Monday, December 21. 2009The Ruins, Part 3
From our series of guild lore, the conclusion to the tale of Zalmoxis the warlock and Magliol the traveller... . You can read parts one and two here.
Part III: Been in the Storm They were swept back into the Nether and subsumed by it. This time it was quite a while before they found their footing. The air was familiar, the smell … the marshes. Zangarmarsh. ‘Wha— why are we here?’ Zalmoxis felt a trepidation he could not begin to explain. ‘That I am not sure of.’ They set out into the mucky undergrowth. The sounds … it was so loud back then, so many birds and animals. After a few minutes of mucking through the undergrowth they found what they were hunting: a fish farm in a shallow pool under the cover of the huge mushrooms. It was on fire. Continue reading "The Ruins, Part 3" Saturday, December 19. 2009The Ruins, Part 2
Part of our ongoing series of guild lore. A continuation of the last installment.
Part II: Down by the Riverside Magliol quickly became the best sailor among them. For a time, he was content. They ran trading routes all over their far corner of the world. Sometimes he thought of home, but often he did not let himself. He even let himself forget the war he had been training to fight in, and the one before that that had taken his brothers and sisters, even his parents. Those were his earliest memories. The Horde, that damnable thing. One night he vowed never to return to that life, to kill any sign of it whenever and wherever he found it. His people had succumbed to the demons, so let the demons have them. He had a better life now. Sometimes news from faraway lands drifted into the little tavern on the beach that he had bought. He would be tending bar for the Pandarens, or whoever happened to wander in, late into the evening, and a traveller would start to tell stories. Many were unbelievable, so he paid them no heed, until one night a strange-looking fellow began talking loudly of the wars in the far East. Continue reading "The Ruins, Part 2" Thursday, December 17. 2009The Ruins, Part 1
As things slow down a bit around here for the holidays, here's more from the ongoing series of guild lore. In this episode, some time before the Crusade and it's allies stormed the Citadel at Icecrown, the priest Thoradiel calls upon Zalmoxis to take up a different kind of quest...
Prologue: Over Sea In the high, red desert there was only the sound of the wind. Around the old stone monolith the camp was empty, save for the hot, dry breeze that kicked up dust around the abandoned tents and artillery pieces. Perhaps, if you listened very closely, you could have heard the thudding of the paws of a battle worg smacking against the soft clay dirt, or the low, heavy breathing of the rider, wrapped in a long, dark cloak despite the heat. And, had you stood on the hills over the camp, seen him come on his mount swiftly through the cut, up the road from the swamp to the north, heading straight for the great gateway of the stone opening. If you had been paying particular attention, you might even have seen a look of hesitation — fear, even? — pass across his tough, scarred orcish visage before he disappeared into the glowing magic portal. But you did not. No one did. Continue reading "The Ruins, Part 1" Tuesday, September 22. 2009Pilgrim's Progress, Part 2
Part of our ongoing series. You can read part one here.
Kekrops trembled, rattling in his chains; whether it was from pain or exhaustion he did not know, but still he did not cry out. It was all he could do to keep from screaming in frustration, but he was silent. They had tortured him; Gorrush had berated him, and shown him the heads of those they had captured along with them. They bore terrible wounds—and Kekrops, who was no stranger to death and injury, could tell they had been made on living bodies. Still, he resisted. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing his despair. Gorrush had brought a cup of demon’s blood into the cellar; it was a sickly green color, the hue of decay. He did not try to force it down Kekrops’ throat. There was no point; the magic required he drink it willingly. Gorrush leaned in until the stench of his breath nearly choked Kekrops. “You are nothing. You are a stupid beast, and little runt of one at that that should have been killed at birth. You think your master-slave can lead the Orcs to redemption? You think your Horde can be redeemed? I will tell you what the Horde is. The Horde is a killing machine. The Horde is a tool of destruction. The Horde would not exist except for the gift of the Legion, and without it, the Orcs would be pig-farmers playing servant to arrogant whims of the Draenei invaders still. It was born in the slaughter of innocents, and we drank their blood and it made us strong. Gul’dan gave us a gift, Kekrops, a gift Thrall would see squandered. It is fear that holds you back from accepting your true fate. Fear of what you can become—fear of the strength that is yours by right. Accept it!” Continue reading "Pilgrim's Progress, Part 2" Friday, September 18. 2009More Guild Lore: Pilgrim's Progress, Part 1
Prologue: The Second War
