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The Great War (Open RP)
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In the war between the Horde and the Alliance in the aftermath of the Cataclysm, the unmatched inventiveness of those trying to destroy each other came to light like never before in the history of Azeroth. The arms race started long before that, of course, but for a long time it was just a question of sharper swords, tougher armour and more powerful bows. Gnomes and goblins crafted their contraptions for the benefit of those who called themselves their allies - or those whose bids outmatched their competitors. War was technological, but it was never industrial.
In Northrend something changed. Heroes, mages, holy men and dragons rallied against the Lich King, and soon his own forces turned against him. But the Ebon Blade’s immortal warriors were not the only new weapon in the arsenal of warchiefs and kings. High above the clouds of Northrend, machines not unlike any other commanded the skies. Bringing firepower to bear rivalling that of the Burning Legion’s deadliest devices, they helped tip the balance in favour of the combined forces of good.
The Legion always brought superior technology to the battlefield in the past. Many warriors were lost to the dreaded Fel Reavers in the early stages of the reclamation of Outland before viable weaponry became available to deal with the massive walkers. As usual, both engineers and sorcerers independently developed solutions to the fel-iron plated problem, which undoubtedly led to less effective arms than if both disciplines had combined their strengths.
This was soon to change, however. Both blood elves and ethereals employed technology that was indistinguishable from magic...and magic that was so close to technology that a differentiation had no purpose. In terms of weaponry, the pinnacle during that era was undoubtedly the mana bombs detonated in Terokkar Forest and Netherstorm. While their destructive power were limited in comparison to what the masters of fel magic are capable of, such might had never before been available for commanders to deploy at will. Three known devices were detonated in Outland; after the defeat of Kael’thas, neither side expected there to be another such awesome display of destructive power.
The conflict between the Alliance and the Horde eventually stopped smoldering and burst into open flame. Suddenly, both sides had massive fleets of airships clashing in the sky alongside traditional airborne warriors atop winged beasts. The navies had mostly played out their roles, now only engaging the other side in occasional bouts at sea and playing hide-and-seek around the coasts. Naval commanders never really stood in the limelight on Azeroth; that position was reserved for generals and warlords. Bringing their cannons to bear on shores was no longer important when bombs could be dropped from thousands of feet to flatten a barricaded encampment in seconds. Winds were unpredictable; boilers and propellers are unreliable but can be controlled. So began the era of mechanised war.
Under Garrosh’s command a number of atrocities were committed, but few rival the renaissance of the mana bomb in awe-inspiring combination with the Focusing Iris, stolen from the blue dragonflight. Technology had finally defeated magic in terms of raw power - taking what it needed from the latter and using it more effectively than any dark arts practitioner could dream of. Magic had finally served out its purpose, it seemed, but ironically technology proved incapable of providing defense against such vast power.
Believing himself to possess the key to victory over the Alliance, Garrosh immediately ordered mass production of the mana bomb for frontline deployment as a terror weapon in an attempt to completely erase the Alliance. To ascertain that his enemies would have no defense against the coming apocalypse, he set into motion the systematic tracking and killing of mages within the Alliance armed forces. While this purge was one of the most extensive operations of the whole war, the Alliance counter-intelligence ultimately proved unable to come up with the answer of why until it was too late. The organized use of magic, particularly in the Stormwind army, had been completely crippled for the duration of the war.
SI:7 could only respond in kind without knowing why. While Garrosh’s engineers and slave labour perfected the weapon of mass destruction and stockpiled the devices for the decisive strike, warlocks and mages began disappearing from the ranks of the Horde. Garrosh’s purge was kept as a closely guarded secret, so few of the Horde generals understood it was actually targeted retaliation. The shadows whispering in the warchief’s ear let him know, however, and he became afraid that the Alliance not only knew what was in motion, but that they had developed unfathomably powerful weapons of their own.
They eventually did, too. The bombing of Theramore Isle had sparked a frantic search for means of a counterstrike, and few things are as motivating to research as war. The first prototype was detonated out to sea after a number of discreet but obvious leaks. A terror balance had been established: both sides had seen the effects of modern war, but only one had truly felt it. Conflict was still not industrial, however. Power was in the hands of a chosen few. Battles were still fought on bloody foothills and barren wastelands by soldiers in plate armour crying for their mothers while impaling the enemy on their spears.
