World of Warcraft®

On the streets of Orgrimmar, a package drops from a dragon-mounted night elf , landing with a loud splat in front of Grommash Hold’s entrance. The dragonrider bobs and weaves as they dodge the arrows from Orgrimmar’s guards and the Horde’s heroes alike, barely managing to escape with their life. In the package, as one of the Kor’kron Elite carefully unwraps it with the butt of a staff, four orc heads roll out, dessicated and mangled. A note is stuffed in the mouth of one of them.

Amidst the flying spires of Silvermoon City, kept sylvan in its perpetual spring, a stealthy cat, bearing Druidic markings etched in its fur, carefully weaves its way between the guards on each side of the ramp leading up to Sunstrider Spire. A large, loose package is dropped from a dark corner shortly before a brown-feathered bird bearing a tabard with Gilnean markings flies off to the surprise and outrage of the royal guard. As one of the guards opens the cloth package, the viciously dismembered remnants of a blood elf fall out, with a bloodied note tied to one rent arm.

In the dark shadows of Undercity, a small gnome carefully works her way through the tunnels leading in from the hillside out in Tirisfal Glades. She stealthily evades guards until she comes close to the archway leading into Sylvanas Windrunner’s throneroom. With great caution she makes her way down the passage, finally coming into view as she hastily drops a bag on the floor at the foot of the steps leading up to the Banshee Queen’s dais. She seems to smile wistfully as she is torn apart by the Banshee Queen’s royal elite. One of them, after directing a companion to take the gnome’s mangled remains to the Apothecarium, fearlessly opens the bag, and a Forsaken’s head tumbles out, eyes still rolling in the last throes of its unlife. A note is stuffed in its mouth.

A single tauren, her eyes alight with fear, and her steps shaking, walks the proud mesas of Thunder Bluff, stopping in front of Chieftain Baine Bloodhoof’s tent. As Thunder Bluff’s new, beleaguered leader raises his eyes to her, she drops a single folded note on the floor in front of him, whispering “I’m so sorry, Chieftain… I couldn’t stop them…” shortly before a Warlock’s curse explodes her body in a mess of fire and organs.

In the heat of the tropical shore near the Echo Isles, a lone trained raptor runs near to Vol’jin’s tent, stopping in front of Vol’jin and waiting patiently for the note around its neck to be taken. As the troll leader unwraps the note, the raptor runs off, never to be seen again.

The notes all read the same, written in a flourishing, steady hand, and sealed with a signet showing a downward-pointing blade over a shield emblazoned on a field of deep crimson:

We know you are reading this. We worked to reclaim this world and bring peace again in the wake of the Aspect of Death’s rampage. As we traveled, we saw atrocity, and our hearts were burdened.

As we went through the holy forests of Ashenvale, we saw a small camp being turned into a large military fortification, and we saw proud defenders of Elune slaughtered mercilessly to make way for monstrous logging operations to feed the Horde’s war machine.

As we went through the torn Greymane Wall, intent on assisting the Gilneans with rebuilding, I saw my homeland rent asunder, befouled and rendered unlivable by the putrescence of the Banshee Queen’s horrifying plague.

We have seen Southshore reduced to a toxic wasteland unfit even for the Forsaken to inhabit, though they fought so long to claim the land.

We have seen attempts on King Wrynn’s life repeatedly, with the full approval of Garrosh Hellscream in the name of his Horde, a Horde Thrall would have never allowed to be.

We have seen children murdered, and innocent civilians cast into fetid pits of putrescence before the foul winged former servants of the Lich King raised them into eternal servitude to Sylvanas Windrunner.

We can reclaim no longer. We can sit idly no longer. This is your notification, the only you’ll receive. Sanctions have been levied against all of the Horde in the only way they will understand: unapologetic vengeance.

Watch for the field of crimson, and know your doom is come. Watch for the blade whose point descends into your vile filth, to pierce an undulating, sloshing organ of corruption and set free its putrescence in the name of cleansing vengeance. Watch for the shield that stands as a bulwark for the Alliance, to shield those who cannot or will not defend themselves. We take their plight as our own, and we will see you erased.

The drums of war thunder again, from the halls of Stormwind and the boughs of Darnassus. The wreckage of Gilneas cries out for vengeance.

The Reclamation is come for you, and we are your end.

Gondorin Ragefang.

Pang sat. His back resting against the cold wet wall that had been his home for the last year. On a small make shift table of broken crates rested two proclamations. A greasy candle sputtered sending up feted acrid wisps of smoke.

He smiled as he read the documents, things had finally come apart.

He pulled out a small scrap of parchment.