The rain fell in a steady torrent over the battlefield, drenching the grunts as they felled trees and piled them into makeshift barricades. In the distance, the thunder of the Alliance cannons could occasionally be heard, and even in the twilit gloom, a red glow could be seen on the low clouds away south. In the distance, the Orcish fleet was burning; the sound of the artillery was the Alliance bombarding the last of the Horde’s coastal fortifications on the island before they sent in their marines. The soldiers of Kul Tiras would be ruthless; but then, the Humans had never got any quarter from the Orcs in the war, and so they would give none in return. At least they die with honor, Kekrops thought of the warriors that still manned their posts. As will we, he added silently. It was a minor battle in the course of the war; the island was not a strategic position, just a convenient place for the destroyers to dock and the juggernauts to resupply. It would not be remembered later except by those who fought in it, and after the way things had unfolded off the coast, that would only be a few Alliance soldiers and sailors. But they would not surrender. There would be more fighting yet, and they would make sure the Alliance paid for this muddy shoal in blood. The orcs did not speak as they worked, except at need; there were the occasional curses and epithets directed at the Alliance, though. Suddenly the line fell quiet, and the chopping of axes slowed. Kekrops, who had been shifting a log into place atop one of the piles, looked up. There was a tall, thin figure on a horse, wearing a deep scarlet cloak advancing down the line. His face was hidden in the folds of his robe, but a pair of eyes shone out from underneath it, lit with an unnatural red glow. “Sergeant Kekrops,” it said. Its—his—voice was raspy and hollow; the voice of one of Gul’dan’s death knights. He was in nominal command of the operation, anyway. “Sir,” said Kekrops. “Just what are your men doing?” “Entrenching, sir,” said Kekrops. “We won’t give up the island without a fight.” Continue reading "More Guild Lore: Pilgrim's Progress, Part 1" Friday, September 11. 2009Redemption
Part of an occasional series featuring guild lore. The story of a betrayed Path expedition to the North.
When Ekhan Wildmane grew of age in his tribe, his elder brother Takwo had taken him on his first hunt. “Remember, Ekhan,” Takwo had said, “We Tauren are hunters and creatures of the plains. You must learn to understand the world and your place in it, just as you must learn to take your place in the tribe. See here,” and his brother had indicated with a sweep of his hand the great languid expanse of the Barrens before them. Ekhan had breathed in the wind that swept across the endless miles of brown grass, and watched the distant gracile beasts browsing for food. The hot sun beat down and covered the wadis and the dry lake beds and the old roads and the rocks, always the rocks, with not a scrap of shade or the faintest hint of the sound of water. Home, it had all said to him. His tribe were nomads and all the plains were their home. Takwo had taken his spear in hand and bent down to inspect a set of hoofprints trailing off in the dirt, beckoning Ekhan close. “Follow,” he had said, and broke into a run across the plains. Ekhan had taken up his own spear and run after his brother. All that was years ago. More years than Ekhan could count or care to remember; it was before the endless wars with the centaur, and the day his brother had been found killed in a ditch, trapped and hopelessly outnumbered by a Kolkar scout party. It was before he had forsaken his tribe and wandered into the wilderness on his own to learn the ways of druidism, and before Thoradiel Lightrider, a young and idealistic elf of Quel’Thalas had found him in a tent on Thunder Bluff contemplating his sorrows, and convinced him to leave his life of solitude behind and rejoin the world. It was so long ago he wondered how it had any connection to his life now. Still, this was what he remembered as he ran. Only this time as he ran, he was the hunted, running across the snowfields of the Dragonblight, a pack of howling minions of the undead Scourge in close pursuit. Continue reading "Redemption" Saturday, June 6. 2009The Ascension of Thórva
Part of a series of occasional stories about the Luminous Path’s history. In this instalment, Thórva takes over the leadership of the Path from his brother.
AT NIGHT—though you can hardly tell it's night; the light never changes down here—the Cantrips and Crows begins to fill up with the sort of people I normally don't have much to do with: rogues, seedy humans, goblins, criminals. And looking back now, it's hard to imagine I ever spent as much time there as I was in the habit of doing in those days. But the snow, the miles and miles of unending, unrelenting, starving cold, were just too much to take in uninterrupted by warmth of some kind. And the Cantrips offered all the Mulgore Firewater an elf could drink (not much, admittedly). On this particular night, I was across the table from a forsaken Rogue—a friend, of sorts; a kind of twisted mentor, whose smell I'd grown used to and who was utterly untrustworthy, but fairly friendly and amusing about it. Our drinking had stretched on for long enough that through the wine-goggles, stronger than any an engineer could make, even the Human innkeeper was starting to look... well... not as disgusting as Humans usually look. And of course the bloody rogue was doing nothing to discourage me. Not if it meant keeping me from making a total tit out of myself. Continue reading "The Ascension of Thórva"
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The Luminous Path is a Horde raiding guild on Defias Brotherhood EU. Though our main focus is steady PvE progression, we also have an in-depth roleplaying backstory and justification. Feel free to read the story or visit our recruitment forums.
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