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Alterac Mountains...
#1
((Anyone who would be wandering or living in Alterac Mountains may reply ICly to this))

The mountains of Alterac--layers of the ever present snow blanket the ground, but one could notice a tall silhouette against the white and gray. It did not appear to be a tree--No, it was far too short. As one would walk closer, the dark shape took a more solid form: that of a crucifix.

A stripped woman--still kept somewhat decent with her undergarments--with black-brown hair and paling olive skin hangs upon the wooden beams, her dark ponytail flapping constantly with the wind. Her once bright face covered with dry blood, and an iron mask covers her chin. Its positioning alludes to it almost trying to prevent the jaw from falling off.

For those who recognize the corpse they would eventually recognize the woman.

That woman being Annabelle Greene.
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#2
((...Oh. Oh boy.))
[Image: desc_head_freemasons.jpg]

△Move along.△


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#3
(THE ONLY CHARACTER I HAVE WHO EVEN CONSIDERS ALTERAC A PLACE WOULD BE LANGOBARD.

... or perhaps maybe Aryeon but that'd just be mean )
Your stories will always remain...
[Image: nIapRMV.png?1]
... as will your valiant hearts.
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#4
((The Harvest is currently based in Alterac.

TOTALLY CONSIDERING IT))
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#5
(SOL ARE YOU JUST LOOKING FOR EVERY REASON TO MAKE PEOPLE HATE JARED. Good thing this isn't Cata or you'd totally make her a Forsaken.)
Your stories will always remain...
[Image: nIapRMV.png?1]
... as will your valiant hearts.
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#6
(Hivemind, Cappn.

14:50:15 [Elias]: ...
14:50:19 [Elias]: If this were Cataclysm,
14:50:25 [Elias]: We'd totally resurrect Annabelle as a Forsaken.)
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#7
RALERIAN IS GOING TO FIND HER END OF STORY.

PREPARE FOR LOGS.

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#8
(I Hivemind a lot. It happens.)
Your stories will always remain...
[Image: nIapRMV.png?1]
... as will your valiant hearts.
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#9
The cold winds beat, then calm. Beat, then calm. A small snow drift builds at the bottom of a pole in the ground, erected in the mountains of Alterac. As one might lift their gaze, they'd find it's a very special type of pole, used for nailing people to on the occasion of a rather tortuous death. Indeed, this crucifix is occupied; a young woman, her body in its twenties. Olive skin, scars from battle dotting and slashing her flesh. All old. What is new is the beaten in skull, and the lower face mask holding her jaw in place. Her skin has paled considerably, bruise-like discolorations forming at her feet. She is very cold and very still.

Ralerian passes over soft, icy powder. His bare feet, swathed in faded shadow, are untouched by the cold. Clasped in his hands, a bouquet of herbs and flowers held at his abdomen, like a bride at her wedding. He leans down, and with gentle fingers he plucks more herbs from the near-barren soil. As he draws near this atrocity, the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise, a feeling he was not at all used to in his profession. He flips back his hood in the icy wind, a tumble of crimson cascading about his shoulders and down his back. He looks cautiously from around a tree, curious, perhaps even cautious. He finally sets eyes upon Annabelle, a shock of green in his shadow widened at the sight. "Of all the humans to die an early death..."

Ralerian shakes his head slowly, looking about, gathering information as to who would attempt to kill -Annabelle- of all people.

Annabelle hangs there, snow settling upon her shoulders, what remains of her hair not crushed into her skull flapping in the wind. The Guardian may notice the remnants of heavy footprints--guarded by plate, the trail of the cross being dragged.

Ralerian lets his cool emerald gaze trail over those prints, only the faintest touch of emotion in their beryl lights. He brings his gaze up to Annabelle and mimics her place, arms out to the sides, palms facing out. He closes his eyes, that faint green light masked by lids of shadow. He drops his head, murmuring low in Thalassian. Moments pass like hours, the prayer wasn't short and was spoken with a grave solemnity that did not become his usual manner. He splays his fingers, pulling his arms back, and with them, the nails that held Anna's arms in that humiliating display of death-for-show.