Then came the perfection of the machine gun. Almost overnight the Alliance fielded the first truly revolutionary change in warfare since flying beasts were first tamed. The following days, rows upon rows of soldiers were thrown against the meat grinders on a remote battlefield to no avail until the drums finally beat to retreat. The Alliance slowly advanced on the Horde positions, but the defensive nature of the new weapon became evident. They were too heavy to use on the offense, and too powerful to defeat when dug in without air support - until a bold strike in the middle of the night caught an exhausted gun-crew off guard. Reverse-engineering the device took only a matter of days. In a few weeks the Horde encampments were lined with lead-spitting monstrosities that cut through flesh like butter. War had finally become industrial.
Hi and thanks for reading my attempt at a backstory for my new open RP! Branching out somewhere in MoP, the events take place some time after those in the intro. The Horde/Alliance war rages on in a WW1-esque conflict, where no side can win and every attempt at breaking the standstill ends up in a slaughterhouse.
The technology has obviously evolved from what we see in MoP, but not in the way things are heading in the game. Forget advanced electronics and magic-augmented devices - now it’s all about mechanics and death. Best described as dieselpunk, the world is dirty, practical and unforgiving. Arcane magic is still there, but most mages are in exile, and those remaining are kept under close guard. The Church of the Holy Light desperately attempts to keep up the human faith, but encounters more resistance every day as people reject its teachings in favour of more simple, savage rites. The druids of both factions have withdrawn from the conflict, refusing to partake in senseless destruction. The soldiers are pawns in a game where a general’s orders usually means the death of hundreds and the sight of paladin in shining armour walking unscathed through the bullet storm is but a dream for most.
With that, I’ll leave you to it. I hope you will enjoy this modified take at Warcraft for as long as it lasts. Roleplay a commander, a mercenary, a spy, a squad of shock troops or whatever you like - it’s sandbox. Don’t godmode. Be friendly. Have fun.
Oh, and sorry for the wall of text.
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
Jonathan rose and stretched - well, as much as the low ceiling of the cargo hold allowed. The voyage from Stormwind had been uneventful and boring, with fresh westerlies carrying them briskly up the coast. He looked across to his co-passengers, eyeing each of them with bleary eyes. He felt his coat pocket, just to be sure. Having suffered the long journey just to be told to turn around at the dock office was not something he wished for...but yes, the papers were there. Excellent.
Emily peered at the hunched man from her rather comfortable position between two sacks of grain. She wondered if it was the long time she had spent in this shoe-box filled with sailors and goods that clouded her judgement, or if Jonathan really was that handsome. His shoulder-length wavy chestnut hair, blue eyes that seemed to look right into you...no, it was probably just the persisting lack of sociable company. She yawned and brushed an auburn tuft out of her face. They had stopped moving, she could feel that. Only the gentle heaving of the waves remained, which had to mean they were in port. Oh, to feel the solid ground under her feet again…
The hatch to the hold opened overhead and a flood of daylight was let in. The rough voice of the bosun called down for them to clear out on the double - the cargo was soon to be unloaded, and he didn't want no lubbers in the way. Jonathan rubbed his eyes and blinked into the light before heaving up his satchel over one shoulder and grabbing the ladder's stiles.
Southern Gilneas, Inquisition HQ
Lancalor stared at the large crystaline based device, if it worked, this device, this "Obelisk of the Light" would render the Forsaken utterly defenseless, and doomed to little more than prompt incineration.
At it's current state, a large Obelisk could only extend it's effect to a mere 50 feet, but work was underway, last week it was 45 feet, the week before that 30 feet.
Soon enough, it will be time to unleash the obelisk on the forsaken, and take back lordaeron.
: Hearthglen, Weastern Plaugelands
On a misty evning, a wanderer walked up to the argent guardsmen at the gate, dressed in what is to be expected from a stormwind emessary, exept he wasn't a emessary of stormwind.
Short blonde hair and pale skin with fair blue eyes. They would not see that the man known as S-37 or subject 37, for he was a emesary of death and has been experimented on to become such. His name wiped out, he was now more than a human could ever be.
S-37 handed over a leter to the guard, and then entered the city. For a leter he should deliver. All for the grand master plan of his necromantic overlord.
The words whispering in his ear from his creator.
"Do not forget ze plan S-37. Do az told."
((Ooc, this is the perfect rp for my forsaken.))
