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*Written in fine script on leather parchment, hung from the door posts of backstreet taverns, on the walls of darkened alleys, and handed out with illicit deals. A prominent black star features on every sheet.*


The Modas il Toralar seeks like minded individuals to further their own ambitions, and those of the Order. To be one of the Unwashed, those who do not swear fealty to the Order, is to never know true strength, to never understand one’s true potential. Both the Horde and the Alliance would have you believe that the Modas il Toralar is nothing but a haven for thieves, murderers and crazed occultists – they spread misinformation about our great Order because they fear what they can never understand. They claim that the Order’s intentions are suspect. I am here to tell you differently. The singular purpose of the Modas il Toralar is to ensure the complete supremacy of the Horde, by any means necessary. Only through the annihilation of the Alliance will this world ever experience peace. Only then can a new world be rebuilt from the rubble and filth, the detritus and the waste. Abandon the ranks of the Unwashed, unshackle the chains of petty morality that bind and restrict you, and embrace the Modas il Toralar.


Order through atrocity. Peace through fear. Faith in the Modas il Toralar.
Signed,
M. Weishaupt
Seneschal to the High Karcist


(( The Modas il Toralar is a Horde RP guild which primarily consists of evil aligned characters. For more information, please consult our guildportal site. If you have any questions or wish to set up a meeting in game, please contact Dreejin, Vincentwolfe or Praeliir. ))

Gentyl listened to the Goblin translating the flyer hanging on the wall in Booty Bay. She took out a small jeweled dagger and sliced a lemon into four precise wedges, then squeezed one into her tea. Limes for love, lemons for war the Regent claimed.

"What the fel is going on. First Black Hand revives and now this flock of homicidal maniacs has returned?"

She sat down and sipped her tea while she drummed her fingers on the table. Come to think of it, that bloody paladin who greeted her with a hearty hello just before they swarmed her was wearing a Modas tabard.

Light. They had to be shut down.

((Praellir, thank you. That was such a depressed battled. I saw all the red in there, took a deep breath and seriously considered just leaving the fight. Then when I ran in you greeted me and proceeded to beat me to a pulp, well, I busted out laughing.))

Vasliki took a moment to study the parchment, taking note of every elegantly written word that was hand written with precise attention to detail. She was proud to see the parchment, to read its message, knowing she had already become part of the bigger picture: The destruction of the Alliance.

The time will come when the alliance would finally wavier in the face of the horde war drums, and she knew that as a soon to be blooded member of Modas Il Toralar that she would have a hand in that defeat.

Vasliki smiled to herself as she walked away, an extra bounce in her step, knowing that it was just a matter of time before she would play her part in the bigger picture.

"All good things must come to an end," she whispered to herself as she disappeared down the dark alleyway.

(( Grymm will be putting in his application, a great fit for this character ))

Mombe snatched the new flyer off of one of the huts in the Cleft of Shadow. She read it slowly and with great effort, then crumpled it in a two-fingered hand. "I gotta talk to de boss about dese guys..."

The competition could be good, each group inspiring the other into ever-greater heights--well, depths--of depravity.

Or they could just get in the way.

Thinking better of her initial anger, she smoothed out the paper and tucked it into her pack. Assuming her bat form, she flew up to the top of the mesa, finding her favorite spot hanging from the bottom of the Orgrimmar-Tirisfal zeppelin.

The troll smiled a quiet, proud little smile. She touched the notice with her fingertips and stayed there until passers-by began to stare, and a little while after for good measure.

That evening, she left a note and an old paper, worn at the creases, on the table by her luxurious apartment's door:

Beloved,

I am so glad to see the banner rise again. You know I always had the greatest faith in your ability to lead the Toralar well. I think that you will do very well indeed without V'Ghera to restrain your impulsiveness. A reckless, unbound Modas should suit this new Horde quite nicely.

Do you remember the early days, when I wrote poems and essays for the cause? Wonderful foolishness. Here is one of the better ones (albiet a touch on the esoteric side, philosophically speaking, but Aziel always did fancy himself a sort of scholar-king, and I pandered rather shamelessly to that vanity - do you remember?).

Perhaps you may find use for it once again. I will watch for news of the Order eagerly!

Ever your love,

Arjah

--

The Toralar's Triumph over Time

Behold the time before time was!
When all was power, or was not,
And nothing lived to be forgot
And all our thoughts were yet unthought,
'Til all that was decided "Thus!"
And life that instant came to be - this, the Toralar will see.

Behold the time when all are slaves!
All blind, in wretchedness they creep
Where thousands scream and thousands weep
And thousands die and pile deep
Within their overflowing graves
And we who watch are all that's free - this, the Toralar now see.

