they needed to be, the mist even thicker here. A single glimmering eye peered at the two, before what could only be described as a mangled carcass groaned and creaked as it slowly crawled toward the two.

"Axeron, my friend? Is that you? Who are you?"

And so it shambled, held back by a chained noose quickly shattered by the Rrosh-tul who then glanced at the she-Orc on his left, who was swinging her staff in a wide arc to give the soul an anchor. This must be it, he thought as he reached his transparent hand to the shambling corpse. He was confused... This was nothing like he'd expected, but there was no time for fear nor sorrow. He pulled the lost soul up on the shore, refusing to step in to the fouled waters himself whilst the other Orc was performing her ritual, her staff still acting as an anchor to not let the now confusedly rambling soul fall back in to the waters.

And so they tried to figure him out; what was keeping him here, and why. And answers they got, the two Shaman struck by visions of many things pertaining to Axeron, the only one to be remembered being the poor Human's death... Cut down by men he would call sons, cold steel to his throat hindering him from the death he wanted. The death Ironclaw had promised him. The Orc felt what can only be considered dreadful guilt, stumbling back a little at the vision. And so the jailors of his soul showed themselves, great hounds of literal hell not keen on letting the two spiritwalking Orcs bring back what they'd come for. Yet wolves do not concern themselves with what dogs believe or want, and so the two Orcs battled with tooth and literal claw under the vague guise of Vrull, the Son of Strife not holding much power other than observation in a place like this. Yet as many times before, his gaze was invigorating. Fury bubbled up as the hounds were defeated, turned to ash or mangled by claws of iron, and so there was only one step... The she-Orc spoke with a grim nod.

"We must retrieve his soul, Nosh'marak. We must -be- Sharguul."

Approaching a chain-bound burial mound of skulls and bones, the Rrosh-tul nodded and brought his claws down upon the chains, every blow of the now-glowing steel weakening the chain before completely shattering it, giving a glimpse of a shimmering light inside the mound. And so he reached in, his hand barely reaching. He pushed himself further in, the hands of the damned grabbing at his spirit-y form until he finally caught a golden, shining hand and felt the world shift once again. Nausea filled him and he closed his eyes, not opening them again until the night sky of the Barrens once more threw its glorious glimmer against his closed eyelids. He stood up, offering a bloodied hand to help the weakened she-Orc up, the two of them having spilled ludicrous amounts of blood in to the now overflowing bowl. The mangled soul from before stepped forward from the slowly fading smoke, falling to his knees and weeping. They were the most genuine tears this world had seen, the pure thankfulness of them enough to shatter even the coldest of hearts. He spoke after settling a little, looking up at the two Orcs.

"Words can not explain my love for you... Thank you, my brother. I knew fate would bring us together once again."

"Will you be free, now? Will you finally get to feast in your golden halls, the ones you told me about? With ale and food aplenty, and songs to fill your head for all eternity?"

"I will... As soon as I've spoken to Edari. I must tell her that I'm free, and then I can pass on. No matter what happens, know that my gaze will be upon you. Thank you."

"Edari... The one from Tirisfal, yes?"

The spirit nodded a little, his mangled form still present but ever so slightly more bright now. As if a light was shining inside him.

"Yes, that's her. Thank you, again. Remember that I will watch over you and yours until the day comes for you to meet Vrull, and finally wander his hunting ground. Until we meet again."

"Remember what we said... Our promise to never be bound by chains again, forever to be free to our own destiny. That promise is fulfilled."

A single tear rolled down Ironclaw's cheek as he nodded, even offering a small smile, rare as they may be. He reached out as if to touch the spirit, before withdrawing his hand and realizing there would be no final handshake. Words would have to do.

"Farewell, brother. Until our paths cross again."

And so the two Orcs were left at the top of the mountain, the smoke dissipating once more and leaving them in silence with no more scent of death, and no more shrieks of damned spirits. It was done, and the burden had been lifted. Finally, he'd fulfilled his promise to the friend. It had been an odd friendship, but more genuine than any before. Kindred spirits perhaps. No matter. It was done, the human was free to go to his brothers and sisters in his long-anticipated golden halls, and the shrine would be left at that mountaintop for ages to come. He would not be forgotten.

2

The Campfire / From Scarfist to Ironclaw

« on: March 30, 2020, 11:47:52 AM »

Chapter 1: Tanaan

Water... So much water. Why was he surrounded by it? He was confused, no wisdom or insight offered by what was usually burrowed in to the back of his mind. He begun retracing his steps... He had ran down the side of what he'd appropriately dubbed "The Bleeding Hollow Mountain", lept across one of the chasms radiating their foul green fire at the bottom, and then-... A pained grunt interrupted him. He was drowning, water sweeping between his lips and down his throat to fill his lungs. Was he dying? He'd been close to it many times before, yet somehow this time felt so much more intimate. Like a giant snake the water squeezed around the Orc, whom in return kicked and paddled awkwardly. Only after the earth itself sent out a twisted and gnarled helping hand in the form of a tree root did he emerge to the surface, spluttering and swearing. He looked around, catching his bearings with his long black hair now sticking with wetness to his pale gray skin, his body glistening in the ever so faint evening light. Once he had completely emerged from the water, it was clear that this hulking Orc was  an extreme specimen, even by the standards of his own clan. Once one had looked away from his roughed up and bone-pierced face, the things that caught most's eyes were the quite literally thousands of scars littering a hugely muscular and bulky body. Some of the scars had been repurposed, their soft outer layer proving to be a perfect spot for thin, sharp, and long bone piercings that were present at least once on each section of his body. Five on each shoulder, two on his forehead, three on the forearms...

