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The plan - and goal - was simple.


The Wildhammers had the best booze around, by anyone's account. Aerie Peak just so happened to be stocked with more than plenty of that delicious drink. Charge headfirst into the keep, find the bar, take a seat, and fill their mugs. Oh, and hope that the barkeep accepted gold from all peoples. If not, just knock him out and serve themselves.


They managed to do exactly that.


Raoul, Oskor, and Arothand gathered atop the keep, scouting out from above. From the looks of it, there was some sort of Alliance guild holed up in there alongside the Wildhammer. It meant trouble, but they didn't exactly plan on being in there long. Their reconnaisance, however, was cut short as Oskor leapt off the roof, charging at the nearest Dwarf. Not entirely surprising, though.

That man loved his booze.

Things were a flurry, charging headfirst into the keep. The defenses were scattered, and confused, at the small strike force. That confusion was only furthered when the trio made a beeline for the bar, taking out anyone who got in their way. Arothand, at the least, tried to go for non-fatal blows on the Wildhammer. The other races of the Alliance held less of his respect, but the Wildhammer, they he made certain to keep alive. It didn't take long to make their way into the bar, though. Like any solid, Wildhammer keep, the bar wasn't far from the entrance.


It only made sense that way.


Unfortunately, the barkeep was not quite so pleased to see them. Fortunately for the Dwarf, Lightsworn got to him before the Magus or the Shaman did, knocking the man cold with the flat of his poleaxe. Then, with a simultaneous heavy sigh, the trio took their seats at the bar, freely tapping the keg behind it and filling the mugs, sharing cheers and hefty amounts of booze. They even had time to appreciate a few different varieties, cheerfully cackling and banging their mugs together before chugging them back, a flurry of booze flying every which way.

"Damn, this !@#$'s pretty good." The old Orc muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tankard before him, words already slurred from the potent drink.

Grinning, Arothand nodded in agreement, tipping back his own tankard. Running his hand through his ponytail, he took a moment to admire the decor, even snatching away one of the bar's finer flasks and tucking it away into his bags. "Only th' best. Wildhammer always 'ave th' best booze. Anyone with 'alf a brain can tell y'that. S'been -years- since I've been 'ere, though. Ain't changed much, though. S'good t' see." He leaned forward, filling up his tankard once more, and then kicked up his feet, just about starting to get comfortable. "Grew up with th' Wildhammer, y'know. Closer to th' Dunwald clan, though. Still, tha' lot knew how t' start a bar fight, lemme tell - "


Cutting him short, angry shouting from the doorway announced the arrival of more defenders for the keep. In a drunken stupor, the three leapt to their feet, turning to meet the charge more or less head on. It did not help, however, that what was likely only eight men looked like eighteen.


Even still, it took a fair amount of time to overwhelm them. Halfway through the fight, Aro lost track of Oskor and Raoul, both running rampant through the keep at this point. He more or less tried to keep the Wildhammer casualties to a minimum, while keeping the various paladins and rogues of the other Alliance races off his back. The Elf was no stranger to drunken brawls. If anything the drink, while it dulled his reflexes, filled him with renewed vigor as he chugged more and more back between blows. His poleaxe became a flurry of surprisingly accurate, deadly metal all about him. He was raised alongside a Dwarven clan, and fought with them, too. To him, this was good fun.

Said fun was cut short at Raoul barking orders at him, telling him to get to the portal back at the bar. Not having strayed far, he charged through the group of brawlers about him headfirst, stumbling back up the stairwell, and practically flying through the portal.

He was the first through.

Raoul soon followed.

Oskor, however, was nowhere to be seen.

They glanced about the cleft of shadows, wondering if he had arrived before them, to no avail.

"%^-*." Lightsworn cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "We gotta go back for 'em."

Nodding in agreement, the Magus opened up a portal to the Undercity, and from there it was just the matter of flying straight to get back to the keep. Remarkably, not having crashed, they eventually found Oskor not far from the keep, sitting outside a small hovel and grinning, a stack of miniature kegs at his side.

"Took y'girls so long?" He asked, arching a brow.

The Magus and the Elf jumped off their respective flying mounts, arching a brow and peering the Orc over skeptically. He looked tired, and maybe a bit bruised up, but nonetheless no worse for wear.