Behold the time when He will rise!
As Death, denied her fatal sting
Gives knee before the risen King,
His children rise upon His wings
And stand in hellish paradise
As rulers over all that's been - this, the Toralar have seen!

--

With the same proud little smile, the troll slipped out, as neatly-dressed and respectable as any other Horde matron.

‘Ah, you’ve finally arrived, General Rokgar. I had feared that our invitation seemed unappealing.’ Fernand Argustus rose slowly from behind a large oaken desk, his bones creaking audibly. The Forsaken offered the gruff, bearded orc general his hand to shake, but the orc simply ignored it. ‘Don’t waste my time with pleasantries and flowery words, Undead. I have a job to do here.’

‘Of course, General. My apologies.’ Fernand’s prim, dry little smile did not waver. ‘Right this way, please. We shall begin immediately.’ The Forsaken stepped out from behind his desk and gestured toward the open door to his office. Rokgar stomped outside, flanked by two Kor’kron guards. Their heavy armour clanked audibly. Fernand joined them in one of the many labyrinthine passages that made up the upper floors of the Sanctum of the Modas il Toralar. ‘You can start by explaining what this is all about.’ Rokgar grunted, stomping along beside Fernand as he strode down the corridor.

‘As I’m sure you’re very much aware, General, times have changed. Our new Warchief is not a fan of half-measures.’ The group passed several large halls that were connected to this particular corridor. Members of the Modas il Toralar, from all Horde races, watched the group pass with curiousity and suspicion. ‘For our mutual benefit, the current leader of our Order, the troll witch doctor Dreejin, has decided that a new approach toward our Horde allies is long past due. An approach that favours transparency and accountability.’ They reached a doorway which opened on to a circular staircase, leading downward. The orcs eyed the Forsaken critically, and without the slightest hint of reproach, Fernand smiled and led the way down. ‘And so here you are, on something of a guided tour of the Sanctum, to see that we do in fact have the Horde’s interests as our top priority here at the Modas il Toralar.’

Rokgar scowled behind his horned helm. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Undead.’

‘But of course, General.’ They reached the bottom of the stairs rapidly. More corridors led to the left, right, and straight ahead. ‘Before we continue, I really should explain something. The Modas il Toralar actually consists of four Dominions, or factions, if you prefer. Each has its own role to play in the day to day business of the Order. We encourage all new recruits to decide for themselves in which faction they can serve most optimally, and assign specific tasks to each recruit so that they can prove their loyalty and capabilities.’ Fernand gestured to the right, and the group trudged down the corridor.

At the end of the corridor was a vast, open training hall, where the ceiling reached at least three stories upward. The hall was filled with members of the Modas il Toralar; warriors, death knights, hunters and rogues sparred with each other actively, honing their fighting skills; spell casters and battle healers worked tirelessly to reach greater heights of power. Rokgar’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘This Dominion is known as the Ebon Reavers. They are the soldiers of the Order, who play a vital role in dominating our enemies, whether they be Alliance on the battlefield or Scourge, Cultists, demons and the like hidden away in locations of interest to us. The Claviger, or officer, that commands them is the Blood Knight Praeliir, a Sin’dorei of great tactical skill and battle healing. Please, if you will return with me in this direction.’ Fernand began walking back along the corridor. It took the orcs several moments to turn away and follow.

Past the staircase again, along the left-hand corridor, were numerous heavy, banded, steel doors, all of which were sealed. The other end of the corridor opened onto another large, open hall. However, this hall was filled from the ground to the ceiling with rows upon rows of book shelves. Several members were seated at desks arranged sporadically around the hall, all of which were completely engrossed in their studies. ‘This wing belongs to the Fel Hand. The Fel Hand is interested in understanding and developing dark magic and sorcery, science and lore which will further the Order’s ends. The doors we passed to reach here are the laboratories, and as I am sure you understand, we cannot enter at our own discretion. It is for your safety, of course.’ Fernand smiled his dry little smile, and Rokgar simply grunted in response. ‘The Claviger in charge here is Doctor Vincent Wolfe, an engineer, alchemist and warlock of some infamy. We are quite proud to say that the Fel Hand has gone almost six months without any fatal accidents. We have a team of goblins working to organise a work place health and safety committee, but they predict that it may take a decade before it comes into practice. All for the best, I say – ethics and legalities merely get in the way and slow important progress, don’t you agree?’