High Executioner McCoy
Silverpine Forset, Forsaken High Command
"These beasts are up to something" McCoy thought to himself as they have became more defensive the past couple weeks. McCoy barked orders telling his men to tighten up the defense and double the patrol parties
: Zandrayax Flamerunner
: Bilgewater Harbor
Zandrayax trundled along the streets of Bilgewater Harbor on his trike, in the middle of his personal guard that consisted of two hobgoblins, an imp, a voidwalker and a member of the Gob Squad currently being disciplined. Such was the life of a warlock these days, being endangered gave him a whole load of rights, and the fact that he was well versed in the art of making explosives and acids gave him a considerably high status, and a lot of financial wealth from the Horde.
Eventually, they reached his mansion in the rich part of the harbour. This was manned by yet more goblins, bruisers and gunslingers, as well as maids and servants. The bruisers guarding the door let him pass and one of them passed him a letter with the Horde's seal on it. It seemed he was on a mission. Walking to his bedroom he hastily ripped open the seal and read the contents.
: Hearthglen, Weastern Plaugelands
"Jhonathan Harrington?" A argent called to S-37, and the infiltrator noded in reply.
"Tirion will see you now." S-37 noded and smirked. He then began to move towards Mardenholde Keep, on his way he bumped into a hooded arcanist, or thats what he is telling the argents as he joined them, but he is very much a member of the cult of the damned and a necromancer at that. Into the pocket of the cultist robe a syringe was placed, as planed.
The messenger of doom marched into Fordrings keep and into the main chamber where the paladin resided.
S-37 handed over a letter with it's seal of stormwind intact. The paladin open the letter, only to raise a eyebrow to the letters on it. "You're eaither with us or against us." Added S-37 to Tirion. And bowed and walked of. He had nothing further to add today, tomorow however....
All was silent upon the eastern front. Night was falling upon the trenches gouged out of the moist earth, great ditches crawling all across the vast landscape like the tracks of great snakes. Barbed wire strung between askew posts caught the last glitters of the day as the sun sank below the distant horizon. Daniel Hoffden nervously fumbled with his sword, sentry duty having fallen on him that evening, more's the pity. Huddling deep inside his muddy trench coat and domed helmet, he leaned against the wall of the trench and stared across the desolate landscape of no man's land. No side needed fear a night attack, for the night did not belong to them.
The last fringes of day passed, plunging the world into darkness.
It began with a a solitary ball of light, then another, and another until there were as many as there were stars in the sky. All across the muddy fields willow the wisps became alive. Thousands upon thousands of tiny lantern glows, blue dancing lights climbed into the sky, dancing amongst each other to a silent dirge.
Daniel breathed against his hands to warm them and tried to ignore the figures which then began to manifest. Shadows and blue lights, they coalesced into gaunt figures garbed in thick coats. Swords, shovels, rifles and blades in their hands. In silent ranks they rose on either side, bulky forms of orcs, slender forms of men and stunted ones of dwarves. No armour of steel save helms, such equipment would only serve to sink in the muddy fields they would be forced to charge across. More than a few had suffocated even beneath the threadbare equipment they now bore. One stood above the others, wearing a tall plumed helmet, his face a sallow mask with hollow eyes and mouth. Opposite him stood an orc in the familiar patchwork armour of the Horde, his translucent skin marked by the tattoos of the Warsong. Both the generals of their forgotten legions raised their spectral blades, threw them forth, and sent their men to do battle once more.
Yes, Daniel thought as he watched the armies charge at one another with bayonets and blades. The days belonged to the living to kill one another, and the nights the dead.
To any other these nights would be a silent tableau of war, but not to Daniel. He knew not why, but the suffering of these dead men rang to his ears as truly as though they lived. He heard every clashing blade, witnessed every war cry, but their final gasps...they he hated most. Each as vivid as their first as they struck the other down, their mouth opening in moans of agony as they fell and sank beneath the mud once more. Daniel could cover his ears, but they would ring out just as loud, doomed commanders sending their damned men to battle every night to do battle.
And every night, there were more to fight.
Daniel crouched against the wall of the trench, the ground soft as grave soil depressing against his body. He pulled his coat tight as he shuddered against the noise. He hated night watch, worse because he knew any complaint he made would do no good. All he could do was shudder against the wall, and pray for day.
High Executioner McCoy
Silverpine Forset, Forsaken High Command
"Sir." One of soliders said with a salute. "
What is it? Speak quickly.
" McCoy replied turning his attention to the solider. "The cannons have arrived" He answered pointing to the direction where the cannons were getting pulled into camp.