Hunt it. You can smell it. It wants to kill you, snap it's neck. Hunt the hunter, break it's bones. You know where it is.

He snarled, a sound only comparable to that of a deranged hyena escaping his lips as he begun stalking through the thick foliage. He crawled through tight clutches of vines, swung across open chasms that burned with bright green hellfire, and lept across corrupted rivers. He wanted this kill. No, rather; He needed this kill. He bounced slightly, pulling his hood down over his head, snickering in that deranged voice from before. He could see his prey, two Orcs of fel. He peered at them. It was hard to tell what clan they were, the spikey portrusions and grey-black skin with dashes of glowing green making it hard to tell. Bleeding Hollow? Probably. Those would be at Bleeding Hollow Mountain, wouldn't they? Else why did he call it that? He thought hard, his mind scrambled, pieces and fragments of it floating freely within his own head.

Hunt it. Kill it, prove your worth. Kill the weak ones, string them to the trees, leave your mark. Blood and glory, blood and glory. Let it be so.

He practically cackled at this, leaping out from his perch in the trees to instead slide down a thick, curved tree trunk to the soft and muddy soil below. The skulls and bones on his belt rattled satisfyingly, somehow not alerting the two corrupted Orcs. Scarfist prowled, silent for an Orc of his size. His leather-wrapped feet provided a quiet experience of squelching through the moist ground, thankfully also covered up by the sounds of faraway battle in the Jungle. Those other-worldly ones had come here, now. They too wanted to kill the demons, string them up in the trees, flay their skin from their bones... He shook his head. Can't get carried away. He was mere strides away from the two Orcs now, the savages twitchy and enraged as they patrolled, hunting the one that had got away.

They wouldn't have let you live, either. Kill them. Tear them apart.

His bone ornaments rattled again, one of the corrupted turning around, only to be met with a sharp bladefist to the skull. Falling like a sack of Nagrand grain, gurgling emitted from the fel Orc as he was turned in to nothing but a paralyzed bunch of fel. Toy with them. The Shattered Hand cackled again, shaking his head as if watching a silly display by the humorous ritualists at Kosh'harg. The other Fel Orc, two to three strides away swung around with a loud snarl, being met with a sharp stinging sensation to his ridged and sculpted belly. Scarfist giggled to himself again, his belt carrying one less of the poison-drenched throwing knives. It wouldn't paralyze these Orcs, he knew that; The demon blood was too strong for such luxuries, but he could at least slow it down enough to toy with it a little. Being lightly armoured, the Orc quickly slipped back to where he came from, leaping up the curved tree trunk once again, before stalking across the treetops as the corrupted Orc below lumbered, moving slower than usual, casting glances around itself.

The spikes. You want one of those. Snap it off.

He nodded eagerly to himself, leaping from his hiding spot and down another few tree branches, before taking a large step out to eventually land on the Fel Orc's shoulders with his feet. With a soft, almost methodical snicker he grabbed ahold of one of the many spikes portruding from the Orc's back. Not being able to hold his footing for obvious reasons, Scarfist stumbled forward, and with him he brought the spike, the snap of mutated bone followed by a roar of pain echoing through the jungle. Enough toying. Blood and glory. He wouldn't disobey the voice, this primal instinct that had chosen to speak to him, and thus he swung around, meeting the corrupted one head-on, who had also turned. A single blow of the Orc's mallet connected with Scarfist's side, who felt the satisfying snap of his ribs. Letting out a pained groan, he lept on top of the fel Orc and begun stabbing. Not with his own bladefist, no. But rather with his now prized trophy, the spike snapped from the corrupted Orc's back. Green-hued blood spurted across the ground, the Fel Orc's hammer useless in what had now become a wrestling match with a hint of stabbing.

No more stabbing. Finish it.

He nodded eagerly, sending his knee up to connect with the groin of the fel Orc. One of his many lessons in life had been to fight dirty; it would guarantee your victory and is far more entertaining to watch than two Orcs trading honourable blows for several hours on end. The fel Orc stumbled back with a roar, and so Scarfist's opening was clear. With a leap and a firm shove, the broken spike was stuffed in to the corrupted one's mouth, and a firm blow connecting with the jaw quickly affirmed the beast's death, the skull and brain pierced by mutated bone. After a moment of silence, the Shattered Hand recovered his prize from the jaws of the Orc, stuffing the spike inside his belt.

The fel Orc hunting duo was not discovered for many hours, only their weapons and blood remaining on the ground where they had fell. That is until the search party looked up, finding the two green-blooded ones strung upside down from the treetops, their skin hanging loose from their bodies that were now swaying gently in the wind.

3

The Campfire / A sharp mind disturbed

« on: July 27, 2019, 09:33:27 PM »

Drip... Drip... Drip...

The water droplets fell one by one from the rocky ceiling, listening in on the otherwise unheard rhythm, and then falling. They fell a few feet, soaring through the cool air before making impact with rough green skin before slowly rolling off to fall another few feet, splashing against the pool of water below. An Orc stood atop a pole in the middle of said pool, balancing himself on one leg and keeping his head turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed. It was daytime outside, he could feel that much: he had learned to count the droplet's intervals overnight, keeping track of time and space despite his closed eyes and focused mind. To an outsider, he might very well have been a statue; his only movements being his chest lifting with each breath. The cave surrounding him was wide, only lit up by a ray of light from the entrance. The ray found its way through cracks in stone, soon settling on painting his upper chest with a vague yellow-ish tint. There was a tattoo, illuminated by the light: two black wolves, each leaping out to the sides from the center of his chest.