It was obvious that Rokgar did not agree. ‘You lot had better not be cooking up another Forsaken Blight down here, or else the damage I’ll do to this compound will make the cataclysm look like a mild tremor.’ Fernand bowed his head in acknowledgment, and changed the subject. ‘Let us head toward the third Dominion, shall we?’

The first thing that Rokgar noticed about the third corridor was the noise – a constant, echoing drone picked up as they trudged along the lengthy passage. The final corridor from the staircase was unusual in that the stonework finished abruptly and connected to an enormous, subterranean cavern. Massive stalagmites rose up from the smooth floor, which Rokgar could not have wrapped his arms around if he tried. The orc could not see the ceiling: a thick blanket of smoke from torches and campfires hung several feet off the floor, pierced in places by stalactites. Wandering around the stalagmites, and around the countless tents and stalls set up around the cavern, were members of every race Rokgar could imagine – orcs, trolls, tauren, elves and goblins made up the majority, but there were ogres, gnolls, quillboar, ethereal and more present. ‘What is this treachery?’

‘This, General, is business. The Undermarket is another of the Order’s Dominions. Here, we deal in profit, and if nothing else, war can be greatly profitable. The merchants in the Undermarket sell everything that your heart could possibly desire, from weapons and ammunitions to flesh and pleasures of it.’

An ogre walked by, dragging several chained dwarves and a human behind it. Rokgar swore. ‘What is this!? Slavery!? You Modas go too far!’

‘These slaves are all prisoners of war, General. They belong either to the Alliance races or those that do not fall under the banner of the Horde. You will find that, while some may disagree with the principle, it is all quite legal.’

Clearly in a rage, Rokgar stomped over to the nearest merchant stall and eyed the goods for sale. Several large wooden casks sat on a bench, and a goblin with a smile that reached from ear to ear greeted him. ‘Hey there bub. What can I do you for?’

‘What is the contents of these casks?’ Rokgar fairly barked.

The goblin pointed to each cask, stating their contents as he went along. ‘Beer, whiskey, absinthe, gasoline, poison, poison, poison, wine, poison.’

‘Poison? What kind of poison?’ The general growled.

Fernand frowned tightly at the orc’s behaviour. ‘I believe this particular toxin was developed in house, by the Order’s own assassin, Master Vectus. We have registered the intellectual property, naturally, but if your soldiers are interested in it we are only too happy to do business. I’m sure our little friend here can allow something of a...free trial, for you to test its efficacy.’ The look Fernand gave the goblin merchant put a swift halt to any outraged words. Rokgar merely grunted, turned around, and stomped off with his guards in tow.

No one spoke a word until they were back in Fernand’s office. Rokgar glared at the Forsaken, who dropped wearily into his chair. ‘Are those all of your Dominions?’

‘No, actually. There is a fourth – the Wormwood Circle. They comprise the Order’s assassins, thieves, and covert operatives. As far as I know, there is no wing where the Wormwood gather...but then, they are even more secretive than the rest of the Modas, and keep largely to themselves.’ Fernand shrugged, as if this was an explanation, or an excuse, that Rokgar would have to be satisfied with. ‘Well, I hope that you have found your tour informative, and I also hope that you are more inclined to look favourably upon the Modas il Toralar for this show of respect toward you and your Warchief.’

‘Informative!?’ The orc roared in the small office. ‘You haven’t told me anything about what it is you plot down here in your dank hole!’

Fernand frowned tightly. His bony fingertips rapped once over the desk. ‘What you have been shown here today is highly privileged information. No one outside of the Order has ever had such a detailed view of the inner workings of the Modas il Toralar.’

‘I want to know what V’Ghera is after!’ Rokgar struck the desk, swearing again. ‘By the ancestors, Undead, if you do not tell me I will tear your bony skull from your shoulders!’

Fernand smiled his prim, dry little smile. ‘I’m afraid that not even I know that, General. I do apologise, but the only way for you or your Warchief to learn that sort of information is to join the Order and swear fealty to our cause.’

Shouting words that are best left unwritten, Rokgar stormed out of the office, his Kor’kron guards following closely behind.

The Hungerer laughed to himself from the shadows of a corner in the Undermarket, trying to ignore the Goblin Rogue attempting to use a stick to extract some of the congealed filth from the side of his bearish maw so that he could use it on his daggers to make his enimies suffer a long, feaverish death. He watched the Mage and Orc pass, burped, and slank off further into the shadows.

((bamp))

The Maggot Lord skittered from stall to stall, a small horde of pack maggots scurrying behind him, burdened with purchases. He heard an outraged Orc-things bellowings, and saw Roktar storming off in a huff. His upper lip twitching upwards in a ghastly parody of a smile, Abominus turned his eyesockets towards an elfling selling silks.