"How th' !@#$ did y'manage t' get outta th - " Arothand began, before the Magus pointed Northward, into the sky.

"I believe we've gathered a crowd."

Blinking, the undead Elf followed the man's gaze, turning about and looking up to face six or so of the previous brawlers, the various group of Elves, Dwarves, and Humans. "... Well, %^-*." And so, they did the only rational thing to do.

They sat down, pulled out the various spoils and booze, filled their mugs, and offered some to the Alliance.

Their opponents, however, did not seem amused.

One fiesty Dwarf in particular charged the group, his friends unable to hold him back. Oskor made quick work of him, however, and the few other Wildhammer Dwarves jumped into the fray. It took no time at all for the Horde trio to emerge victorious from the scrap, the other members of the Alliance either respectfully not participating, or far too confused to decide to attack.

Once the Dwarves had picked themselves up, Oskor, Raoul, and Arothand again offered them drinks. They look perplexed, and agitated, but seemed to slowly be warming up to the idea. After all, scarce is the Dwarf that can turn down a drink after a brawl, or a brawl after a drink. Things seemed to be winding down, at the very least.

Just as Arothand was about to call his drake down, there was a loud, piercing screech from the skies. He winced, and ducked, knowing the sound well. It was the battle-cry of a trained gryphon, descending upon Oskor with talons outstretched. The old Orc, however, was far from easily bested. With a quick sidestep and a swing of his mace, he cracked the bird's neck, sending it crashing onto the ground, wings outstretched and crooked.

The Elf's expression changed from amused to sobered, and from there to apalled, much the same as the Dwarves. He pulled back his hood, mouth hung half open, looking from the Orc to the Dwarven clan, attempting to stammer out a half apology. At this point, the older Dwarf charged, and it took the rest of group of Alliance to hold him back.

Aro did not even draw his weapon, still struck dumb at the sight of the mangled bird. The observant eye would note a feather dangling from his ponytail in typical ceremonial fashion.

It only got worse from there, too, when Oskor decided that the bird would make a good meal, sawing off a leg to cook. The Elf could not speak, at this point, fists clenching and his teeth grinding together. Oddly, at this point, he was beyond rage. He felt... sickened. Though he had not struck the blow, he had never been involved in the death of such a creature. Raised with Dwarves when younger, he had fought alongside Wildhammer and their gryphon companions.

At this point, the Alliance group left, more or less dragging their Dwarven companions with them.


The pounding of his head drowned out the parting remarks of the Alliance, and any banter between the Orc and Forsaken. Swaying back and forth on his feet, it took him some time to find his voice once more, half-growling, half-muttering. "M'headin' over 'ere if y'need me." At this, he picked up the gryphon corpse that Oskor hadn't gotten to yet, carefully throwing it over his shoudler and heading east, into the forest. There, he cast aside his weapon, instead gathering up several large sticks for a pyre. He then turned, marching forward, unarmed, back to Aerie peak.

Raoul and Oskor caught up to him, questioning what the hell he was doing, telling him to come back and enjoy the meal and booze.

"Piss off. Go back to th' hovel, m'takin' care of this. If they attack, feel free t' come in."

"Wha'ever." Oskor shrugged, heading back.

"Fine!" Raoul crossed his arms, following the Orc. "I didn't want your dead gryphon anyways."

It took very little time for the Alliance to take note of him, standing at the foot of the keep. The Elf knelt, lying the corpse before them, and setting the wood for the pyre beside it. He then glanced up, focusing on the Dwarven members of the group, trying to portray apology in his expression the best he could.

Laying a hand on the bird, he bowed his head, beginning to murmur just audibly beneath his breath. His Dwarven was rusty, broken at best, but the tune of the hymn he remembered well. "Wind beneath your wings, glide safe in the long night beneath clear skies and bright stars."

He only managed a part of the passage, but the confusion, followed by solemn nods and looks of respect gained from the Wildhammer showed that they got the message. The Dwarves came to take the body from him, and he stood, nodding in approval, expression still somber and sorrowful. He turned, pulling back up his hood and making his way back towards his weapon, slinging it across his back and calling his drake down.

Hopping onto its back and urging the creature into the sky, he murmured over his hearthstone, tone as dour as his expression. "S'over, Ra. M'goin' home."

