Admittedly I got this idea from someone who asked me what mine would be (you know who you are) but since it seems like every other thread and every other Discord channel is chock full of people who think only the sin scouring decadence of the Venthyr fits their characters for their Covenant choice, go on then, tell me what’s written on your Sinstone that only a few centuries of being ridiculed, berated, and yelled at fits your avatar.
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Revendreth would have to build a cathedral to my sin.
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You know, when I was debating whether or not to hit make thread the first thing to pop into my head was “I bet Rakham makes an I’m 14 and this is Hot Topic post within 10 minutes.”
That’s going on your Sinstone.
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Look, man. I got one job and that is to be the edgiest edgelord that ever lorded over edges.
Edit: You can put that on my Sin Cathedral too.
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Not seeing the lion king
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Also, seeing the lion king
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Jaywalking
Breaking the laws of gravity
Breaking the laws of time
Flying a spaceship without a license
Flying a spaceship without filing a proper flight plan
Property damage as the result of improperly parking spaceship into a planet
Fruit and vegetable smuggling
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none for i am a good dog
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That incident with the Bladewind Clan.
That thing in Prophet Velen’s short story from Cata where the Draenei weren’t being very nice to Human refugees.
Literally all of WoD.
Her repeated (albeit failed) attempts to kill her son.
Will not stop making fun of people shorter than her.
The tldr is essentially Nethielle believing herself 100% in the right for offing people because she’s a Vindicator, and her response to finding out that her name appears on a lot of Sinstones in Revendreth is to immediately ask where their owners are so that she could kill them again. When in Rome and all that.
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The sinstone of Sint Dagon, Dread Rider War.
Heroics do not wash away the stains of time, dear Lady.
She carved a bloody path across the world, bringing fire and fury to all the places she walked. Peace was knowingly denied.
But it was for a good purpose. Her war was not one fought thoughtlessly, but it still was one fought brutally. Her broken pride blinded her to the truth around her, and only served to bloody her blade ever further.
Born in the blood, made penitent by the blood. Repent with iron’s weight, and the raven-harvest wrought by broken fury.
(the sintstone. i made the joke so you didnt have to)
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“Intelligent but Lazy.”
“Wise but Silent.”
“Charismatic but Aloof.”
“Solarion’s greatest Sin was not the waste of his innate strengths, but being Proud of embracing mediocrity to mask his fear of ambition.”
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I’ll answer for Sarestha’s dad, Charles Ravelle, who is gonna be my Revendreth toon.
Tiny bit of brief context: Charles was a pacifistic priest, once. Until the Scourge came. He saw his wife killed and raised into undeath in front of him. Her corpse tried to kill their daughter, Sarestha. His response was to burn her corpse to ash using the Light. His beloved wife.
It broke him. He became obsessed with vengeance to the Scourge.
When I made Sarestha I wanted her to be a well-intentioned extremist, and that’s part of why I chose the Scarlet Crusade as a major part of her backstory, before her undeath. This concept of being a Scourge-destroying Knight of Lordaeron served her in life among the Crusade, and in death among the Forsaken.
Charles was the darker element of the Crusade. Sarestha, for good or ill, followed the Scarlets in life because she genuinely believed they were trying to restore her homeland and beat the bad guys. Thus she dismissed, or wasn’t fully aware of, the darker aspects of the Crusade. Charles, by contrast, went fully into it. He became an Inquisitor. He went from being a healer to a torturer - a breaker of minds. After Sarestha died thanks to the Ebon Blade Death Knights, he even became a Raven Priest of the Scarlet Onslaught. By the end he was even 99% sure that Admiral Barean Westwind was a demon, or at least not what he seemed. He didn’t care. The Scarlet ideology, the cause of restoring Lordaeron, the Light… he didn’t care about any of it. He became so bitter and twisted that he only cared about vengeance.
When contemplating the character’s trauma, I wrote this little collection of “Themes”. It’s a bit of a silly thing, but it helped me think out who and what Charles Ravelle is.
Vengeance, and what happens next? A shattered life. The consequence of pushing a pacifist to breaking point. Maintaining a facade of civilisation while descending rapidly into barbarism. Morals, ethics, noble causes and religions - all tools to be used in service of revenge. A shadow of one’s former self. Troubled by thousands of screams but eventually starts to smile. And then to laugh. Dead long before the breathing stopped. Regrets distant and muted, escaping one’s grasp even when trying to reach for them. What started as a desire to protect family becomes a disregard for them - what started as love for people becomes pleasure at causing them pain. Bitter, twisted and lost; a void that cannot be filled but is trying anyway. The traumatised Priest who found himself unable to practice what he preached.
So with all that in mind - Charles has the biggest sinstone. He tortured, killed and broke the minds of innocents, initially believing it was necessary, but eventually just sort of developing the habit. He forsook all his vows of peace and healing, and became a truly deplorable man. He became so lost in his own grief that he became a source of suffering to others.