" McCoy said rubbing his boney hands together. "
Now we can begin. Ready the plague for deployment.
" The solider nodded and headed to obey the order. McCoy walked over to a nearby table and made a couple marks on the map that was laid out.
Those mangy dogs will know that Lordaeron belongs to the forsaken,
now and forever
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
Menethil Harbor, Wetlands
Jonathan remained silent as he presented his papers to the port officer. A short line had formed behind him, each person fidgeting in one way or another with their documents. The man behind the desk eyed him over the rim of his glasses. A snort was heard as he laid down the papers and reached for his stamp.
"Next," the tired voice announced mechanically. Jonathan took his now approved bundle of papers and folded them neatly before they were put in one of the inner pockets of his coat. He turned on his heel and stepped towards the door.
Not ten minutes later Emily emerged from the office, waving her folded bundle in a victorious gesture. They didn't speak a word to each other. The whole town had an oppressive aura to it. It was something with the sky and the mud, and the tilting, half-sunken miserable excuses for buildings. Not even the furled sails on the ships behind them looked white.
They moved in the direction of the inn, since it was starting to get late. Some food other than biscuits and split peas would be very welcome, Emily thought and felt her stomach rumble. A final warm meal before they headed out to the front.
Daniel huddled into his jacket and tried to avoid the voices, one in particular above the others.
This one originated across from him and from a small ledge on the other side of the trench where normally one might find the watchman's lantern. Needless to say with the battle of spectral lights proceeding just over the lip of the trench it was unnecessary. Light did, however, glow upon that protrusion. Two burning yellow lights sat deep within the sockets of a skull which was once a man of heroic standing and grand proceedings. He had inspired every man he met, leading every charge from the front, and had more than once been the one who carried some unfortunate soldier back to cover.
Unfortunately, the fact so few speak of about men who lead from the front, is that their life expectancy is quite lower than those who lead form the back. There were several cracks about a hole in his forehead, glaring out like a third eye, made from a lucky shot by a Horde soldier one fateful day charging a breach.
Daniel was aware of all this, because he had been trying to watch the man's back moments before the bullet struck, and a shaman had engulfed Captain Porter in flames. Daniel had seen many tragedies amongst those trenches, yet when Captain Porter fell, his uniform still smoldering and hand mangled from when his pistol had exploded, it had all hit the youth hard. He had been desperate as all the others during the retreat, his limbs and mind numbed, and only once he had returned did he realize he had saved this last token of his commanding officer.
Some would have taken a medal, a buckler, dog tags.
Daniel had taken a head.
That fact, among others such when the head began to talk, convinced Daniel that it was a terrible idea for him to come soldiering.
"I know you can hear me lad," Porter's voice sounded, if somewhat more hollowly, across the trench. Daniel clenched his teeth and tried to ignore the voice which continued unimpeded. "And you can hear them too. Why is that, do ya think? I never heard them, least till I was shed my mortal coil, as it were. And I'm not among them either, save stuck to these ragabones. You think there's a reason for that? I do. I think you're on these lines for somethin' specific."
"No I'm not," Daniel emphatically stated. "And you can't talk!"
"Ooh! Can't talk can I? Then I must be singing because you're answerig something ain't ye!"
"You're not real," Daniel insisted while pointedly not looking at the skull. "You're dead."
"Am I? Well look at that! Lah dee dah! I thought something was missing. I just assumed I forgot the bloody keys today!"
"Shut up!" Daniel hissed, rounding on the skull with fervent eyes. "You're not real! Just...just a voice! In my head, like them. It's all...It's all psychology!"
The skull snorted, despite lacking a nose. "Well! Seems to me being able to speak to the dead is the lesser of two evils if the other is you're bonkers, don't it?"
Making a frustrated sound like a tea kettle at boil Daniel grabbed his hair from beneath the hat and turned away, biting his lip as hard as he could while desperately working to ignore the voices which should not be, but which assailed him from all sides just the same.
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
"That was good," Jonathan finally broke the silence when his plate was empty. Grabbing a napkin to wipe his lips, he leant back in his chair and looked utterly comfortable. Emily, sitting across from the table, put down her fork and stared at him. How could he be so calm? She had barely touched her food even though he was right; it was quite good.
"I'm full," she lied. He replied with a confused look. To further reinforce her point she pushed the plate away. He smiled crookedly and rose from his seat.