His ears heard everything around him. The creatures crawling in the rubble, the frogs perfectly swimming through the cool waters below, and the faint sounds of wood against wood outside the cave. The spar outside must have taken at least as long as his meditation, yet the Orc did not dwell on such things. His mind was as clear as the water below him; devoid of emotions and troubles, thoughts swimming aimlessly. Suddenly, a voice called out. And so the balance was shattered, and the heavy Orc found himself swaying on the spot before quickly realizing what was happening, and slipping down in to the cold waters below. He let out a grunt as he pushed himself up on to the edge of the pool, his eyes scanning his surroundings for the source of the clear yet oddly distant voice, not finding it no matter how much he looked. With a sigh, he grabbed his travel pack and wandered out of the cave, in to the bright light of the shining outdoors. The Jade Forest was spectatular this time of the year, the vegetation in full bloom. He smiled to himself, wringing the twin braids on his chin out and letting his bare skin glisten in the sun. He looked over toward the monastery grounds, blue eyes searching for the two other monks who had been sparring for the past day and some, yet his eyes did not find them. In fact, his eyes did not find anyone: the monastery grounds, usually swimming with activity, were empty. Not even the birds that usually chirped their happy and serene song were perched atop the lanterns and posts, the Orc's calm smile soon turning to a worried frown. He pulled his vestments on, covering up his tattooed chest, and hauled his travel pack over his shoulder before lumbering over to the gates.

It was a strange sight, not seeing young aspirants sparring in the courtyard or testing their skills on the various dummies around. Not only was it strange, but it was haunting, sending chills down the Orc's spine. Was he afraid? No, of course he was not; he was known for being courageous and strong. Was he worried? Most definitely. Something about this deviation from the usual had him worried, yet curious. With bare feet he walked to check every crevice and hallway of the monastery, even those that had been said to not be in use anymore. Yet despite his endless searching, there was not a single soul. He sighed, making his way to the training grounds once more to clear his now troubled mind. Monks should not simply disappear like this - It's not something you would consider to be natural. A rustle in the foliage caught him by surprise, perking his ears and freezing on the spot. He did not have his spear, but he was potent enough with his fists to tackle most foes that would be thrown at him. But then again, so were the other more experienced monks. He was strong, but by far not the strongest - how could he hope to defeat anything that had taken so many monks while leaving so few tracks?

A soft growling made him once more stop in his tracks and take a deep breath. He was courageous, but he was seldom first to strike. Soft steps behind him made him twirl around, ready to strike at whatever was coming for him, the Orc's heart now beating hard enough to feel as if it were shattering his ribcage. Yet there was nothing. No great beast, no monstrosity to gnaw on his bones, and no adversary to fight. All there was was a small print on the cobblestone, small enough to make the Orc have to kneel down to get a good look. He reached out a rugged and calloused hand, moving to touch the strange sign. He was not sure what it was; it reminded him of an eye, yet not as refined and soft-contoured as the Dalaran one. His hand halted just as it was about to touch the mark before he took to reaching out once more, even slower this time, to softly lay his hand over it. With his touch, the emblem crumbled, as did the ground underneath him, plunging him down to the dark below...

With a grunt, Rharok rose from the icy cold waters of the pool in the cave. In front of him was a familiar face: the face of his master and close friend. The auburn-furred pandaren reached out a friendly hand, one which Rharok gladly took, pulling himself up out of the water. His master gave him a firm pat on the back, the fur soaking up a few droplets of water still glistening on his skin. His next words were short yet sweet, containing a modicum of pride.

"Well, my friend. You seem to have finally found your path."

As the sun set over the plateaus in the forest, Rharok set out with naught but his leather attire and trusted spear, his feet carrying him toward the horizon. A new path had been laid before him; one that his brothers and sisters from the monastery could not guide him on. It was his path to walk, and only time would tell if he had to walk it alone, or if he would find new friends and allies to walk it with.

4

The Campfire / Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw

« on: August 12, 2018, 01:02:47 AM »

Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw

Silence.. Naught but an eerie breeze blowing past the hundreds of Horde and Alliance soldiers, illuminated by the light of a great fire across the waters. The fires of a great tree, once a symbol of life, set alight by those too foolish to understand. By those so blinded by hate and dishonour, that they do not even realize what keeps them alive. Silence broken by a scream of terror, one drowned out and replaced by a mind returning to the present, the words of a great spirit echoing in said mind...

"YOU CALL FOR ME TO WITNESS YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. AND SO I HAVE WITNESSED YOU, WITNESSED YOUR DEEDS AND YOUR TRIBUTES. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT HENCEFORTH ON THE BATTLEFIELD, YOU WILL RENDER MY JUDGMENT UPON THOSE WHO STAND AGAINST US. YOU WILL JUDGE THEM IN MY NAME, AND THEN PERHAPS, YOU YOURSELF WILL PROVE WORTHY TO STAND BESIDE ME AS MY CHAMPION. I WILL BE WATCHING YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. WILL YOU RISE ABOVE WHERE MANY HAVE FALLEN AND TAKE YOUR PLACE BESIDE ME, OR WILL YOU FALL LIKE COUNTLESS HAVE BEFORE YOU?"