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Raynell hit the grey stone floor with a thud, thrown against it forcefully by her stoneborn captor before a host of shadowy figures. Behind them, what little light shone through Revendreth filtered through a blood red stained window, towering above the group in the cathedral-esque hall. One of them lifted their hood, a gaunt looking man with slicked back white hair and pallid grey skin, a pair of piercing red eyes looking over the blood elf with an air of disdain.
“This…is our conscript, Count Rivan?”
“It is indeed, Chamberlain Franz.” Another figure stepped forward, drawing off his own hood. Tall, stately, but just as gangly and pallid as the rest with long black hair and a sharp goatee. “This is one of the ‘Maw Walkers’ the Prince has been spreading rumor about, a potential savior in our time of ill.”
Another figure drew back their cloak, a woman this time. Sunken eyes narrowed at the Blood Knight as she slowly picked herself up from the ground, resting on a knee. The venthyr woman furrowed her brow and wrenched her nose, reeling her face back. “She reeks of the mortal realm…and the sin that comes with it.”
“Come now, Countess Lorna, we must not be so dismissive of our new guest,” chimed Rivan, a wry smirk on his chafed looking lips, a slip of a fang showing through. “These are, after all, trying times with the drought, and we’re strapped for anima for the next round of tithes.” He cleared his throat, then snapped his fingers. “Right, no time for dallying! Confessor Alende! Read the woman her terms.”
The last of the figures, a shorter woman with long grey hair, looked to the trio with a long, forlorn stare. The count narrowed his eyes and motioned to Raynell, the blood elf’s eyes now glaring up at her captors, then back at the lumbering stoneborne behind her.
“While we’re all still -alive-, Confessor.”
The woman sneered at the Count. “None of us are truly alive, Rivan…” She grunted, hands raised to the air as wisps of red energy flowed from her fingertips. From the rafters, a heavy looking headstone descended from above, landing before the confessor as she took center stage. Raynell took in a ragged breath, shaking out her shoulders a bit as she stood in defiance of those gathered.
“So what’s all this, then? You’ve -terms- for me? On what grounds do you have to barter for-”
“Silence.”
The confessor’s single, stern word cut through Raynell’s protests, leaving her in a stunned silence by the woman’s sudden turn of seriousness. She stared on, the long, lithe fingers of the venthyr tracing the headstone. From around her neck, she lifted a pair of spectacles, and began to orate in a low, firm tenor that echoed in the hall.
“Raynell A’laria, Sin’dorei, Knight of the Blood Knight Order, Soldier of the Horde. Behold, your sin laid bare.”
Raynell smirked and shook her head. “Is this some ruse meant to strike fear into me? I’ve seen how this place works, how your Sire’s operation takes place. I am not of the dead, this has no power rooted in me…”
“How quaint,” responded the confessor. “Your pride is, indeed, one of your downfalls. Was it not pride that led to Thori’Anore’s downfall? To you forsaking friends and allies in the name of glory?”
The words stung Raynell more than usual, and not just from their truth. In the pit of her heart, she felt a weight against it, bearing down on her. The confessor sighed and spoke on.
“Charges of Envy against the accused are few, though those of rampant Desire are…widespread.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Typical elven hedonism.”
Raynell flinched at the accusation, feeling the weight in her chest deepen. “Is there a point to this? I’m not one of your depraved souls in need of redemption! I-”
“SILENCE.”
Raynell suddenly felt her lips sealed against her will, jaw clenched tightly as she glared back at the confessor who had her hand cast outward at her, a red glow on her fingertips. She cleared her throat, then continued.
“The accused is certainly not bereft in Sloth, nor steeped in Greed…but the sin of Avarice, of unbridled Wrath, weighs heavy upon this stone. A lady of perpetual war, who brought misery wherever her boots tread.”
“Is that it!?” Raynell spat back. “To serve one’s home and people is no sin!”
“To serve, perhaps not,” replied the confessor in a calm, perhaps almost sorrowful tone, “but to boast of blood shed, to use your stature to intimidate and desecrate the homes and livelihoods of others, to leave a trail of corpses in your wake for the sake of misbegotten glory and honor…the names of each are etched upon this stone, Lady Raynell. Let me read -each one- to you.”
Raynell felt the weight sink in her chest even further. She grit her teeth as the woman continued to speak, the words echoing in her ears, as if the very halls were reverberating in her head.
“Sentinel Laerthren Moonsaber, Magistrix Venys Autumnstar of the Silver Covenant, Lady Janelle Zaragoza of Stormwind, Magister Korbos Ar’delle of the Kirin Tor…”
Heavier and heavier, louder and louder, name after name read to the knight from the stone. Sweat beaded across Raynell’s brow, and agony wrenched in her face. Once standing defiant, she fell again to one knee, clutching her tabard with hand over chest.