"I'll get the room keys," he informed, somewhat to her surprise. He usually spoke very little of his intentions. She nodded tiredly in acknowledgement before he turned away. A couple of minutes later he was back at the table, presenting her with two small skeleton keys.
"We could save in on expenses if we shared," he mentioned matter-of-factly. She took one of the keys from his outstretched hand and said nothing, to which he shrugged. "Not that we'll have much use for pocket money the coming weeks," he remarked, and that ended both the conversation and the day as a whole.
By the end of the night Daniel did not look well, but as the morning's first rays spilled across the lands he managed to rise, tuck the skull of his former commanding officer into a bag and shuffle through the trenches. Passing by the ranks of storm grey overcoats and ponchos of soldiers now on duty, Daniel slipped into the dugout near the rear of the lines.
The earthen chamber was largely empty. A few oil lamps flickered from their pegs casting a dull glow across the wooden walls and floor, one of these Daniel grasping as he passed. Bunks carved into the walls or crouching in the shadows loomed in the meager light. Daniel passed a pot bellied stove which still held a coffee pot, empty save the final dregs and the last thing the exhausted soldier needed now. He was grateful there was no one about as he hung his coat, helm and pouch upon a peg, Porter wise enough not to speak to which Daniel was grateful. He did not believe in earnest that the voice of his former officer was within his head, but denial of it was a mercy he could ill afford to surrender. So long as he refused to accept it truly, he could hold onto that tentative belief that he was just another soldier, doomed to fight and die upon the trenches. The alternative, he thought with dread while crawling beneath the thin blanket, was even grimmer.
Grasping the lantern, he blew it out and plunged himself into darkness.
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
When Emily came down the stairs to the tavern's main room, she was not surprised that Jonathan already sat there sipping coffee with an empty plate before him. She halted halfway down, shook her head, then continued to the bar. A minute later she sat across from him again, peeling a boiled egg.
"Coffee?" Jonathan gestured with the pot in his hand. Emily gratefully pushed her cup towards him and returned to her egg. "Slept well?" he continued. She shook her head and retrieved the cup.
Half an hour later they exited the inn and were welcomed by the grey morning sky and the drizzle that was all too familiar to anyone who had spent more than a day in Wetlands. A pair of horses stood ready with a stable boy on a leash just next to the door. They shimmered in a most surreal manner in the strange ambient lighting, a fact that Jonathan seemed to pay very little attention to. Emily was sure he noticed, though, as it was not his nature to miss things.
They sat up, checked one final time that their personal effects were in order and headed out on the winding trail of mud that passed for a road.
Twisting, turning, rolling, groaning, Daniel finally threw the covers free, accepting he would be unlikely to find any sleep today. Rubbing his eyes dismally he threw his legs out and pressed his face into his hands.
Which more or less summed up the situation perfectly.
Steam and heat whisked against his protective hands. Removing his hands he stared into a cracked cup of coffee held in a pair of fingerless gloves. Above those sat merry emerald eyes, and a cheery smile beneath a mop of scraggly brown hair. His face was blotched with an early survival of pox giving him a somewhat ruddy expression as though he were always somewhat ill.
"Morning Daniel," Gerald Vicard greeted with a half smile. "Sleep well?"
Danile groaned and accepted the cup. "As well as ever."
Not without sympathy the other soldier took a seat beside Daniel on the bed. "Hard luck that. Look on the bright side though. It's morning, you're fresh as...you'll ever be, and we aren't called up to jump ditches today!"
Daniel sighed, rather wanly, and sipped from his cup. "I suppose...I suppose..."
Grinning broadly Gerald hopped upright. "Aw come on. 'S not all bad. Here!" he suddenly cried, grabbing Daniel by the hands and hoisting the surprised youth upright. "Why not go outside? 'Til we have orders, we can probably hang a little near the rear."
Daniel, eyes wide as a frightened fawn, was tugged with a surprised squawk towards the door.
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
The ride was just as uneventful as one going through a wasteland might be assumed to be for the first hour or so. The cart-trails led them on, the way unmistakable, and every now and then they met a coachman or farmer trudging on with his tireless animals.
They took a break and ate a meat pie when the sun should have indicated a time somewhere between dawn and noon. The sky just barely hinted it was day, however, and neither the time nor duration of the pause was of much importance anyway.
