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[A - Windrunner - US] <The Headless Horsemen> 9/16 (H) 10-Man Seeks Mage/Hunter
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<The Headless Horsemen>
(US-Windrunner, PVE/PST) is not responsible for razing and pillaging in Goldshire, Brill, or elsewhere, and we regret that we cannot provide any remuneration to the victims of these attacks. Our guild was founded in April of 2005—some two years before the appearance of the madman known as the Headless Horseman. Litigation to bar his use of our name is ongoing.
In order to offset our sizable legal fees relating to the hooliganism of seasonal bosses, we have turned to 10-man progression raiding. Presently we have cleared 9/16 (H) and stand first among 10-man guilds on Windrunner, so there's nothing for it but to press the buttons harder until we eclipse the 25s as well.
Tuesday-Wednesday 5-10 PM PST
Monday/Thursday availability preferred, but seldom required
Things We Need
Exceptional applicants of other classes/specs are always welcome
Characteristics Desired in Applicants
Charming, mature personality
Team player eager to place the needs of the guild above personal loot, &c.
Driven to clear H/HM content prior to nerfs, and the chops to follow through on it
Impeccable knowledge and expertise demonstrated through logs, an interview, and consistent performance during raids
Punctual and consistent attendance
Preference given to players who are competitive in multiple roles, be it through offspecs or alts
Need Over Greed
Provided by Guild
Provided by Guild
Point of Contact
For more information, or to apply, please do not hesitate to contact Bossy#1230. Operators are standing by to assist you more often than not.
Current logs on WoL are mandatory for consideration. The more, the better.
Our search continues. Still looking for the Disc Priest and Mage who'll light up our lives (but not the property of innocent villagers).
Moar Boar wants moar. Clearly.
Still looking, even in this absurd age where Arcane is once again on top.
H Spirit Kings is way more fun now.
Mages and Priests: in frustration over your continued absence from our ranks, we have killed Heroic Spirit Kings. Join us, and end our senseless rampage.
Up to the top.
By Carl Sandburg
Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.
Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.
I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.
I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices
of my inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.
By Billy Collins
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
- Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
UPDATE: We are more awesome than Heroic Will of the Emperor. They lie dead at our feet, or did very recently.
We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming of Longfellow stanza.
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!
And loud that clarion voice replied,
8/16 (H). Taste it.
"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
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