(( This was a bit belated, but I figured the bit of RPPvP deserved a writeup. ))

Oskor rolled out of bed and crashed onto the floor. Pulling himself to his feet, he reached up and prodded tentatively at his aching head. Bumps and bruises. Nothing broken or split. That's good. That's good.

Immediately, he reached for another tankard and filled it from the Dwarven keg at his bedside. The moment the ale entered his system, his thoughts began to clear. He shook his head vigorously and trudged toward the kitchen.

The blood-splattered, paper-wrapped packages were still there, stacked haphazardly in the coldroom. He was pretty sure everyone else had been either too squeamish or too cautious to investigate. Might've made some of the new kids sick. He chuckled at the thought.

He shoved a long spit through one of the biggest packages and carried it over his shoulder back into the common room. Mounting it over the fire, Oskor snapped his fingers at one of the students.

"Yer learnin' t' cook today. Start by keepin' the spit turnin' while Ah go sit down."

Confused and more-than-a-little startled, the elf leapt off of the couch and ran to the fireplace.

"Don' worry about unwrappin' et. Jes' let th' paper burn off. Keep turnin' until Ah tell y' t' stop."

With that, Oskor limped over to his armchair and collapsed into it. Immediately, the back and seat began to undulate, working his tired and battered muscles. When he stretched his arms out, he wasn't even surprised to find another drink waiting where his right hand rested.

He snickered quietly under his breath, nearly giving the elf minding the gryphon steak a heart attack. At least his dear old chair still knew how to treat him right. That was one thing on which he could always rely.

As he let his eyes close, he called over the the elf. "Ah'm takin' a nap, right? Lemme know when th' skin starts t' get nice an' charred."

Almost as an afterthought, he added: "An' if'n y' burn up m' lunch, yer gettin' a 'Failure' in Cookin'."

Ooo the smells coming from the room were enough to make a cat's mouth water. Creeping quietly through the shadows the druid made her way through the room noting old cranky sitting in that Elune forsaken chair...one day it would go. Soon? Some day...maybe...oh what was that smell? Oh right! Food...

The poor elf, I mean really all she wanted was to inquire as to what was being cooked! Who knew that they feinted when a large horned feline appeared behind them...well ok in retrospect it made a bit of sense but still.

Leeeaning over she had almost taken a juicy bite of the lovely whatever it was before the ominous creak heralded time to to find another room to exist in!

In his head, Oskor replayed the events of the last few days.

Tuesday had been Love is in the Air's big day. The Doctas' Campus and all of the Horde settlements would've been full of starry-eyed kids, shoving cards and chocolates in each other's faces. There would've been roaming bands of goblins probably dousing every helpless guard with a new "sample" of perfume or cologne. Oh, and, of course, the bars would've been full of unhappy singles, !@#$%ing and moaning about what they used to have, what they've never had, or what they've only dreamed of having.

^-*! that. He was glad he'd slept through it.

---

Monday night, he'd been bitter and bored. Always a potent combination for trouble.

"Kinda miss th' whole AAMS tavern thing," he complained. "Feel like gettin' lost in a beer. Or ten."

Aro suggested one of the dwarf bars. Or Ra--No, it'd been Aro. Of course it had, that elf practically thought he was a dwarf anyway.

Someone mentioned the Guzzler, but Oskor shook his head. "Don' get decen' service dere no more. Started a few too many bar brawls, an' now th' gnome won' give me th' time o' day."

The three of them discussed this pressing matter over a few drinks. And then a few more. Finally, they came to a consensus.

They began the night's adventure by knocking over a few guards at several scattered Alliance settlements, hoping to create enough confusion and distraction to allow for a nice, uninterrupted sit-down at Aerie Peak.

Unfortunately, for them, the place was swarming with dwarves (expected) and paladins (unexpected) when they'd gotten there. While Arothand and Zharikov discussed other possible drinking spots, Oskor did the only logical--in his mind[/]--thing.

"Didn' come dis far t' go away empty-handed." He landed on the inn roof and leapt down into the middle of the Alliance, assuming the others would follow. They did. [i]Good.