“What…what is…”
“Silence, accused, and listen!” barked the confessor, her tone of oration growing all the more oppressive as the room darkened visibly. “Sionas Wildfeather of Quel’lithien Lodge, The Silverthorn Squadron of Quel’danil Lodge, the Knights and Clerics of the Alonsus Chapel…”
The names went on and on, and Raynell’s fever only grew more suffocating. She grunted, glaring up at the confessor, even as the rest of her felt like it was going to sink into the floor. “They were…all soldiers…the frontlines…war can be c-cruel…”
“Then let me -show- you how cruel it can be,” declared the confessor. “…Ardenne Lightleaf, druid of Teldrassil. Her husband, Raushan Lightleaf, druid of Teldrassil. Their two sons and one daughter.”
Teldrassil. Raynell hit the floor, letting out a strained cry as a pain shot through spine. She clawed at the stone below, gritting her teeth. “Stop…”
“Mardren Caulfield, citizen of Gilneas, refugee of Teldrassil. His son, Thom, a refugee and citizen. Lissea Starsilks, tailor and citizen of Teldrassil…”
“Stop!” Raynell shouted, reaching out with a shaky hand. Her protests fell on deaf ears, and an uncaring tongue listed name after name. The minutes felt like hours, and the pain and the heaviness only grew as Raynell clutched her head, curling into herself, on the verge of tears. The others behind the confessor stood silent, stoic, watching the scene unfold. The chamberlain’s eyes betrayed a sense of pity, while the count did his best to hide the slightest of smirks as his plan unfolded. The countess alongside him looked to her count with her eyes raised a bit, perhaps shocked that all was going according to plan. The confessor, unmoved by the woman’s cries, continued in somber oration, though her own eyes also betrayed a sense of empathy for her suffering.
“The men, women, and children of Darnassus bleed upon your sin-stained hands! Listen to the names of the fallen, and despair!”
Raynell suddenly shot up on her knees, screaming and clutching her head as the echoing reverberations of every name pounded in her head. The count laughed a low, dark laugh, reveling in the agony of the woman. The chamberlain shuddered and turned to the count, a pleading look in his eye. “Rivan, please! We’ve made our point!”
Count Rivan glared at Chamberlain Franz, then rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. The confessor, Alende, ceased her orations and waved the stone back to the rafters above the halls. Raynell choked on her breath a moment as the oration stopped, then collapsed in a heap on the brick below, blacking out entirely. Alende heaved out a sigh, wringing her hands in a moment of exhaustion.
“This never gets any easier, Rivan.”
“Oh, but it’s so -entertaining-,” sang the count, “it’s a shame she is not of the dead, or we could have wrung enough anima from her to pay off the next ten tithes.”
“Remember, dear husband, that we -need- her to solve this tithe problem, among other things,” chimed Lorna, stepping forward to place her hands on Alende’s shoulders, giving them a brief massage. “You did well, dearie~.”
“Indeed, -too- well perhaps,” growled Franz. “This was meant to be a means of leverage, not an all out -torture- session! She’s right! She’s not bound to this stone, and she’ll catch on to that ruse! We’re wasting our anima perpetuating this stunt!”
“But it -is- her stone…it will be, eventually, should she pass without proper judgment and penance for her deeds.”
The count strolled over the fallen knight, then motioned to the stoneborn to collect her.
“As long as we can convince her of that, we can keep her on -our- side, and we can make use of her in usurping the corruption that’s taken hold of Revendreth. All I ask of all of you is to trust this process, to trust the mission of the Rose of Midnight, and to trust the Prince.”
As the stoneborn collected the knight, Rivan turned again to his companions, standing resolute.
“A little lost Anima goes a long way toward reclaiming our most noble and sacred duty. She is our sword now. Our work begins.”
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That’s it, thread’s over, we have a winner.
I might post something when I manage to retrieve my jaw from the floor.
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No! Wait! I want to see more! Do not be discouraged by my sudden burst of inspiration, and be inspired!
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Fine, I guess we need runner ups, people can continue posting. :x
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“Won’t stop killing”
It’s true! There are some days I just can’t stop
Proud of his sinstone, the Lord Frostcleave proceeds to bludgeon the Venthyr around him before escaping to the Ember Ward
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So true, so true. There are some days when I too just can’t stop killing, and some days when I hardly kill anybody. 
I am actually working on a new execute maneuver. I sneak up to a sleeping Vulpera and steath tie a string around every strand of fur then pull them out all at once. Its lethality still needs tuning but the look on their face… priceless.
Also works on Worgen, Pandaren, and Dwarves.
what are you?
Some kinda neeeen-JAH?
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