They rocket from her, to be caught in Ralerian's outstretched arms. Her feet would find themselves freed thereafter, dropping the first ones, he ripped the next out with a violent sweep of his arms, up, then down.

Annabelle 's arms, stiffening by now, slip down to her sides. She starts to fall forward toward the snowy ground....

Sparing her the fall, she floats gently from her perch to his arms, where she is cradled as if she were but sleeping. His cloak whips out from behind him, covering her in whole with a shroud of midnight blackness.

Given some bit of dignity, her corpse floats to the shadowmancer, resting stiffly in his ghostly arms. Further secured, she might indeed be appearing asleep, were it not for her ruined face.

"It was not your time, my child. Of that I am certain.” Ralerian pauses for a moment. "Eagan! Come!"

A giant white wolf pads up through the snow, a simple saddle upon his back. Ralerian coos gently to it. "We're headed south."

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#10
Some Hours After Receiving the News of Annabelle's Death...

Deep in the mountains,
Near her forgotten namesake,
Greenburge has fallen.

Tressian, upon hearing the news of his cousin's untimely demise, scrawls the words upon faded parchment. Folding the paper, he presses it past the mouth of a dark blue envelope. The contrast of a similarly hued dark red wax is nearly negligible as the seal of the Van Greenburges, better known as those of House Bluethorn, is pressed into it's surface. Offering the letter to a courier who's face is clad in orange, and body wrapped in black, the Arcanist presses his elbows against the table before him. His forehead digs into his knuckles, as he presses the two together.

Despite the windows and walls blocking the small abode from the flurry of snow outside, frost begins to creep across the floor nearby. It hangs from the ceiling, and clings to the walls. The Alteracian's nearby undead construct twitches as the few receptors still left within it's body fire at the contact of the bitter chill. The creature shirks back, whether at the mental storm brewing within the mind of the one he was connected, or at the ice beginning to form at his toes is unclear.

Standing, the chill clears, fading back into latent ley energy. Black hair, normally kempt with extreme precision, falls in clumps around his head. His fists tense, and his head whips around to stare at the window. At the snow fall outside. They dare to kill my kin, on my own land...

As Tress speaks, the words begin to etch themselves across the letter now in the hands of the Syndicate courier.

Vengeance shall be swift.




In Hearthglen


Don Bronco slumps into the chair the Guardsman typically finds himself in after a long shift. The singed metal of battle worn gauntlets, blackened by the break up of a fight between mages earlier in the day, begin to tear open the letter given to him by a strange young man just before entering his home. The seal was familiar, but the words within were not.

Deep in the mountains,
Near her forgotten namesake,
Greenburge has fallen.


Vengeance shall be swift.

The haiku, in it's strict meter, extends far beyond the scope of Bronco's daily prose. Within however, the Rancher knew that he was aware of the letter's meaning. That he had not seen Annabelle in quite some time, and that the mark was that of Annabelle's cousin's House. That something had happened to his love, and that he had not been there to protect her. A confused expression contorts into one of fear, and finally of anger. At himself, at whoever hurt Annabelle, at the vague nature of both Tress and his letter.

"...Ain't you just able t' say what th' fel it is yer tryin' ta say Tress?" Don growls beneath his breath, flipping the letter back and forth between his fingers. The Rancher, in his tin can of a suit, rises. He begins to pace, the index finger and thumb of his free hand gripping the bridge of his nose, "Anna... Where are ya'?"

Don pauses his incessant stepping, pausing only to stare at the ground. For the first time since his fiancee's prior death, tears begin to well in the man's eyes.

"...Where are ya'..."
"Every gun..."

[Image: Jonah-Hex-Counting-Corpses-Flaming-Leap.jpg]

"...Makes its own tune."


