ReGen 3, Wrath of the Lich King (Open RP)

Publication par oneforthemoney

Evil does not leave. It merely bides its time. It grows stronger. And it returns.

The Burning Crusade ended in triumph against the depredations of the demons. Kil'Jaeden was banished back to the twisting nether. Illidin was toppled from his throne, and Kael'Thas paid for his betrayal. The Blood Elves retook their home and joined the Horde, the Draenei made new allies in the Alliance, and Outland, for the nonce, was won.

But even as the battle on the shattered world ended in celebration with new friends, old foes close to home rose again.

From the skies over Stormwind and Orgrimmar boiled like storm clouds the dark shapes of necropolis'. From their sepulchral bowels were unleashed a legion of the dead against the stunned mortal kingdoms. The Lich King, lord of Northrend and master of the dead, made his move after near a decade of patient waiting.

His attack was beaten back, but the message was clear. The Scourge lived, and it was coming. But if the Lich King had hoped to cow the great factions, he was sorely in error. Expeditions long in coming were completed. Ships sailed for the frozen kingdom of the dead. Beachheads were forced into the Lich King's domain. Dalaran was lifted from its Hillsbrad home to hover over Crystalsong.

But when they arrived, they found more than the Lich King waiting. A new land with new and unexpected enemies awaited. Dragons at war with the mad Malygos, ancient beings of iron and stone locked in a ruinous civil war, a troll nation whose temple city spanned miles, all of it waiting, anticipating the men and women to arrive on its shores. And as always, the endless dead lurked.

The Northrend Wars had begun.

Welcome to the fifth and rebooted episode in the Genesis family of RP's, this time concerning Northrend and the Wrath of the Lich King expansion.

The timeline is thus: The attack on Stormwind and Orgrimmar is over. The fleets have sailed to Northrend and established their respective beachheads, but haven't plumbed much further quite yet. The Ebon Blade has broken from the Lich King and made their presence known to their various factions.

Much of the same rules as the last Genesis apply, but of course, death knights add a new dimension to this, being the hero class. I would say around level twenty experience wise for characters. What that would mean is that they would have either training but little actual experience in battle, or practical experience but little formal training. So apprentices who know how to do things and unless you wish it, are unlikely to be killed by a random scourged wolf. Again, that is more a level cap, and they can be as weak as you like.

As for Death Knights, the same basic tenant applies. You can figure out how to make that work yourself. Either they are still addled, have yet to realize their new powers, or, perhaps, lucked out in reaching their current state. Be creative.

Here, here and here are links to the previous RPs. Feel free to reminisce or take a look.

Third is the standard disclaimer of no god moding, forcing others characters, and so on. Enjoy.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Reserved for a timeline of events

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer
Location: New Hearthglen

Through snow and sleet that lashed the sea to a foam New Hearthglen showed its towers and parapets, rising from the icy cliffs of the Forgotten Shore like a crown atop a snowy head. The scarlet pennant fluttered from atop the foremost tower, a splash of blood red against the steel grey sky, the spires of the abbeys tiled with red like bloody spears thrust against the sky.

Lightning flashed in a dark sky, and showed a tattered red against the black sea. A ship, its wood graoned with the cold and rolled with the sea. Its sails were ripped in places and its ropes flew out, stiff and white with hoarfrost. Sailors bellowed and raced about the deck, slipping on the ice and working with fingers numb and turning blue. All the while the iron grey sky raged.

Only one stood on the deck in their full armour. Weighed down, Sybil clutched a rope tied about her waist and eyed through the slit of her helm the raging heavens. Again lightning flashed, blinding her, and it did not fade fully. She gasped and recoiled at the figure suddenly beside her.

He wore scarlet robes trimmed with gold. A hood thrown back revealed a face just entered manhood, blond hair tossed like a raging halo about his head, eyes fixed forward. Two immense pauldrons sat on his shoulders, curled about like altars, holding within a glow of holy light, the one she had mistaken for the lightning.