... A similar silence to the night of the burning lay heavy over the ranks of twitchy and war-craving savages; warriors with no regard for mercy, only for honour and the spilling of blood standing on the fields of Silverpine. Some shivered with nervosity, others hungrily licked their warpainted lips and their chipped tusks. For a moment, the loss and disgrace of the worldtree seemed gone, like dust on the wind. All that mattered was victory, as the grunts, archers, spellcasters, wolfriders, and others, stood lined up. Far to the right in their lines, past the endless ranks of mixed races, stood fearless wolves, topped by fearless Orc riders, lead by ambition and honour. Three stood at the front. Leader figures, perhaps. One was a rugged old wolf, Mag'har and pure. Tall as two humans stacked atop eachother, and even wiser. One was a battle-worn and scarred, yet young, grey wolf with cunning in his eyes and lust for battle in his blood, donning iron claws. The one who was in front of both however, was somewhat of both. A wise, cunning, and experienced wolf, one who had proven his worth a hundred times before and lead his pack to victory countless times. The Wolf of the Iron Claw sat proudly atop his trusted companion, a bone clad, hulking worg; young yet experienced, much like his rider. Behind the Wolf of the Iron Claw, sat many more alike him. The Iron Warriors of the Red Blade clan, the Nag'Ogar aspiring to stand among the Bloodriders of their kin, with excitement and battle lust amongst their ranks. The silence was broken by the leader, the Wolfking, who looked back at his trusted advisor, the battle-worn and cunning Rrosh-tul, the Wolf of the Iron Claw. He uttered a few simple, yet powerful words.

"Your Nag'Ogar stand ready, Rrosh-tul?"

The Rrosh-tul gave a short nod, one that was followed by the rhythmic beating of heavy war drums in the back of the Horde lines; starting off slow, it soon built up to a menacing song of war, the drums endlessly echoing over the field of battle for what seemed like an eternity. The Rrosh-tul raised his gaze toward the Gilnean town of Pyrewood, grinning to himself and licking his broken right tusk. As the drum beat sounded as if it were to reach its climax, a powerful shout was carried by the wind, from the lips of the Troll commander, and ending up at every soldier's ear.

"SONS AND DAUGHTA'S O' DA 'ORDE! CHARGE!"

A glorious wave of warcries emitted from the Horde lines as they charged; both shouts of "Lok'tar Ogar", and other shouts, in a long-forgotten Red Blade dialect of Orcish, signalling the start of the battle and the charge, the mass of Horde warriors swarming toward the Alliance defensive lines. The Wolf of the Iron Claw and his Iron Warriors however, stayed back for but a moment. When the Horde had started to cover ground, the Rrosh-tul howled out a call for blood. They circled wide, all the way around to the left flank, clashing with it and utterly dominating any that stood in their way. Cries for blood and glory drowned out pleas for mercy as the Nag'ogar fiercly cut down those who dared oppose them. The Wolf of the Iron Claw fought in an impressive display beside his worg, the beast and rider taking down one soldier after another. Not long after, they had breached the flank and the Alliance were on the run. The Iron Warriors savoured their victory for a moment, taking in every single whiff of blood they could, like the wolves they were. They were wolves, and they were wolves that had once more had a taste for blood in the hunt. Wasting no time, they once more swung atop their mounts, maws and claws bloodied by the fools who dared to encroach on their lands. They rode, spreading nothing short of terror on all sides of the Alliance. The humans and their allies were nothing but prey, ready to be chased down and have their blood spilled upon the cobblestones of the abandoned town. For many hours they rode, bringing death and destruction to those who yet stood in Pyrewood. Victory was theirs, and they loved every second of it.

Two days later, at the Sepulcher. The Horde has fallen back, and are preparing a counteroffensive against the Alliance, to deal a blow behind their front lines. The Nag'Ogar wolfriders once more stand ready to perform their duty.

Sounds of battle raged not far away, the wind carrying it along with smells of iron and death to the Orc's nostrils. It was a good day. Torches were strapped to their saddles, doused in oil and ready to be lit any moment. Pyrewood stood in the distance, empty and abandoned, yet still a beacon for the Alliance. A beacon of hope; hope that had to be crushed. With a snarl the Wolf of the Iron Claw commanded his riders, leading them. The Horde had pushed the Alliance back a fair bit, allowing safe passage for the wolfriders. Their wolves paws rhythmically beated against the cold soil beneath them. Tonight they needed no songs of war, no drums to raise their spirits. All they needed was the sensation of crushing the Alliance's hope; for hope has no place on a battlefield. Hope exists only in the minds of children, and those who are too weak to trust in true strength. Their wolves covered ground faster than many others would have, and their paws bore them to the flank of Pyrewood. They waited and scouted, growing more and more ferocious for every moment that passed. They were beasts, waiting to be unleashed.

And they were. In a flash of elemental fire, their torches were set alight, and their wolves carried them in to the town square. It was clearly abandoned, evacuated months if not years ago, the wood dry and chipped from neglect. As swiftly as they had entered, the Iron Warriors begun flinging their torches at the buildings, dousing every standing house in flames. They howled, savouring how they burned this beacon of hope. They finally got to the end of the town and halted, sniffing the air. There was a smell of fear on the wind, and the Wolf of the Iron Claw turned to his right, spotting two cowering figures. Humans, looking just old enough to fight. His gaze met theirs, and a sinister grin crept over his face. One turned pale, pale enough to believe he was dead, and fell to the ground, fainting. The other tried to run, as fast as his feet would carry him..  But Wolf's paws will always be faster than Human's feet, and he was stopped dead in his tracks, a bewildered look on his face. He was so intent on surviving, that not even the magi could keep him stuck as a sheep for more than a second. The Rrosh-tul snickered and slid off his worg, the beast hungrily eyeing the human, who fell to his knees, ready to die. The Wolf of the Iron Claw circled him, like a predator with his prey. The human whimpered for mercy, and the Rrosh-tul finally approached. He firmly grabbed the fragile being by his collar, hoisting him up and dragging him a few meters to the edge of a small hill. For once, the wolf spoke. He hoisted the human up, forcing him to watch Pyrewood, this beacon of hope, burn.