Naturally, the Alliance declined to listen to his explanation of their mission. Admittedly, it had been shouted--in Orcish--in their faces, by an orc, wielding an axe and a dull, battered mace. Oh, and there'd been a large, fiery elemental grinning wickedly at them over his shoulder.

When they leapt on him, as he expected they would, Oskor didn't think twice about giving back twice what he got. Dwarves' heads were thick enough to survive a solid beating, and, well, the dwarves could always fix the humans back up later.

He limped through the building, his companions and the Alliance following closely on his heel. After several wrong turns, they finally reached the bar, where they finally had a few uninterrupted moments of alcoholic bliss before they'd once again been set upon by their ungracious hosts.

Somewhere, in the midst of furious fighting, the knee Oskor had re-injured during his dive from the roof twisted awkwardly beneath him, and he'd taken a tumble down the stairs, running headfirst into a large keg.

He woke up sometime later to voices coming through his hearthstone--something about meeting up at a portal--and, much more important to him, a steady stream of a nice Dwarven stout pouring onto his head. He sighed with pleasure and opened his mouth, letting the dark nectar fountain straight down into his gullet.

"Ah, dis is th' life."

Satisfied for now, Oskor swung his bag of booze over his shoulder and hoisted a small keg under each arm. As quickly as he could manage with his injured knee, he hobbled toward the inn's door.

Just as he'd expected, the Alliance had regrouped just outside. He lowered his head and roared out a quick "Come an' get me, y' stingy sons-a-!@#$%es." Then he charged directly into the crowd, making for the hill.

The humans seemed to scatter in confusion, but the two dwarves set on him immediately. Oskor knew he wouldn't be able to outrun them on two legs, not with his knee swelling already. Letting out a sullen stream of Orcish curses, he quickly rolled his kegs under a bush, then dropped to all fours, feeling the spirit of the Wolf flow through him.

Though he found it much easier to limp along on three legs instead of one, Oskor realized he couldn't outrun the Alliance for long. He turned for one final stand, striking out at the dwarves with his mace, while hurling balls of frost and fire with his good hand.

Finally, he fell and lay motionless. His breathing and pulse slowed, beating in time with Earth spirits. He was worried that the Wildhammer shaman might recognize his trick, but the dwarf seemed to addled by fury and drink to realize.

Shortly after he was left alone, Oskor retrieved his kegs and crept into a nearby dwarven hovel to inspect his wounds. His knee had swollen to twice its normal size, but that was nothing new. Satisfied that it'd heal soon enough, he downed another ale and waited for the others. A gryphon dive-bombed him, but he laid it low with a swing of his mace and dragged it aside to deal with later.

The rest of the night passed fairly quietly. Arothand and Zharikov showed back up, followed shortly by the Alliance. The Wildhammer shaman had rejected his friendly peace offering of the finest of the ales and had even attacked him again, but a swing of his mace seemed to cool his temper.

Another gryphon attacked, and he did the same thing. As he dragged it over to the other gryphon, the dwarves saw the beasts' corpses and started kicking up a fuss. Aro seemed to be as pissy as they were, for some reason, and he followed the Alliance back to the peak, dragging one of Oskor's hard-earned gryphons with him.

But Oskor had been taught never to waste a good meal, so he sliced up the remaining gryphon, as he and Zharikov pondered the free knight's actions. They each enjoyed a freshly-roasted haunch, then Oskor carefully packaged up the rest of the meat.

They parted ways soon after: Oskor headed back to the Campus, his bags full of meat and ale; Zharikov, presumably, went to locate Arothand and make sure he wasn't causing any further trouble.

It was a hearth warming. Sort of. Technically the hearth warming had happened a week ago, when the Terra Incognita had made an alliance with the Wildhammers and set up shop within Aerie Peak, but that fact had never dissuaded two such dedicated drinkers as Ronnad and James. Lahkin sat watching them, making sure they didn't run into a wall or take to dunking each other in the nearest water source again, when he heard the alarms.

Despite their drunkeness, the Terrans rushed outside without tripping over any dwarves, and looked up. There up on the lintel of the great gate perched three Horde. One of them Lahkin recognized as Raoul, the Forsaken mage who had let his displeasure be loudly known at their meeting over Rhudran being canceled. One of the others, the orc, was yelling at them, flailing his weapons around emphatically.