For a moment awe struck terror gripped her, wondering how he had manifested like that. A second bolt split the sky, and she saw the stairs and door behind him. Nevertheless, she felt a tremor at his presence.

“Inquisitor!” she called. “You shouldn’t be up here!”

Miter laughed and turned her way. “Sybil! How can I stay below decks and hide from the storm? I am the will of the Crusade! No!” he called, his voice ringing out like a bell, breaking through the rage of the seas. “I had to see it. I have to see what the foreguard has accomplished. Where is it? Ah!”

Lighting flashed and his eyes lit up to see the scarlet towers atop the cliff. He grinned, a wild smile that showed his white teeth. “At last!”

Sybil shook her head. In the midst of it, she noticed Miter’s cloak had been torn open. She caught a glimpse of a sword, its shape odd, but before she could see more a leather gloved hand tugged it closed again.

She shook her head. “Sir. We have come this far. Please. It would be a disgrace for you to have been swept overboard so near to shore.”

Miter caught her eye, then sighed. “Very well . But call me up the moment we dock.”

She let out a breath and nodded, and he turned and vanished back into the depth of the hold. Once he was gone she again looked out to the keep atop the cliffs, and as she saw the scarlet pennant flapping atop the abbey tower, she heard again Miter’s words, and squared her shoulders in pride.

Character: Balrick Brighthammer
Location: Valiance Keep

The north was cold.

This was fairly self evident. Anywhere snow accumulated and frost made the air thick and sharp, it would be cold. But Balrick had to remind himself of it, for he no longer felt the world around him. The winter chill anyway. The cold of undeath lingered in him. The aching, lonely barrenness where every movement was unfeeling and guided more by an awareness of his reach. He held out his hand and a snow flake swayed and danced to land on his palm.

The north was cold.

He closed his fist tightly.

The beating heart of iron and engine in the icebreaker began to slow. Its paddles ceased to beat the waves to a foam as the eagle fronted ship cruised in Valiance Keep. The boom of cannons interspersed the crash of waves, broken against the jagged shore. Balrick looked up to the space between the walls where the port had been built, bridging the two islands with docks. It was the only break in the walls which circled the keep, perching it on the rocky islets but a short distance from the shore. Tall stone walls and half built towers, the parapets whistled in the frigid wind which cut across the icy sea.

Balrick looked down as sailors hurled frost stiffened mooring lines to their companions ashore. They were made fast, the icebreaker turning into the cradle of the dock. Other vessels lay moored in similar states, still and silent. Dead machinery for a dead land, and like the rest of the land, just as liable to start moving at the touch of a button.

He felt before he saw Moriv. A tickling at the back of his mind as the dreadsteed clomped closer and nuzzled his hair. Balrick reached up and stroked the horse’s chanfron, bridle tinkling like a silver bell. He sometimes wondered how much awareness the horse actually possessed? He shook his head, hair once golden blonde now a snowy white swaying. No use thinking about that. It made him too depressed.

His boots were of black metal and banged hollowly on the dock. Several sailors at once recoiled and moved away as he straightened, shivering as blue glowing eyes glanced over them. Balrick was not tall, but neither was he short. His iron pauldrons were spiked and sat on wide shoulders. He wore a breastplate of the same dark metal, its curves forming a skull on his chest whose jagged teeth reached his waist. His skin was an ashy grey, cheekbones stark and sunken. And he was young. A young man once, now timeless in death. Strapped to his sides were two runeblades, the black metal of the short swords inscribed with marks which glowed a blue light, and which rang against his leggings as he moved, nearly tripping him a few times.

Moriv followed off the dock, hooves burning with the fire of undeath spreading a thin frost where they touched. Balrick reached up and pulled up his hood. Eyes glowing from the shadows, he moved away towards the town which lay sheltered within the walls of the Alliance keep. He had just left when a sailor gave a shriek and slipped on the frost Moriv left in his wake. Balrick covered his face with a hand, and just kept walking.