~ The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ~
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#11
04:33:47 [Aryeon]: rale is such a priss
04:33:55 [Aryeon]: >USES SHADOW TO NNEVER TOUCH SNOW

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#12
Aroes sat in an archaic fortune telling cart that currently serves as a gimmick so that he might make a living. The small room was cast with eerie shadows thanks to three uneven candles that levitated above the table. A strange messenger had entered some moments earlier, seeking to have his future divined. As payment...a simple letter was given.

Deep in the mountains,
Near her forgotten namesake,
Greenburge has fallen.


Vengeance shall be swift.


The meaning became clear in the near silence of the cart...so entranced by this letter was the fortune-teller that even his sightless eye read every word. It took every ounce of willpower to refrain of calling up the darkness to steal the messenger away forever. Aroes removed a shimmering black deck from his sleeve, laying the first card on the table.

"You'd started the Fool's Journey before you even arrived here...The Magician, upside down. You're nothing but a pawn."

A second card is flipped from the deck and a sudden chill fills the cart.

"Strength...upside down. You're trying too hard and thus failure and death is assured."

A third card hits the table.

"Temperance...upside down. The path you walk is bound to fall out from under you, although that may be more my doing than fate's. Now get out of my sight."

As the messenger left, Aroes slumped back in the chair to a strangled snarl. Two more cards fell onto the table from his lax grip.

"The High Priestess and the Moon right side up...didn't need magic to tell me that."

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#13
A lone man stood as he worked, the recent months have been quiet for him. His work kept him business, prevented him from having any sort of fun. As he added another undead doll to his collection, a letter was slammed in front of his work space by Jany, the bear warrior.

"That's for you."

Redis wrinkles his brows, shooing off Jany with a flurry of slaps, collecting the letter between two shaky hands as he reads...

Deep in the mountains,
Near her forgotten namesake,
Greenburge has fallen.


Vengeance shall be swift.

He stared at the letter for thirty minutes.

Something triggered in that twisted and insane mind of his.

He was going to do something.

... What, no one knew.

The man collected his things and departed the same day, traveling north.
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#14
Atop a snow covered hill at a distance from the scene stood a lone elf, his form hidden by a thick woolen hooded cloak. His heavy boots had not moved since he happened across the humiliating display. He brought his chilled hand to the sides of his hood, holding it against the gentle breeze. He had not spoken. He was too terrified to approach.

There's no way that they had done this...

His green eyes flicked to the scene as he pinched the sides of his hood to cover his mouth, his reddened face now almost fully hidden from the world. He stood, silently observing Ralerian as he had done his work. He frowned more, his throat tightening.

All that happens is loss. There's never any joy. If that really is her...

He shook his head in denial. He spoke quietly, "Ralerian can take care of you better than I can. You might have saved me before, but I can't return the favor... Please don't leave us forever like Larenir did." He moved forward reluctantly, the snow crunching lightly under his boots. Doran would not be seen for a long while after.
[Image: KceuhuX.gif][Image: eKcKrrq.png]
I am tech support

[4:16:27 PM] Cristovao di Silvio ( @"CappnRob"): theres the bar. then theres the bottom of the barrel, then theres you sachi
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#15
Rensin sat and watched the people of the area, grunting as he waited in the bar. It was getting too close to lunch time, and not once did he see Anna pop in, and say hello to people. He had gotten so used to her doing her paperwork in that inn, that he started to know her routine almost as good at his own. After reading the paper he was given for free the day before, he was absolutely worried for Anna; knowing that she was the target for assassins.

He stood up, and looked around. He stretched out his arms, and went to find Don.

"Tha' berk will know where she is. Iff'n not, Imma kick him fo' losin' sight o' her. Shit."

He saw a crowd of people. Some were crying. Waiting outside Don's door. Rensin processed this, he knew what it usually meant. He refused to believe it, and went past the crowd, knocking on Don's door, loudly. "Oy, asshole. It's Rensin."


[Image: desc_head_freemasons.jpg]

△Move along.△


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