[H] Letter - Call to Arms for the Horde (and story - "Remember")

The following letter has been dispersed to most if not all the key leaders and commanders of horde regiments, clans, warbands and groups who would in secret say they are alligned with the 'Resistance', it is short and sweet.

The Time Has come to come together in unity against he who would oppress or enslave us! Bring your blades, your bows, your noble honorable soul. Come forth and unite with your brothers and sisters of the Horde, so that we may march upon Orgrimmar united as we should always be. Let us stand shoulder to should and chant a new blood oath together!

Lok'tar ogar! Victory or death - it is these words that bind me to the Horde. For they are the most sacred and fundamental of truths to any warrior of the Horde.

I give my flesh and blood freely to the Horde. I am the instrument of my Horde's desire. I am a weapon of my Horde's command.

From this moment until the end of days I live and die - For the Horde!

We Gather in Zoram'gar outpost, a settlement that gave over freely and saw the error of Hellscreams ways. Come on the 29th day of this month, at half past the eighth horn. Bring all you can, it is time we stood together. it is time You stood together. The Darkspear have long anguished under the oppression of the Kor'kron, and now they fight openly, so should we too!

For the Horde!

--Krogon Devilstep, Blademaster and servant of the horde.

It's begun! the gathering event is on wednesday the 29th at 20:30 server time, in zoram'gar outpost. Feel free to arrive before, after or exactly on the day!

also... time for a story!


The herbs and dust descended into the crackling fire. A fizz and a crackle erupted as the offerings were burnt to ash, a plume of white smoke dancing skyward. The beach by Zoram'gar outpost at this time of night, would make a fine place to commune.

Krogon collected his thoughts, sitting himself cross legged, despite the protests of his maimed and exhausted body. The last two months had driven him to the edge of insanity and agony, but he still breathed, just. Through black ringed and bloodshot eyes he watched his own hands take his prayer beads from around his neck and place them by his feet in the sand.

The Spirits be praised, and offerings given, this humble servant asks for your wisdom.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head, Thoughts swirling and twisting in his sleep deprived mind. It was a struggle to remain focused, His body had been pushed as far as it could and then further. Bruise addled arms, a criss-cross stitched torso, shredded feet. Even the calm peace of a cup of tea offered him no reprieve, his body only demanded one thing now. Sleep.

The Spirits be praised, and offerings given, this humble servant asks for your wisdom.
His mind turned to worry, did the spirits no longer favour him? had he offended them? Or perhaps the pain and exhaustion impaired him too much.

A gentle, ethereal cough was heard. The clearing of a throat, announcing someone's presence. Krogon turned his eyes upward, squinting. Through the plume of smoke he could make out the shape of a spirit sat cross legged, on the other side of the fire.

Thank you spirits.

Krogon leant forward, bowing his head low with the due expected reverence.

"Forgive me honoured spirit, I did not see you--" Krogon stopped himself, he knew this spirit. That long red beard, those iconic cloth clad shoulders, that Wolf mask. His eyes blinked and narrowed in focus, an expression fob lank incomprehension covering his face.

Sharptongue?

" Well, call me Kraag an' spank me thrice..." Spoke the spirit of Sadok Sharptongue, grinning widely.

" ...The spirits like to play their jokes on me, it seems" Krogon grumbled. He had not expected a Red blade spirit to answer his call, he was exiled after all.

"Wha' be the meanin' o'all this, eh?" Wearily muttered the deceased High blade, his ghostly shape shimmering beyond the smoke.

Show respect, do not waste his time.

"Hrm, I sought the wisdom of the honoured dead, for guidance. I was not expecting a Red blade ancestor to heed my plea" Asked the Blademaster, sitting himself cross legged once more.

"Y'wanted wisdom o'the honoured dead - well, what be it, eh? I be Wise, I be honoured, I be passed" Spoke Sadok coolly, only glancing down at his own ethereal arm for a moment.

Krogon took a deep breath to steady himself. Recalling how he had learned of his former pack brothers demise, weeks after it occurred.

"I said prayers, when I heard you had passed. As for guidance honoured High Blade--

"A shame our last words were so fraught wi'tumult" Spoke the spirit with an irreverent smirk.

Krogon grumbled, it was true, their last words had been heated and scornful.

"I must know, What more can I do? I have broken bones, starved, laboured, tricked, fought, killed, stolen. Murdered for this horde. What more can I do?" Krogon spoke, his voice flagging with doubt and rasping exhaustion.

The spirit grunted, shaking his head gently, as if in his now all knowing state he thought the question but a mundane and humble one. An obvious answer apparent.

"Ghrmph. It be simple, in me humble but deceased opinion, Devilstep." The spirit nodded sagely.

Krogon leaned forward, desperately straining to hear what he could.

"The tide be turnin'. More an' more turn against what be comin' from Orgrimmar - even those that ain't exiled still be in rebellion within 'em hearts an' souls." Echoed Sharptongue, the dancing fire and rising smoke masking his visage as it spoke. " Y'can only work fer so long in the shadows, can only hide an' plot fer so long... Plant yer banner. Make yer stand. P'raps no-one will come, an' all will be fer naught. But p'raps many will emerge from hidin', emerge from their oppression an' flock t'the cause. There be a time fer everythin', an' y'must do what y'know t'be right. Y'may be able t'lurk in the shadows, but only by emergin' from 'em can y'-strike-. Y'yerself know this all too well." He finished, looking down to his ghostly arm with a bleak grunt of discomfort. "I still be sore o'er that Tournament o'the Blades free-fer-all".

Krogon swayed as he took the words in, the wisdom washing over his mind. Sharptongue was right, the time had come. his eyes narrowed and relaxed as he struggled to focus his vision on the spirit.