Character: Jack Barothmar
Location: Vengeance Landing

“I remember,” Jack said. The forsaken flexed his bony fingers on the table. They couldn’t get much bonier, seeing as all that was left was bone. Jack grimaced within his hood, the black cowl draping him nearly from head to foot, his mouth wrapped tight in bandages. “Oh yes. I remember. I remember that day. The day the undead came. It was in the grain, you know. Infected the grain. We were warned in time, actually. But we weren’t sure. Was it infected? Was it not? And then, of course, winter was coming.” He grinned showing yellow tombstone teeth. “Oh yes. So, we had a choice. Take a chance on the grain, or starve. Well, we tried the grain.” His rictus smile dropped. “We should have just starved.”

“Um…That’s great, but I actually just came by to get the dishes.”

“Oh.” Jack looked at his plate. “Right. Here.”

Jack watched the nervous looking orc begin to gather the plates. He was slight for an orc, his tucks less pronounced, like a female’s, and his musculature more compact. Even dressed as he was in a simple brown tunic and pants he looked smaller than most. Several pouches lined his belt. Jack stroked his chin. “You do good work boy.”

The orc paused. “…Clearing the dishes?”

“Yes. I like your spunk. How would you like to learn some magic?”

The orc blinked. “Uh…I better…get these to the kitchen.”

Picking up the plates Thorn hurried out of the common room and into the back. The kitchen was warm, but not hot. Vials of strange green substances hung suspended overhead and fed to the preparation counter by long tubes. Sharp utensils, only some of them for cooking, gleaming in racks along the walls. A forsaken woman tended a pot, her eyes yellow lights within the pits of sockets. A much stained apron draped her, and through the tattered sleeves of a grey dress bony forearms stirred with a long wooden spoon. Her head twisted about as the half orc entered.

“What’s with you?”

Thorn sighed and put the plates in the sink. “Just that…weird forsaken in the cowl who always comes in here.”

The undead cook swung about. Despite her lack of organs conspiring against her, she had attempted to retain the stereotype of the fat chef with a pillow jammed behind her apron. It slipped somewhat out as she shook her spoon at Thorn.

“You better not have offended him Thorn! He’s our best customer in this forsaken hole!”

“Best…He doesn’t eat anything!”

“Yes! But he pays for it. Then, I simply give the food to someone else. Paid twice for the same meal. That’s just good business Thorn.”

“…Auntie, I think that’s…not right…in many ways…”

“Are you giving me lip?”

She shook her ladle so hard several green droplets flew off. They struck the table and Thorn eyed them in horror as they hissed and ate through the wood.

“No Auntie!”

“Good!” She huffed and crossed her arms. Then quickly tucked her pillow back in. “You’re off dishes for now. Go fetch some firewood.”

“But…we don’t use a fire.”

“Go down to the beach and grab some driftwood idiot boy! I could replace you in a minute you know! Is that what you want? Huh?” She swung her ladle towards the door. “There are a hundred forsaken just begging to work in here. They would swim across a river of broken glass for the privilege of touching my dirty dishes. Now git!”

Her stinging words chasing him, Thorn stumbled out the door. He straightened once outside and rubbed his arm self consciously as he eyed the porthole door. He sighed and moved away and across the tamped earth of the settlement. A cold breeze rolled off the sea, but the sun was out and shining high in the sky as Thorn picked his way towards the beaches. Vengeance Landing grew behind him, jagged gothic towers strung with wires that buzzed and sparked, windows glowing with violet light and the shambling Forsaken who lived in them wandering around. Climbing down the earth works of the town’s foundation, Thorn wandered down to the beach. The tide had begun to recede, and in its wake was left masses of driftwood sitting to bake in the sun.

Moving slowly along the shore, Thorn began to pick up old broken spars and planks cast off on the northern beach.

Publication par Stabhorn

Character: Vrak, Bathal
Location: Vengeance Landing

By the Titans, he could smell the cold! Vrak sneered as he gingerly stepped off the Zeppelin, gazing out onto the frigid landscape, as the wind howled by him like some wounded beast.

After months of campaigning in the hellish climate of Outland, Northrend was perhaps the strangest sight he'd seen thus far.

