The Wayfarer’s Coterie
the house villainy built
War arises, and through blade bow and breath champions rise to meet it. Through sad circumstance however, the structures of a growing society and the laws of the ruling men -sequestered as they are, proof against the battlefield’s spirit crushing grip- the threads heroes and bastards alike rely upon cannot always keep pace. Some will snap away entirely. People are left behind. Waylaid, forgotten.
It may be the world altering itself without your consent. The work you dedicated your precious years to, equal measures brutal and regretful and necessary, may now have become written as unlawful in the books of the distant ruling class. The streets you once patrolled and maintained with a just, even hand now bear the loitering weight of the undeservedly smug, growing wealthy at the expense of the very folk you oathed to preserve. Your own warm circle, diluted by thoughts they did not arrive at naturally, driven by fear or hate to cast you out from the only family you have known. Tragedies made common in our era. Penned each day by the hand of Gods who have fallen asleep at their divine job, with your blood and tears as ink.
I have come to gather you, to call you home.
The Wayfarer’s Coterie is haven to the outcast, the down-trodden, the oppressed. My allotment within the sea-side City of Man permits room and board, and I offer purposeful work for able hands. The Isle of Dorn presents countless opportunities for the willing, and where might and magic may escape your preference your unique status as an outsider has surely provided you with a serviceable education in squeezing sweet juice from sour grapes. There is plenty to be done. We will be busy.
Beneath the cloth of my ancient, tired heritage I extend unto you reform and dignity in the face of a calloused world. Pledge yourself to my cause, and together we will march to places we could never have reached if we had listened to those who claimed we were unworthy. Life and time may have conspired to remand each of us to our own deep, personal hells. The hour has come to rise above our bindings, and give back some hell of our own.
Applicants of Poor Standing Preferred
Well-Lettered and Lonesome Expected
Intolerant or Self-Serving Need Not Apply
Accepting Written or Verbal Application
6969 Cutthroat Alley, Stormwind
Night Keep You
Signed and Sealed
This Day xx_xx_xxxx
Lictor Priamhark Vorkalth Bloodwing
Last of His Name