"Ghrm, I be sore everywhere" Muttered the Blademaster, gesturing to his ruined and bloodied feet, too damaged to even wear sandals now.

"Nothin' worth havin' were e'er easy. That includes liberty. Fel, it be that very same cause that be why I'm talkin' t'y'from across worlds" Came the honest reply, with ghostly nod.

"I Hear your words, and I heed them. My banner shall be planted... and my banner--" Krogon whispered, forcing himself to stand. His hands clasped at his Red Waist-wrap, pulling it away from his hips and allowing it to unfurl on the night breeze. A Horde banner was revealed, blood red and darkest black of night.

"--Is a Banner for all" He finished, swaying on his feet, the wave of red cloth fluttering in his hand in all its glory. The spirit tilted its head curiously just as the Blademasters finally gave way.

Krogon propped himself on all fours, grasping at the fine grains of beach sand with his hands. It was all becoming clear now, even if his body had thrown the towel in, his spirit and that of the Horde never would.

"Hrm. Then we shall see who flocks t'the banner, who hears the call" Sadok spoke, his voice wavering, his time on this plane no doubt near an end.
Krogon continued to prop himself on all fours, his mind turning in dizzy spells. "Thankyou for your words, and your reminder honoure--" he stopped himself, paused.

No, More than that.

"--Old pack Brother" he whispered, before finally collapsing into the sand, embraced by it.

The spirits shimmering shape, fading as the smoke died away smirked.

"Get yerself a grom-damn shirt, Devilstep. Yer puffy areolas sicken me" Sadok grinned.

Krogon smiled, as he felt sleep washing over him. A strange sense of peace and an affirmation of his duty warming him as he fell into the embrace of sleep.

Sadok smiled, standing. His ghostly shape finnaly fading with the rising of the sun and the death of the fire.

"Y'can exile an orc from a place or a tribe, but y'cannot exile his heart from an idea or a cause. Yer heart be that o'a Red Blade no matter wha' may 'appen" He spoke, one final time before returning to the ghostly plane from where he came.

Zazulia Sunborne yawned, despite the news she bore in the letter she held, making her way up the grand staircase of Sunwing Spire towards the Lord Magister’s office. She knocked lightly on the mahogany portal and entered without waiting for confirmation.

Abulos sat at his desk, the only light in the room cast by a single arcane crystal hanging above the stacks of paper. He carried on writing as she approached across the carpet, seemingly unaware that his office had another occupant. Zazulia bit her lip as she pondered how exactly she would explain the situation, jumping as Abulos finally spoke.

“The revolution has begun.” He carried on writing, not even taking his eyes of his work. His majordomo was puzzled. She had only received the letter half an hour ago, how did he-

“It is...two bells in the morning,” Abulos said, pausing as a bell tolled far away. “Which makes whatever is contained in that letter very important. Not fortuitous news, else you would already have spoken. You are wondering how best to break the news. And the only bad news that has been looming on the horizon is the rebellion against Orgrimmar. What does it say?”

Zazulia paraphrased the letter as Abulos finished writing and set his quill aside, giving Zazulia his full attention. When she had finished, she quietly placed the letter before the Lord Magister. Abulos looked down at the writing.

“What will you do, sir?” Zazulia asked, a hint of fear in her voice.

“Attend; though not openly support the endeavour, unless his Lordship throws his backing into this.” Abulos picked up the letter and let it burn to ash in his hand, his expression grim and destermined. “In which case, I am only too happy to lend a helping knife.”

The apartment of Aishling was filled with candles and felstones when her Tharama, her help, entered. He looked around, curious as to what the Magistrix was doing. She was on her bed, her eyes closed. Suddenly the flames rose from their candles. A chill went through Tharama his spine. The room started to remind him of the ghoststories he had been told when he was little.

"I- I- I have a message for you, Magistrix. It is of utmost important I was told."

The Magistrix opened her eyes. They were bright, felgreen. Tharama usually thought she had beautiful eyes. But now, they scared him.

"What?! Can't you see I am meditating?! It's eleven o'clock in the evening, I could very well be in my sleeping clothes by now. Read it!"

The Magistrix commanded Tharama. Stuttering at first, he read the letter. He did not know much of politics, but even he knew the consequences of this letter.

"No letters from the Regent-Lord, the Ranger-General or the Grand-Magister?"

Tharama shook his head.

"Hrmn. Very well. Get me my wine and stay here. I have an errand for you later on. Get this letter to Tyr's Hand. This letter may only be delivered to the Commander. Nobody else! I trust you can do that? I need to think on what to do with the Arcane Conclave. Damn Hellscream is forcing my hand..."

Tharama only nodded. He found the glass of wine, and together they worked until deep in the night.

On the plains of Mulgore sits a Pandaren with his Cloud Serpent companion gazing up into the stars of the night sky. "So much is at peace, but also so much is at war with itself my friend." said the monk as he scratched the nose of the golden beast beside him. He was just refreshing his pipe when a Tauren came running towards them from the towering city of Thunder Bluff.

"A letter for you." was all the Shu'halo said before returning to the city after handing over the scroll. Zouyo raised an eyebrow at the departing Tauren's back before unfurling the scroll and reading through it. "Well now... seems that the tides of this war are shifting, as the flames of rebellion rise high..." he mused as he stood up and clambered onto the saddle on the Serpent. "Well then my friend, shall we go see what we can do to help recreate our own people's history here with the Horde?" asked Zouyo of the Cloud Serpent before they set off into the skies, heading for the forests of Ashenvale, and the fires of revolution.

((A little bump, as an IC reminder to those who still want to attend the Gathering! an IC reply's are welcome!))