"Move forward, Brother," said Bathal, stepping up beside him. Much like Vrak, Bathal wore simple plate armor and a crimson Horde tabard. A brown cloak was thrown awkwardly over his shoulder pads, pressed down by the iron shield he wore over his back. Bathal's skin was a lighter shade of green than Vrak's, but other wise the two orcs were identical.

"I hate this place already." Vrak could see his own breath. Titans! How he longed for the sunny plains of Durotar. With a long sigh, he descended from the tower and into the Forsaken camp, trailed his twin.

Soldiers filed about, mostly Forsaken, standing in formation or prepping for an advance. Vrak and Bathal had somehow been placed here, on this light-forsaken rock with hundreds of foul undead, when they should've been deployed to the Warsong Offensive. Bathal was especially miffed that he could not serve under the young Hellscream.

Vrak wasn't nearly as upset, despite the fact that he was surrounded by two things he hated. Cold and undead. Hopefully the killing would start soon, the sooner Forsaken lost this war, the sooner he could join a real army.

"Come on," he said to his brother. "Let's find out what we're supposed to be doing,"

Publication par jebby

Character: Samuel Thriceborn
Location: Vengence Landing

Diseases danced along the edge of one of Samuel's twin rapiers, blades he had purchased so long ago when he had fancied himself a dashing actor. He poked at a wandering frog, who did little more than cough as the unholy energies coursed through it's tiny body, before hopping on it's way.

The undead death knight sighed. He had passing skill with a blade but no grasp of his new found powers. Luck had brought him to the Battle at Light's Hope, cowardice had seen him through it. His opponent so soon after being raised, again, had tripped right onto his blade, and he had hidden behind the others during the battle.

"Luck," he cursed. He did not feel lucky, given his current state of second undeath. "Why am I here?" he asked no one in particular. Samuel sighed again, "luck" had gotten him into this, luck would have to save him again.

Luck, and a damn good poker face.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Thorn
Location: Vengeance Landing

The waves beat the shore with a rushing sound as Thorn made his way nearer the surf where more of the detritus of the earlier sea battle had gathered. Some sailcloth clung to the shore, or he had assumed it was sailcloth. He was wrong. He was very wrong, as became apparent when he grabbed it and gave it a pull, only for it to roll over and reveal a blank face.

Thorn screamed and jerked back but the corpse gave no sign. It moved, but only in answer to the waves pushing it up the shore, then dragging it back, fouling it in some rope and broken wood. Thorn grabbed his chest and felt his pounding heart slow. As he stared at the body, curiosity replaced fear. Warily he neared and grabbed the arm. No response. The flesh was cold and clammy and he grimaced at it, but, steeling himself, he gripped the arm and dragged it from the surf.

When he had taken it from the waters and released it, he fell back onto a stone, panting, and eyed what he had found. A human, doubtless one left from the battle at sea some days past. The flesh was somewhat swollen but mostly appeared intact. Eyelashes crusted with frost hung over eyes like glass staring back, the corpse wearing a breastplate with the blue and gold lion of the Alliance. It had been a woman, somewhat pretty, her black hair stiff from sea water. What blood there had been was washed away leaving the corpse pristine, but monstrously pale. For some time Thorn sat there, staring at the human's corpse. Then, he stood. He stepped towards it, skittish like a deer, for one never knew. Crouching warily down, he began to search the body.

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

The modest balconies on the new minster commanded a magnificent view to the south, and while every gust of wind felt like it tried to pluck her off the polished stone Evlyn was never afraid. The gale whipped and tugged at her woolen robes, and snow got into her eyes, but it only made her feel more alive. And was there any place where that feeling was more welcome than here, the frozen north where undeath and evil reigned?

The young woman leaned on the balustrade, the stone cold to the touch even through gloves. Green eyes peered through the flurry at the approaching ship, barely visible in the darkness as a black hulk in the foaming white sea. When lightning tore through the sky the masts and spars became visible, looking like the skeleton of some long dead behemoth. It was rumored that this ship brought something more than recruits and supplies. Perhaps that was why she had gone up the tower when word spread that sails had been sighted on the horizon. Or perhaps it was the storm that had called her like so many times before.