"You... Witness, our deeds. Witness what we do to your... Fragile hope. Remember, when the rest of your cities fall and your kin lie dead, the Wolf of the Iron Claw."

The frail human was tossed to the ground, left to watch hope turn to ash before him. Left by Wolves that showed no interest in such fragile prey, Wolves that now rode off to hunt prey more important than such miserable cowards who would run from battle. The smoke pillars rose to the night skies, proof of their deeds, carrying the smell of burnt wood and lost hope all the way to the front lines, the sinister wind taunting the Alliance soldiers, letting them know of their failure...

5

Game Related / Guidelines for Newblood Training

« on: August 09, 2018, 11:46:39 AM »

Greetings everyone!

Based on regular members (Gosh'kar and Nag'ogar) being able to tutor New Bloods on their path to swearing their oath, we officers decided it's time to give some proper guidelines on how Newblood training should be done, as it can be harmful to the overall community in the Clan if Newblood training is all over the place and not done properly. Keep in mind that the do's and don'ts in this post are extremely important, and should not be strayed from. Adding flavour to your tasks is alright - Changing the core principles is not!

Newblood training is a process in which an Orc who has sworn their oath tutors a New Blood Orc in the ways of the Red Blade Clan, including our culture, our code of honour, and how our Orcs act and think. This is normally a process that takes around a month, but times can vary from a few weeks to even a few months. When doing these Newblood Trainings, it's important to keep a few things in mind.

What to do when training a New Blood:

• Teach them about the Code of Honour/Code of Akashok. The Code is one of our most fundamental pieces of culture, and dictates how Orcs should act and treat the world around them; and thus is extremely important for the New Blood to learn and understand.
• Teach them about the Paths in the Red Blade Clan. One of the most important parts of the Clan is the structure within it, and considering a New Blood will eventually be confronted with the prospect of choosing one of the two paths, it is extremely important to learn about them both; hierarchy and values alike.
• First and foremost encourage player interaction. Not only are the tasks there to teach New Bloods about culture and Red Blade life, but also to have them fit in. It's highly important that the New Blood gets to interact with other Orcs during each and every one of their tasks, in order to know and trust who they surround themselves with.

What not to do when training a New Blood:

• Give marks for unrelated tasks. Marks are only to be given for completing tasks, and for extraordinary feats of strength that are directly connected with the wellbeing of the Clan and its members. If you send your New Blood to gather ten bear butts in Ashenvale and give them a mark for it, you're doing it wrong!
• Repeat any tasks. This one goes without saying; it's not quite productive to hand out the same tasks over and over again to New Bloods. As a tutor, you're expected to put in at least a fair bit of effort in to making the New Blood's journey the best it can be. Try to add some flavour to the tasks, based on the Orc you're handing them out to; it'll ultimately help them feel more welcome!
• Give tasks not based around player interaction. As said previously, Newblood Training is all about making the New Blood feel like they know who and what they surround themselves with, and that they fit in to the clan. If an Orc is simply sent to say, knit their tutor a scarf or conduct a ritual to ancestors of the Clan all alone, they won't actually know who they're doing this all for.

Examples of tasks that can be given:

• Listen to and/or tell an X amount of stories from others or yourself.
• Speak to an X amount of Orcs from each path and learn about their path, and why they chose it.
• Aid an Orc of higher standing with X amount of tasks or lectures.

That is the basic jist of Newblood Training! It's quite important not to skip out on any of these, because as said, if Orcs are simply rushed through training and do not get to know the Clan properly, it'll end up hurting the community in the long run.

Now go out there and train some New Bloods, all of you Nag'ogar and Gosh'kar!

[Spoiler:]

6

Notice Board / Campaign: The Race for Azerite (RP-PvP)

« on: January 29, 2018, 09:37:18 AM »

A note has been pinned to the board, marked with a red blade stamp.

Rrosh-tul Ironclaw wants YOU!
for the Silithus mineral effort

Any and all able bodied clansorcs are expected to prepare for a campaign in the lands of Silithus - A campaign that might turn in to a war effort. The sword that has pierced our world now stands in those lands, to be seen from as far away as Thunder Bluff; a foul effigy of corruption.

In the wake of this event, a new material as been uncovered near the site - One which some of you will have been to some extent familiarized with through the escorting of a caravan. Not much is known about this material, other than the fact it holds great power.

In extracting it from the earth, many Goblin workers have been killed by the Alliance. Therefore, we are to depart to Silithus at eight and a half horns tonight, to answer the call of the Horde and to ultimately, discover more about this material and the implications it might have on our world's balance.

Akashok guide.

Signed,
Rrosh-tul Nosh'marak Ironclaw

OOC:

Spoiler: show

Taken from the Race for Azerite forum thread:
Now that patch 7.3.5 and all the updates that come with it is upon us ( Wednesday the 17th ) it is time to make good on the interest check I put up a few months ago! The nature of this campaign is meant to function as a sandbox framework to get people to come together to roleplay in the first of many events, both lore and player-created, that lead to Battle for Azeroth! Be aware that this is primary a military effort in context - though adventurers, doomsayers and opportunists are all more than welcome!

This community initiative will take place from the 29th of January to, hopefully, the 5th of February.

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Campaign Mechanics:
Azerite is the name of the game. This is the main objective of the military operation for both sides. Both RP-PvP and RP-PvE will be able to contribute to the amount of Azerite your faction has. In the case of RP-PvP you will be expected to organise your encounters for yourself and report to the presiding commander of your faction through a thread post. Some missions will be posted for DM groups later down the line but you are encouraged to create your own events!