Lahkin's first thought was: "Is Raoul making good on his threat to me?"

His second thought was: "I wish I could understand Orcish."

The third thought never got its pants on quick enough to get out the door.

Lahkin didn't see who struck first, but he did see people striking, and that was enough for him. The fighting was confused at best. Being startled out of their impromptu drinking match, many of his guards were not wearing suitable battle gear. Lahkin called a quasi-retreat to regroup.

They gathered up in the room just outside the fort's bar. Lahkin peered through the doorway. The Horde were in there alright...sitting at the bar and toasting each other merrily with the Wildhammers' own stock. Lahkin blinked in confusion. This was the oddest siege he'd ever been in.

The Wildhammers were raring to go, and Lahkin followed them in. Someone had ripped open a portal, and two of the Horde vanished. The third was not so lucky.

"Leave him alone, leave him alone!" Lahkin heard himself calling. "He's trying to run."

The dwarves didn't like that one bit, and continued beating on the orc gleefully as he ran outside. Lahkin sighed and stayed close by, just in case the orc had some sort of trick up his sleeve. He didn't. The orc succumbed to the attack, and Lahkin finally convinced the dwarves to return to headquarters. Lahkin brought up the rear guard.

The woosh of wings indicated that the Horde were still about. Lahkin and his men flew up to meet them, but the pair seemed more interested in trying to spot something on the ground. Raoul raised a friendly toast. Lahkin stared at him, then started laughing.

Yes, this WAS the oddest siege he'd ever been in.

The Horde finally spotted what they had been looking for, and dived to land just outside one of the dwarven huts. The orc was there, looking a little worse for wear, but grinning and waving his friends over to a large stack of kegs. Lahkin's men touched down behind him, including two of the dwarves. The Horde seemed to have worked through their aggressive urges, and Lahkin was about to call the defense off.

Except one of the dwarves didn't like that idea one bit.

He couldn't deny the Wildhammer's courage as the dwarf ran up and started pounding away on the orc again. Lahkin gripped his mace tighter, but the Horde seemed just as surprised as he was. Both sides called for a halt, but the only thing the dwarf would listen to was a solid smack in the face, which was just what the orc gave him.

The Horde went back to drinking. Lahkin went back to boggling. Someone set the dwarf back on his feet again.

Lahkin wondered if an AAMS could be found at this hour, but just as he was about to turn around and ask that someone find one, the gryphon dived from the sky. The Horde defended themselves, naturally, which only set off the dwarf again.

Several hexes and polymorphs later, the Alliance stood back to watch as the Horde settled down to their party again. Not wanting anymore bloodshed, Lahkin called his people back to the fort. The dwarf was close to tears. Every gryphon was sacred, and even the loss of one of them was a tragedy.

One of the Horde seemed to agree. He came up the slope to them alone, dragging the gryphon and a bundle of sticks. He was unarmed, and Lahkin rode out to meet him. The blood elf laid out the gryphon carefully and kneeled, murmuring something that had the cadence of a prayer. Lahkin saluted him. He retreated. And the dwarves hauled their gryphon to the graveyard for cremation.

After the ceremony, they spoke. The dwarves wanted to return the attack, but Lahkin wasn't so sure. Kordrion had the words of wisdom, saying that a retaliation would only lead to more retaliations--and more dead men and gryphons. Reluctantly, Lahkin ordered the Terrans to remain on the defensive.

For now. War was brewing, and if Lahkin were to bet his best set of spurs, this wouldn't be the last any of them would see of the Horde.

I haven't had a drop of ale for three hours now! THREE HOURS! Gillock thought to himself earlier in the day. It was clearly a bad start of the day for the dwarf. He lost his favorite mug at the Blue Recluse (it was made by The Thorium Brotherhood after all), thus madly refusing alcoholic beverages since the misplacement of his beloved item. Not to mention his trip going back to Aerie Peak in search for the mug, figuring out for the first time two guilds now inhabit the mountainside. His brother Orich didn't seem to mind as much. Maker bless Orich for keeping the dwarf as level-headed as can be. After all, he had gone without alcohol for three hours! (More like nine hours at this point.)

Seeing Horde on sacred Wildhammer grounds had tugged Gillock's whiskers too far. The sight of an Orc jumping from the top of a building set many memories off in Gill's mind, going in a blind thick-headed Dwarven rage.