Down on the docks, she saw from her perch, they also anticipated the coming. The harbor master was gesturing vividly with his boatcloak fluttering around him, and she could tell he was shouting at his dockside hands even though no sound was carried her way. Barrels of gravel were being brought out to increase foothold on the icy jetty for the unloading of cargo, and braziers were being lit.

She lingered for a few moments, gazing yearningly at the heaving sea and the salt spray. With a final sigh she let go of the parapet and headed inside to descend the winding steps.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer
Location: New Hearthglen

Wearily the damaged ship nosed its way into harbour. No easy feat with the waves stirred to such a frenzy. Mooring lines were swiftly tied down and the ship drawn into the protective shelter of the beach and dock. Rocking slowly to the heaving waves, a ramp moved from the ship's side and fell with a thunk to the dock.

At once Miter descended. The inquisitor kept his hood back so all could see his face. He saw the stiffening of those who saw his tabard and its symbol of the flame bordered by stitch of gold. Behind him Sybil kept pace.

"I-Inquisitor!" the harbour master gasped. "You...we thought you lost at sea!"

"Harrowing, but the Light saw us through," Miter said. "Blown off course but we corrected it. Please, which way to the general? I have much to tell her."

"Ah. That is...Up. In the abbey, sir."

"Good man." Miter patted his shoulder with a leather clad hand and moved up the jetty. Behind him came the shouts and grunts as men began to unload the cargo from the ship.

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

So it was true. He had been aboard. Even from a distance it was plain as day that the first man off the gangplank was the inquisitor himself, and Northrend suddenly felt a little less cold when the glow from his sacred armor shone faintly upon her face. Idly watching the inquisitor's party pass by, Evlyn found herself wondering if the general had known or was in for a surprise. Regardless of which she was glad it wasn't her job to receive him, even if she was curious what he was like in person.

If there even was a person under the skin. She had heard stories about the inquisitors, of how they were like empty husks filled with hate and holy fire, unstoppable in battle and houndlike in their ability to root out evil, but impossible to reason or even converse with. Linder shuddered at the thought - she did not believe it herself, but she wasn't exactly eager to find out she was wrong.

The inquisitor having passed and the routine dockwork begun, she found little reason to stay. While the wool still kept her warm it was nearly soaked by now, and a bath and some dry clothes was an inviting prospect...

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer
Location: New Hearthglen

The pass cut through and up the shore at a steep angle before reaching the fortress. It was a work in progress, that was certain, and was characteristic of the Crusade as a whole. Miter paused at the top of the pass and observed what had been done. The buildings had been finished first, notably the spired cathedral and the barracks which were side by side. The distant gate lacked a gate, though it had the frame built between two towers, spreading out in walls of white stone encircling the fortress. Here and there stone could be seen piled, the frames of walls poking up like skeletal shapes. A pair of ballistas were aimed through the gap and soldiers wrapped in scarlet cloaks moved about on guard. Near finished, but not quite, Miter could not fault his superiors on their priorities, which called him again to the business, and turned his steps to the forbidding cathedral.

Climbing the steps, two knights in full armour did not bar him entrance as he moved inside, but fell in behind him. Sybil eyed them and gripped her sheathed sword, though Miter gave them no notice.

The wind did not reach the inside. The white stones were warm and stained glass patterned the stones with splashes of colour. Entering the sanctum they found a wide space of pews ranged before an altar. Banners of the crusade hung from the walls and torches guttered where they were lit. The wind howled outside, just audible, and the icy snow clattered at the window like fingers trying to claw their way in.

At the far end of the room stood a commanding woman. In full plate, she wore the tabard of the crusade over her chest in a splash of scarlet against the dark iron. Long red hair from her head, wound about behind her shoulders. She carried a vicious looking battle axe, its blade wrapped in light like flame, or dripping blood. She was deep in conversation with a bearded man in white and red robes and a tall hat whose front was marked by the scarlet flame. Both stopped and turned as Miter entered, she looking at him with curiosity, he with cold interest.