Rules of Engagement:
Gaining Azerite will be done by task-forces sent out to nodes. This is a highly dangerous task and should only be done with the knowledge that risk of death is possible. To keep any one faction from staying on top, any taskforce sent out to retrieve Azerite does so in the knowledge that they may be intercepted while harvesting, or while transporting, the material. Azerite may also be pillaged from the enemy's base camp if a sizable enough force manages to overcome the defenders! You will not be able to conquer and hold any territory indefinitely. Only your encampment is permanent.
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7

The Campfire / Snowblind

« on: December 11, 2017, 10:47:32 PM »

Snowblind

Crunch, crunch, crunch. The mountaintop snow gave way under the plated boots; retreating in to a compact mass tight to the all-year frozen ground.
Steam escaped the half-burnt, grey lips of the Orc as he exhaled, pulling his cloak ever tighter to himself. To the right of his, another set of footprints, or rather pawprints, trailed. The rugged, black wolf quietly padded through the snow, less bothered than his companion next to him. The Orc was far from used to this enviroment, having lived out the majority of his life in either humid slave pits or in the sunny landscapes of Draenor. He moved through the snow with fair difficulty, using a walking stick to support him as he trailed over the uneven and frozen ground beneath him; spirits know what would happen if he were to fall and cause an avalanche. The thought of dying of suffocation on a cold mountain was not one he welcomed with open arms. His mind finally drifted towards memories of easier times, of his life with his Tribe. He found himself looking down at his rune-inscribed claws, shaking his head with a sigh.

"What am I without them? Where does my path lead?", he wondered. Of course, he knew the answer. He had to study, and to follow in the footprints that had delicately been put before him by not only the spirits, but also his fellow tribesorcs. His mind had been opened after the spirits showed themselves to him; he had taken in knowledge like never before and amounted countless of days on end dedicated to studying the forces he now praised so dearly. He shaked his head again, not letting his mind wander far off. Even if these parts were without danger from wildlife or stray outlaws, the cold and the snow would definitely take its toll if he wandered without care. The blizzard was not willing to die down, swirling the snow around him and limiting his vision. Ice crystals had formed in his beard and on his wolf mask, nearly making him look more dead than alive - after all, a grey Orc with half a mangled face and a frozen beard would look more dead than most.

With a sigh, he came to a stop, gazing out over what he imagined to be wide landscapes on a clear day. He looked up at the stars, barely able to see them through the swirling storm. The wolf at his side followed his eyes, licking its maw. They were lost. All because of this damned blizzard, and because he couldn't focus on the task at hand... The Orc prepared to move onwards, moving a few feet before the ground let out a loud crack, and the ice cliff collapsed underneath him - bringing him with it down to the unknown lands below.

To be continued.
 

8

Red Blade Records / Nosh'marak Ironclaw

« on: August 29, 2016, 06:12:23 PM »

Name: Nosh'marak Ironclaw
Alias: Nosh
Rank: Rrosh-tul

Age: Early thirties
Gender: Male
Race: Orc
Clan: Shattered Hand
Class: Gladiator/Battle Shaman
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Family: Ak'hazar (Father, deceased)
              Hazikash (Mother, deceased)
              Sakinra Rageheart (Blood-sister by oath)
Known Friends: Srelok Grimtide, Kogra Windwatcher, Skywise Sisters, Magra Emberheart, Kozgugore Feraleye
Known Enemies: Enemies of the Horde and the Clan.

Appearance:
Definitely a scarred and intimidating figure, Nosh'marak stands at about the average height of an orc. His muscular and grey-skinned body makes it clear he's seen many battles, both in the field and the arena. The scar that stands out the most though, is a massive burn scar over the left side of his face, giving him a very ugly face, even by Orcish standards. His right tusk has been broken, definitely a trophy of hand-to-hand combat back in Highmaul. His red eyes, whilst usually intimidating and sometimes even judging, have a strong hint of experience and understanding that only someone truly forged by battle can have.

The most prominent feature of his anatomy is the lack of a right hand; something that can be seen on many, if not all of his clan members. It was originally a sign of breaking free from the Ogre's slavery, but has now been found as a Shattered Hand tradition, done not only by those who have freed themselves, but also by those who wanted to distinguish their heritage from others. The stump is usually covered up though, a set of iron claws attached to it.

His left shoulder dons a tattoo, usually hidden away by his mail armor. The tattoo is of the Red Hand, also known as the Shattered Hand clan's emblem. If one were to look closer at the scars that litter his body, they would see it's not all from battle. Much of it is from piercings and self-inflicted wounds, something that makes it clear Nosh'marak was a Shattered Hand through and through on Draenor. Though some of these scars are seen even when he's in armor, most of them are covered up by a finely crafted, red mail and fur armor, made to allow maximum flexibility in combat whilst also offering protection. It has been painted in the colors of the Red Blade Tribe.

Personality:
Intimidating and often a serious figure, Nosh'marak is truely a master of banter on the inside. Be careful though, he knows how to hold a grudge!

History:
Coming soon

Things you may know about this character:

• Nosh'marak when drunk is incredibly cheerful, quite the opposite to when sober.
• Nosh'marak is half-deaf on one ear, caused in Northrend when a Goblin fired his boomstick right next to him during the Horde Expedition.
• Nosh'marak used to rip out the bones of his enemies and use them as piercings.

Things you may not know about this character:

• Back on Draenor, Nosh'marak didn't defect alone from the Iron Horde. He has several allies who left with him, but he was split up from them and is still searching for them to this day.
• Nosh'marak actually had a brother, who died in labour. He too was a product of rape in the slave pits.