At the end of the day, he had a list just running through his head. He quietly resigned to snatching a "regular" mug to have his ale, so long as no one sees him drinking from it. His list kept flashing in his mind...

Missin' sacred mug...
Sharin' space in Aerie Peak...
Horde stealin' th' sacred Wildhammer ale (Stealing that is, for all he knew)...
Slayin' sacred Gryphons...
Consumin' sacred Gryphon...

The dwarf was still spittin' and sputterin' by the end of the day. Though he did recognize the valiant defense to which the good and patient folk of Terra Incognita put up. The mule-stubbornness prevailed in ole' Gilly, as he began scrawling a letter:

Te Any an' All Horde,

Yeh actions earlier today in Aerie Peak has really got a dwarf's blood boilin'. First yeh barge in te our Keep, accost us in doin' so, and then go stealin' our sacred ale! Don't think yeh can git away with that! An' te make matters worse, a bloody orc goes an' slays a gryphon...an' eats it! Yeh have violated a very sacred creature, trod upon sacred dwarven ground, and gone rummaged through our very Keep te take our best spirits! Yeh lucky th' majority of us were out gatherin' te feed th' wives an' children. Now yeh not only have th' Wildhammer Clan do answer te, but Th' Stoneblood Circle as well!

Th' only one of yeh with any common sense that I could sense was th' deady in yeh trio. Let it be known to all yeh Horde that yer not welcome in th' Peak, an' yeh best watch yer backs in th' upcomin' days. Yeh don't cross a Wildhammer an' live te tell about it!

Yeh kno' where I am, an' now yeh kno' meh name.

Signed,

Gillock Ironshot
Harbinger of
The Stoneblood Circle

Gillock finishes his letter and his ale, and scrolls up the parchment, placing it in a mug. The fumed dwarf hops on his gryphon, flying overhead to Orgimmar and dropping the mug (not caring if it hits anyone in the head).

((Enjoyed the unexpected encounter! It brought two guilds together as well as gave breath to a new RP sequence. Hope this continues on some capacity!))

(( Nice writeup, Gillock!

The Wildhammer culture is one of my favorite in this game. Great to see good RPers playing out Wildhammer Dwarves. ))

Having woken up a few days after the encounter in the care of Aerie Peak's finest Brewers and mixologists, Orich was enraged , and incredibly still thirsty, yet not incredibly had to piss like a race-gryphon.

After yielding to nature's call, Orich saw the other defenders from a few night's before in the lower quarters of the keep. After getting filled in with the happenings after he had apparently fallen out of a gryphon's nest after being dragged there kicking and screaming about killing that "gryphon killing sonov'an Ogre". Orich went to drink and mourn the fallen Gryphon when he heard the sounds of combat in the hold! The Deader mage from the prior battle was running from the guards in the keep. Filled with renewed vigor and a few to little brews Orich chased after him screaming offence remarks and challenges.

He finally cornered the mage in the keep, striking at his magic shield relentlessly. The others in the keep caught up to Orich and tried to convince him to try talking it over with the undead... 'cept the priest oddly enough, he seemed to want the deader, well deader as much as Orich. The negotiations went as far as Orich telling one of the others who was translating to tell the mage that Orich was attempting to "Gut that deader with his stormhammers"

A few dozen Polymorphs and dwarfcicles later the deader seemed board of what must have seemed games, and attempted to portal out of the keep. Holding Orich back must have been hard, but finally the mage was able to exit the keep via portal.

Arguments ensued over how the situations was handled, it was going to be a long night at Aerie Peak.

Oskor awoke with a start, to find smoke filling the room. The hapless elf lay near the fireplace, apparently sleeping on the job.

The shaman pulled himself to his feet and hobbled toward the fireplace. He was pleased to notice that the swelling in his knee had gone down some.

He recovered the charred remaints of his lunch, then he limped back to the armchair. As he sat, a napkin slipped out of one of the chair's arms and onto his lap. He grunted in amusement, then he sank his teeth into the gryphon flesh.

Beneath the crunchy char, the meat was cooked perfectly.

He glanced up at the elf again and muttered "Gold star in Cookin'. Congratulations," before returning to his meal.