Miter stopped at the bottom of the stairs and offered a slight bow. "High General Abbendis. It is good to see you survived the journey across the sea."

"Who are you, Inquisitor?" she asked.

"Miter Brighthammer. Of the ship Purging Flame. We were sent astray by a storm. Our ship damaged and were even beset by strange giants of the sea who turned to sea weed as they died, but we have perservered and arrived, come to serve the Crusade at its time of greatest need."

Abbendis did not answer at once, giving the inquisitor a long, careful look. "...We are pleased to see you, Inquisitor, and happily accept the men you bring."

"I have another request, High General," Miter said.

"What?"

"A mission, general. One of great importance and value no doubt to the Crusade."

Abbendis was about to answer when the bishop at her side leaned in and whispered in her ear. She listened attentively, and her face grew blank and cold. She nodded, then looked back at Miter. "We will speak of it later. In the meantime, feel free to explore the keep as you wish."

Miter's schooled expression did not betray his irritation. Instead he bowed anew, then turned and left the cathedral. He paused at the top of the steps, his cloak snapping to the biting wind once more.

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

With a towel wrapped around her head, a bathrobe to cover her body, and a torch to light her way Linder returned from the barracks' basement and the baths. They neophytes all slept together no matter if they were builders, soldiers or clerics, so the living quarters were never quiet, but the baths were. There you could sit and think with wisps of rising steam dancing around you and a stiff brush to purge the toils of the day. Evlyn liked thinking, so she liked the baths. Today the water had been cold, though, and her visit not long.

Her closest bunkmates were out and about, she found. She hung the towel over the bedframe and tied up her hair in a bun with a simple stick. From the footlocker she got a dry set of robes and slipped into them. She watched as a pair of guardsmen rattled by in their cheap platemail, their cloaks leaving a trail of droplets on the floor.

Feeling fortified by the comfort of dry clothes, Linder donned a cloak against the storm and left to find her instructor or, failing that, some mundane task to keep her busy until the bell tolled to dinner.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer, Sybil Rynnthen
Location: New Hearthglen

"What now, sir?" Sybil asked.

"We'll take a look around, at first, I think." Miter mused. His eye caught a figure exiting the barracks. A woman in a threadbare cloak against the cold. At once he approached her. "Crusader!" he called.

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

Though she could hardly hear him over the wind's tireless howling, the neophyte knew at once who it was that called. She understood who he meant, too, and nigh involuntarily she found herself straightening her back as she stopped and faced him.

"Inquisitor, sir", she began, uncertain of the protocol, but certain it was best to save her words for his questions.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer, Sybil Rynnthen
Location: New Hearthglen

"Well met, Crusader," Miter said, walking down the small road which crossed through the snow. "And you know I, but I do not know you. Who am I speaking to?"

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

"Linder, sir. Evlyn Linder. Novice of the raven priesthood."

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer, Sybil Rynnthen
Location: New Hearthglen

"Ah. Yes." Miter stopped before her, folding his hands into his sleeves. "The...new regiments."

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

Linder felt her heart beginning to pound harder. "That is... correct, sir."

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer, Sybil Rynnthen
Location: New Hearthglen

"Walk with me. I could use a tour of the fortress. And, of course, I would speak with such a unique individual in the Crusade," Miter said, setting off through the snow swept compound.

Publication par Persen

Evlyn Linder
New Hearthglen

"C-certainly, sir", the girl obeyed, falling in beside the inquisitor and pulling the cloak tighter around her against the snow.

Publication par oneforthemoney

Character: Miter Brighthammer, Sybil Rynnthen
Location: New Hearthglen

"How long have you been with our order?" Miter asked. His tone was pleasant, his glance and smile disarming. But Sybil kept behind the unfortunate priest, the crusader knight holding the hilt of her sword and looking down emotionlessly on Evlyn.

ReGen 3, Wrath of the Lich King (Open RP)

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