In an elegant script he wrote,

“ They move on the horde it would seem. Overtures of peace have finally died. I need you to notify the rest. No matter what, our people must be defended, you know the proper places to fortify. Be careful of Sylvanas , she has gone too far with her abominable Val'kyr, and it has given our allies reason to fear and mistrust us. Leave her weak and open if you can, hopefully she will be eliminated in this affair and our worries of the horde and alliance united against our kind will be somewhat abated. As long as they are at each others throats and see us as an ally we have a chance but you know as well as I, if they find peace... well we will not. If you need to contact me use the gnome, she is trustworthy.”

Pang


Without further thought he donned his jet black armour, Its fasteners clinking gently in the gloom of the sewers. Quickly he slipped the note into his boot. And in the darkening of the night his eyes glowed a malevolent green.

“Time to hunt” he whispered to the dark wind that swirled around his two twin blades. Pulling the belt tight he disappeared into the silence of the Stormwind’s under sewers.

(( Bump, as a fan of cross-faction pvp. ))

((I hadn't noticed this thread, or realized any of this was going on. Bump again for what sounds like a promising RP-PvP concept.))

EDIT:

((Removed a hurriedly written response from Drakehide's point of view because I went back, re-read it, and didn't really like it.))

"Will you ride with us?"

Gentyl looked at Gondorin Ragefang, who sat next to her on his war mount. It was a simple question spoken as plainly as if he were asking her to morning tea. The answer was not as simple. Gondorin knew Pia's reputation as defenders. They had already declined the invitation to attack Brill for fear there would be too many youngsters in the area who might be harmed. Did he think them cowards? She was sure he didn't understand why she had refused to ride against Brill. It was forsaken territory. Surely no one would be willing to spare a single forsaken life.

"We will," she replied. "You know my reasons for not attacking Brill, whether you understand them or not."

Traveler shook his head impatiently, taking the bit from her and lowering his head to graze. In another time she would have been more firm with him, but this was the Mage district and, unless Pang was nearby, it was a safe place.

"Thank you. We look forward to riding with you."

"I hope you will join us also when we take the field against Meshqa."

He touched the brim of his helm. "Of course, Sepha. You have my sword."

"War is upon us. The horde must be stopped."

"Indeed it is. To arms."

"To arms."

A troll's head, eyes still twitching from feeble attempts at regenaration, rolls out of a bag dropped from a drake flying overhead. As the Kor'kron Elite shades his eyes against the withering Durotar sun, the hustle and bustle of Orgrimmar life happening all around, a faintly lupine profile is seen winging away on a black-scaled drake.

Stuffed in the troll's mouth is a note:

I have not forgotten. Other duties called me away, despite my best attempts to the contrary. Enjoy your unintentional respite, Horde. My will is more focused than ever, my resolve strengthened with the mightiest of tempered metals, quenched in the blood of countless wretches from your tribal collectives.

That feeble guard who raised his sword? The old tauren "wise man" who looked up in the glaring Barrens sun, relaxing himself in the waning years of his life, enjoying the luxury of comfort as his aching joints were warmed?

They both fell at the blade of my hungry axe.

It is your atrocities, Horde, that have brought it to this. Ashenvale, Lordaeron, Gilneas... they still cry out for vengeance.

And it will come. I am not alone.

The Alliance is coming for you, dogs.

Gondorin Ragefang

The soldier frowned deep in his helm. Should he risk the Warchief's ire by delivering a petulant challenge of this nature? He knew his Warchief was rash, though his might on the field of battle was unquestioned.

Perhaps there were shadowier elements in the Horde that could be of more use to him. He turned to a subordinate patrolling nearby. "Tell the zeppelin to hold."

"Why?" the orc asked, eyeing the tightly-grasped piece of paper even as a trickle of blood from the troll head's mouth puddled around his commander's feet.

"I'm going to Undercity."

(( oh nice ))

Drakehide was waiting for a zeppelin, of his own, when the package was conveniently "dropped". While he did not read the message, or understand the story behind it, it caused him to frown. Clearly, since his time in captivity, things in Azeroth, on both sides, had escalated. Badly.

His blood boiled at the sight of the grisly scene, but...he held his tongue. He did not howl our curses, or challenges, or comandeer the nearest wind rider and give chase. No...this was not the time. Any other day, at such a grievous insult, Drakehide, the son of Mok'Rukh, would have flown cleanly into a rage. This was not the time.

The warrior had other business to attend to...business that involved travel as well, different business from that of the nearby orc soldier. His was no less urgent.

He solemnly determined, though, that should he and this faintly lupine profile ever cross paths, in a contested zone or a place of battle, the dishonor done to that beheaded troll on this day would be returned to that faintly lupine profile, tenfold. While Drakehide had become disillusioned of late with the conflict between the Horde and the Alliance, certain actions were unforgiveable.

Drakehide marked the appearance of that worgen, on the drake, in retreat. He would not forget this.

For now...this warrior, of the sons of Rukh, had a zeppelin to catch.