Memorable Quotes:
"Red Blades! Vrull smiles upon us this day, may his gaze allow our blades to strike true, and to ensure we stand victorious over these mutts! Dogs obey and whimper, wolves carve their own path with a roar! Rrosh'ka Valokh! For the Blood!"
"Sort yourself out or I will; and you won't have to face the veil of death sooner than any fortune could ever tell you."

9

The Campfire / Journey

« on: July 19, 2016, 02:17:26 PM »

The vast red lands of Durotar were buzzing with activity, for once. Scorpions hunted their prey, boars foraged for food in the sparse shrubbery. Nosh'marak had set out from Razor Hill not long ago, riding forth to reach The Barrens. He grunted as some of the red dust stuck to his grey, sweat-covered skin. He'd said this journey was simply to get closer to the spirits, but that was only partially the truth. He needed a break. A break from everything; the past few days had simply been drama coated drama, with drama filling. He felt relieved going on this trip, though. The moment his worg had been saddled and ready, all the worries had washed away. He snorted, riding onwards.

He'd secured passage through Ashenvale and in to Stonetalon, which had been a pain. Elves were more stuck-up than ever, for some reason. He'd been through the forest very quickly, not wanting to waste any time; especially not in knife-ear territory. He was reminded of all the memories he had in the forests with the tribe; fighting demons, going on spirit quests, Irontusks riling up elves and putting them on the brink of war... Good times, he thought. He reached the pass in to Stonetalon, gazing over the lands. This was truly a land ravaged by machinery and elements alike; the perfect place for him to try and get closer with them. He wanted to hunt something, perhaps a wolf to make a wolfmask. He'd always admired wolfmasks for their way of striking fear in to the enemy, but also for how they could make any buckethead like himself look wise and intelligent. He chuckled to himself at the thought. Nosh'marak the Wise Shaman.

He'd set up camp on a cliff, looking over the vast war-torn land. He unrolled his furs, stretching out. He laid his head on the fur pillow with a thump, instantly falling asleep.


The sun had been blocked out, the mountains had cracked, the streams overflown, the grass withered. All that remained was foul green fire, a stench burning the nostrils of the strongest warriors and making them turn away. A great black shadow swept across the broken land, eating up all in its path. Not even the pure force of elements could stand against it, it was a veil of death, covering all. Thousands of whispers slithered around Nosh'marak, lifting him up. The mountains filled their cracks, the streams flowed calmly, the sun rose once more. The same voices from his first vision sounded once more.

"Perhaps he -is- the right one." said one voice.

"He has shown great respect since our first visit." said another.

Nosh'marak was frozen in place, a new voice entering his mind.

"Great trials lay before you, both for body and spirit. Maybe you will come out worthy."

With those words, a gust of wind blew past him, sending him back in to his own world.

10

The Campfire / A whisper in the wind

« on: June 14, 2016, 05:21:41 PM »

Soft winds blew in the evening air, cooling those who found themselves too warm. It was a beautiful and calm day, not even the everlasting flames of giant statues from ancient times daring to disturb the peace. Animals found refuge in the shade, basking in the heat from the ever so warm sun. The lands were in snooze, idly waiting for nothing. A lone orc was sweatily scaling the cliffside up to one of the giant statues.

Nosh'marak grabbed ahold of the next rock, slowly hauling himself up the mountain. The sun warmed up his bare arms, sending waves of warmth through his entire body. He was far above the ground now, animals and other creatures being small as simple ants. He looked up, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself up even further; the statue coming closer and closer. He'd been careful not to lose the pouch hanging by his belt. If he did, this journey would all have been for nothing. He found himself thinking; What if the spirits did not like his offerings? Rhonya and Srelok and warned him that if you lost the favor of the spirits, you might never regain it. He shook his head, grunting.

Nothing can stop me now.

He'd spoke with some locals in Ramkahen, asked them if they knew of any place to make offerings to the spirits. They had laughed, telling him he might as well climb a mountain in the desert. Little did they know; Nosh takes things literally. It wasn't just because he had spoke with the locals, though. Something was calling him to this mountain. Was it because the winds blew in this direction, or was it something else? He did not know. He almost felt as if the winds whispered to him, encouraging him to carry on. He shook his head once more, his own thoughts sounding ridiculous.

His hand touched the platform above, instantly filling him with pleasure. He'd made it, and with only one hand! Impressive, he was sure. He was immediately overwhelmed with the view. He saw all of Uldum. From the Lost City, all the way to the entrance of Uldum. He even thought he saw a glimpse of great structures, floating in the distance. He stood right next to one of the statues, admiring its strange beauty. He moved forward, placing himself between the two front legs of the statue on his knees. He opened his pouch, taking out incense sticks and a holder made from wood. He lit the incense sticks, letting the smoke spread with the wind. He thought he could feel the winds approving, a cool breeze blowing on to him.

11

The Campfire / Come stranger, have a sip of destiny.

« on: June 03, 2016, 08:42:36 PM »

Come, little Orc. What have you to lose, hm?

Nosh'marak stepped further in to the cave, waving his makeshift torch around. Cold stone walls decorated with various feathers and bones closed him in, leading him in only one direction. Forward.

I wonder, why did you refuse?

He shook his head, grunting at the echoing voice. Nothing would stop him, not when he had just escaped. He'd just lost his hook, now simply armed with the blade covering up his stumped hand.

My little birds have whispered, told me of your prowess in the arena... I wonder if it was worth it?

Nosh would not let himself be swayed as he strode on, the light from his torch creeping over the stone walls; getting thinner and thinner.