"Make sssure the paisssley thingsss have ssscreaming ssskullsss attached to them, yesss. The folk in our purchasssing office at Hello Maggy productsss want them for our big opening down here, yesss."

******************************************************************************

Join the Modasss or Die, yesss!

Jonathan stared in disbelief at the flyer on the door of the tavern. He was making a discrete incursion into Booty Bay for old time's sake... leaving a few of his old "calling cards" behind to leave the Bruisers on edge, wondering if this was some Bloodsail trick, or if the one who had once singlehandedly caused so much death in Goblin cities had truly returned.

But now, Jon's mind was on something else. There, on the flyer, clear as day, was that hated symbol. That cursed star... Jon's hand drifted idly to his chest as a growl rose in his throat. Silencing himself, he slashed the flyer with his hands, and removed one of the many small daggers secreted in his armor, and slammed it into the flyer, directly into the center of the star. The blade dripped with venom, a special concoction he had once taken from one of the Modas' own agents, an alchemical mixture that literally transmuted the victim's blood to fire within their veins. He had never actually used the mixture, but had taken to keeping a small amount of it on him at all times in case he ever found the need or desire. What better target for it than its former masters?

Jon slunk away, leaving Booty Bay behind, finding and slashing one or two more flyers on his way out.

So, they're still around, are they...? We'll see about that...

(( Shameless bump! We're still looking for more people interested in spreading strife and chaos across the server, so if you're interested, give us a buzz! ))

(( Join up and start to enjoy the Joy of Villan ))

((Saynlyn/Ragefang here))

Adrigus scrunched his eyes up in what approximated a jawless grin. "It wants them, yes!" He hopped up and down as his pet, a gigantic black scorpion, watched in curiosity, its pinchers idly snipping away strips of skin from a screeching, blindingly-tortured gnome. "It wants the Modas. It wants them... they'll want it! It knows they will!"

He scribbled a note with the ichor that constantly seeped from his never-healing wounds. The words were unintelligible, unreadable to any save Adrigus' addled, still-rotting mind. He handed it to his scorpion. "Take it to them. Tell the troll. It wants the Modas, and the Modas will want it!"

The scorpion ambled away. Once out of Adrigus' sight, it stopped, and turned its head left and right before setting the note down. "Yes, Modas il Toralar will meet our goals nicely..." the scorpion whispered in a silky voice as it took up a quill and corrected its master's scribbled insanity. "We'll have to speak with them soon... it wants the Modas indeed..."

Armaya had been busy. Very busy. Since her cursed artifacts she had sent out months ago, she had been laying low. She had heard over the stone a few injured, several died, it was all a success, but still none of those she had wished death upon had died. Raoul was still alive, blasted archmage. She listened in on the stone many nights while she worked at the house in Winterspring that she had once shared with Stefan.

It was Lover's Day Festival, she cursed as someone sprayed perfume in her face "YA LOOK LIKE YA WAN---" but he didn't finish, her succubus had already gone in for the kill. A sweet seduction, turning the troll's directions from Maya to the demon. Maya snickered. "Don't kill him Kalona, just a little play. Guards won't like dead bodies in the city, and I don't want to be dragged in front of that crap pile they call a Warchief." The demon answered with a small giggle, luring the troll back into an alley of sorts, the shadows of the building hiding the duo from whatever it was the succubus was doing.

A piece of parchment caught her eye, laying in the dirt, her eyes widened as she bent over to pick it up. "The Modas? Back? Impossible." She muttered, glancing up from the parchment to snap a demonic command to Kalona, who at once came running out of the shadows, no troll in sight. "Who is running it? Not Aziel, haven't seen him in ages. The only one who's even been around is that damned crazy doctor." She let the parchment burn in her hands, the fire sending the letter to ash. "They deserve nothing. A name only recognizable from years past, and now a shadow of it's former self. We shall see who is running the game now, and then maybe we shall kill them." She smiled, sending a glare towards an orc who had a perfume bottle and was just about to hit the button. "If you spray that on me, you will be on fire." She turned and whistled for her drake, mounting and flying off, planning her next move.

[ So finally figured out I should post to this. :-P ]

((I *just* noticed Weishaupt is titled "Seneschal", that sounds so much fancier than "Mouth":P))

Dree...... You say is guild portal site.

Yet you no link to site.

(( www.modas.guildportal.com ))

03/29/2012 09:38 AMPosted by Oskor

(( www.modas.guildportal.com ))

yea, I found it, searched through Gportal's list of guilds.