Collapsed trenches and heaps of twisted metal soon came into sight and made it all too clear, at least for Emily's tastes, that they were approaching one of the bloodiest battlefields of this age. The scarred landscape was naviagable only via a long series of bridges, only long enough to span the ditches left by a long forgotten battlefront but wide enough for both supply caravans and siege engines. In the distance smoke rose in ominous spires, spreading out and mingling with the heavy mist to form a blanket of darkness over the two fronts and the no man's land in between.
"So that's where we're heading," Emily said with a shudder. The silence was nearly killing her, but there was little to be done about it. She knew that all too well.
Jonathan answered with a nod without looking her way, and they kept moving.
: Kirina Ebonrose, Jean Karith
The ebon haired human female hugged her asigned riffle. "We are going to die, we are going to die" Kirina repedietly muttered after seing the dreadfull front, so much death, so many bodies.
Jean Karithton, a blonde human male, riding next to Kirina in the same squad of troppers as Emily and Jonathan. Stared with hate in his eyes on the destination, not fury for the foe, but for those that send him here, he had not wished to actualy fight, but to be a guard and have a comfy life with a healty pay. But this bloody war. This bloody stupid war.
: S-37, Hadran Meriath
: Hearthglen, Weastern Plaugelands
As the night began to cover the city the infiltrated cultist took the needle and inserted it in a pulsing vein of a alone sleeping guard. Neutrality have made the crusade gone soft, but the light was still there to mock them. To battle them. Have the crusade enter the battle would change a lot and make things smother for the return of the Scourge.
Daniel Hoffden, Gerald Vicar
A helpful hand allowed Daniel to climb over the lip of the trench and into the day. So far behind the front there were no fears for snipers, allowing both men who were nearly still boys to hop over the thick ditches and towards the rear. There the ground was more even and less ravaged, some grass still even surviving amidst stagnant pools of water and twisted metal from when it had once served as the front. It had been near here that the Horde's advance had been first stymied, and looking back Daniel felt a pang for how ever since they had only managed to repulse them by inches.
Beneath the drab overcast skies they found a seat upon an ancient an abandoned ballista, finally managing to remove their boots from the sucking mud which seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.
Removing his helm, Gerald wiped his brow with a relieved sigh and leaned back. He gestured towards an approaching cart. "Look at that! New meat for the grinder. I wonder how many of them are going to dance the midnight with the others?"
Daniel watched the cart rumble past, the pained expression found on his face one he quickly tried to mask with a draw of a flask. He shifted uncomfortably at a sullen noise coming from a pouch upon his waist, but was relieved when no other arose.
Gerald sat a little straighter on spotting two lone riders coming down the packed trail. Nudging his withdrawn companion, the flush faced youth gestured. "Wonder who they are?"
Daniel, too, glanced at the odd pair. Few people rode horses as mere mean of conveyance anymore. Usually they came in divisions of cavalry though not so often anymore, or perhaps as ambulances towing stretchers. These however appeared healthier than those sad excuses of wasted flesh and bone.
"Don't know," Daniel at length replied. "Officers maybe."
"Or tourists looking for a view of the front," Gerald scoffed. Eyes suddenly twinkling in delight, Gerald rose to stand on the cross beam of the catapult.
"G-Gerald," Daniel mouthed in a dawning tone. "What are you...no, don't!"
Cupping his hands about his mouth, Gerald shouted, "Hiyo riders! Where you off to!"
Jonathan Azar, Emily Weston
Emily visibly brightened up when reached by the juvenile greeting, and looked expectantly over to her travelling companion. She half expected him to display no interest in the greeting, but was positively surprised when he held his horse in and raised an arm to wave to the soldiers.
She halted beside him and they held that position for a few seconds. "Shall we?" Jonathan then said in a much merrier tone than was usual for him and appropriate for the setting, and set off down the slope at a brisk pace.
: Zandrayax Flamerunner
: Bilgewater Harbor
Menethil Harbor. That was his next destination. He'd been getting tired of harbor's recently and was sorry that he had to see another one, but a job was a job. Turning to his guard, he motioned for the two hobgoblins to collect all of his explosive blueprints and tools as well as his clothes and some money and pack them all up. On second thoughts, he motioned for the member of the Gob Squad to accompany them. He didn't trust what little brainpower the hobgoblins had.
After everything was packed and packed onto a spare trike, Zandrayax made his way to the military side of Bilgewater, where an airship was being loaded with cargo and soldiers, as well as another arcanist, a frost mage this time, with her own guard. Barely inclining their heads, the two goblins boarded the airship. After a few minutes it set off across the Great Sea, making its way to the Wetlands.
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