"I see... Light..."

He stepped out of the stone corridor, paying witness to a great sight. Generations upon generations work had formed this cave, that much he knew. Trees once green had gone black, bushes once flourishing turned to ash. Amidst all this dead wildlife, right in the middle, was a pool.

Welcome to my sanctum, Dear Nosh'marak.

The few strims of light from the surface gathered at one place, all touching an Orc. It was a beautiful woman, with long, purple hair. Clad in stunning black fur-lined robes and a thick leather hood, she made for an impressive figure. The woman waved her hand around, looking in to Nosh's eyes.

My, my. Aren't you a rough one.

"Why have you lead me here, exiled witch of the Bleeding Hollow? Do you not know death when you stare right at it?!"

The woman laughed, licking her lips.

Oh dear, I think you've misunderstood. It's you, who is staring at death.

She laughed once more, crouching down and sweeping a bowl through the green pool.

Come now stranger, have a sip of destiny.

12

Off Topic / Overwatch Game Nights

« on: May 09, 2016, 10:14:04 PM »

With the Overwatch beta coming to an end, I was thinking we could have some Overwatch game nights!
Just drop your Skype and Bnet in this thread and I'll think of some days that would fit for everyone.

Edit: We'll obviously start when the game is released! :p

13

The Campfire / Strain

« on: April 20, 2016, 10:28:06 PM »

The grassy plains of Nagrand were as beautiful as ever in the sunset, the beasts of the hunt basking in the glorious heat. Alasak pulled himself up, his chin just barely reaching above the wooden bar.

Ninety nine...

He wheezed as he repeated the procedure, every muscle in his body straining and flexing. The veins on his now athletic body were popping out, clearly under heavy pressure. His chin was rising again, almost over the wooden bar. Suddenly, the bar cracked and creaked. It snapped in half, dropping Alasak to the ground as an Ogre would do with his pet rock. As he laid there wheezing, he thought. He had not gone back with the tribe. But why? Was he even still part of it? He was not sure anymore. He'd promised he would train, he'd promised he'd become useful. He did not stand up, but remained on the ground. He thought back at the Orcs, running a hand through his mohawk. He thought of Vraxxar, his tutor. How was he? Was he actually still his tutor?

He has to be. I never died or got exiled, so I should still be part of the tribe, right?

He thought back at the Orc with the hammer; Makaroth. He'd not forgotten the day Makaroth threatened him. He would return stronger, and he'd show Makaroth what he really went for. He stood up and took a deep breath of the evening air, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

Time to find these Orcs.

14

The Campfire / Darkness

« on: November 05, 2015, 05:12:18 PM »

"Master Gladiator...."

The voices laughed, a chill running down Nosh'marak's spine as he opened his eyes.

"You... Are nothing. But we... Can make you great again..."

Nosh'marak thrashed, the shadowy bonds around his wrists tightening. He let his gaze shift around, before finally settling on his right hand. There was no bladefist or stump, but rather his hand. He twitched at the sight, continuing his hopeless struggle.

"Pain is part of your power... Or is it?"

The tendrils reached out, digging deep in to the gray and burnt skin of Nosh'marak. He continued his struggle to no avail and the voices laughed once more, the tendrils pulling back. Nosh'marak raised his head, snarling at the five silhouttes now visible. The voices turned to whispers, taunting him.

"Your allies... They are the ones responsible. You can get rid of them when they least suspect it."

Nosh'marak woke up with a roar, covered in sweat. He laid back, realizing he would be without sleep for another night.

15

The Campfire / Kill Or Be Killed

« on: September 09, 2015, 09:50:02 AM »

Nosh'marak woke up with a grunt as the Ogres called his name, the slavemaster stuck his key in to Nosh'maraks shackles, unlocking them with a silent click. As the Ogre threw him out in the arena together with his sabre, Nosh'marak looked straight in to the eyes of his opponent. About ten meters away, there stood a hulking berserker wielding a giant and rusty axe. The bone-piercings stuck through Nosh'maraks skin made a clacking sound as they hit eachother while he bent over, picking up the sabre which he had used so many times before.

 When the huge orc charged at him, Nosh'marak was caught off-guard and was sent in to one of the arena walls. The Ogres cheered, shouting insults at Nosh'marak. As he looked down at his ribcage, where one of the bone piercings had cut his skin open a little, he cackled like a true maniac.
"Is that all you've got?! PAIN IS STRENGTH!"

Nosh'marak charged forward with his sabre, wildly cutting at the huge orc who was clearly stronger, but Nosh'marak had the advantage. As the cuts dotted the opponents body, Nosh'marak cut wilder and wilder. Soon, the orc was on his knees and Nosh'marak delivered the final blow to his head. The arena was quiet, the Ogres who were once wild had shut their mouths, looking at Nosh'marak with awe as he split the head of his opponent straight down the middle.

As Nosh'marak kneeled down, grabbing ahold of the spine and ripping it out, blood spurting everywhere over the champion who had won yet another battle. As he held the spine up high, the Ogres roared and cheered. Nosh'marak spit on the corpse as the gates opened once again behind him. He walked back in to the pens, the slavemaster grabbing his sabre and slamming Nosh'marak in the head with it. Everything went black, and as he slowly opened his eyes he heard the roaring of battle. All of the slaves were gone, making their rebellion. Nosh'marak looked across the dark room, his eyes moving to the dead slavemaster with the sabre in his hand. Nosh'marak reached out, grabbing the sabre before bringing it down on his hand, freeing himself from his bond.

As he tied the blade to the stump of his hand he grinned widely.
"Kill or be killed, eh?" He snorted.