Two more days!!
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Wish I had the free time this year to have joined in on this. Kudos to you guys for doing something like this.
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It’s been a blast! Thanks for all the good memories 
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A few things!
- Please have completed all of the main story quests in Icecrown! There’s 140 quests across 11 chapters.
- There is a planning event tonight at 5PM WrA! Come on by if you want to help figure out how to take on the Scourge.
- We are starting tomorrow at 4PM instead of our usual 5PM! 1 hour early to give us a bit of extra time!
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Today is the day! The Grand Finale, after 11 and a half months and 48 DMed main events, it all comes down to this.
Good luck, everyone!
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After months of trekking across the frozen wastes of Northrend, and an entire year of combatting the rising Scourge threat, the coalition of heroes march on the dread heart of undead power: Icecrown Citadel. There, they will battle Dread Commander Muaniir the Herobreaker and the lich Lady Damnedfate in a desperate attempt to stop the Scourge from binding Damnedfate’s crown to the Maw, augmenting it with the power of the original Helm of Domination. Should they fail, a Lich Queen will cast her darkness upon the world. Can they overcome the impossible? Can they restore light to the most wretched and vile crevice of Azeroth? Join Year of the Scourge in our grand finale!
This is starting one hour early! At 4PM WrA instead of 5PM.
Please message Beloran-WyrmrestAccord (Horde) or Vadinnar-WyrmrestAccord (Alliance), or look for YotS: Finale in the group finder for an invite!
As a reminder, due to phasing, players must have completed [Icecrown: The Final Goal] on the character they intend to bring. This is non-negotiable, as we have no alternative to the phasing problems, and they extend throughout the non-instanced Citadel proper. It takes 5-6 hours to complete the quests, so anyone who wishes to come has just a little more time to do them!
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Axiann sat in his tent, alone, seated crossed-legged on his cot, elbows resting on his thighs, forearms and hands raised, fingertips touching as he contemplates and meditates. His eyes closed, he focuses on his breath and on clearing his mind.
“Clarity of mind… efficacy of spell.”
Fear would come easily. Courage would require work. This he knew from experience, from having fought in many battles, especially over the last year. Thus far he had survived. Others had not. And death was not even the worst fate which could befall him. He tried to clear this image, this possible future, out of his mind so as not to give it power. But it was difficult.
The Thalassian was roused from his meditation by the sound of bells, three of them, indicating there was one hour left before the troops would assemble and be briefed, one last time, one way or another.
His amber eyes opened, and he took a deep breath. Uncrossing his legs, he reached for the neatly folded pile by his cot, and began to don his uniform and armour, one leg, sleeve and shoulder plate at a time. He held and appreciated each piece before he slipped it on, admiring not only the stylish elven embroidery, but also the many layers of spell-work that imbued and enchanted the fabric. His magus-senses could send the power flowing through each thread, working to protect him, amplify his abilities while deflecting harmful energies directed at him.
As he picked up the last item, he beheld it longer than the others. This tabard meant the world to him. It represented not only the Archmage he served with his every fiber, but also the people he lead, in the Archmage’s name, and would protect to his last breath. He remembered their days together, working on some mystery or another. And their evenings together, laughing over wine or ale at the Lounge.
He slipped it on, hoping it would not be the last time. Hoping he, and they, would see home again.
“For the Sunreavers.”
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Groups are forming!
Search pre-made custom groups YOTS: Finale for invite to the raid groups. Please have CROSS RP installed.
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Filler post, to be deleted later.
Year’s End
The heroes stood in the shadow of the Frozen Throne, at the very top of the world, in quiet contemplation and perhaps disbelief. The raging ice-cold winds had died down, but the continuing snowfall worked to cover the blood, sweat and tears that had been spilled today, a small symbol, really, of the enormous sacrifices made both by the individuals standing here, and by those not so fortunate.
It was over. The three Scourge commanders were dead, the lich Lady Damnedfate the last to fall, her body turned to ash, carried away on the unforgiving breeze. And with her phylactery, the Crown of Domination, destroyed, her soul would not be returning to this world. No more would people remember the noble Thalassian woman she had once been. She would go down in history as one of the greatest threats to the world in recent times: she who aspired to be Lich Queen.
The battle over, and the campaign won, a portal was conjured and the way open to return to the Argent Vanguard. The heroes, some of whom had been working together for over 11 months, would collect their things and begin their journeys to their own individual corners of Azeroth. But, in what state would they find their homes? That would remain to be seen.
All over the world, cities were on lockdown. They had been for months, their gates sealed to the outside world, offering the last hope of protection for a people terrorized by death.
Inside the great cities of Zul’dazar, Ironforge, Stormwind and Orgrimmar but to name a few, the situation was dire. The streets overrun with refugees from miles around who had escaped their hometowns, farmsteads and outposts to seek out safety. Food was scarce, lodging was limited, and the mild temperatures of Fall had given way to the colder chill of Winter. A lack of clean water, un-plagued food and medical supplies had led to diseases from mild to severe, and both the medical tents and crematoriums were now over capacity.
And the entire time, the groans and growls of the undead could be heard just beyond the city walls.
For weeks now, the Scourge who had never been caught had been emerging and had surrounded most of these great cities. In other areas, they clawed at the Gates of Mulgore or those at the Thalassian Pass which lead to the land of Quel’Thalas. Local defenders had tried to fight them off, but their vast numbers and one, singular hive-like mind made them an adversary not easily disposed of.
“We can’na take much more of this!” exclaimed a Dwarven swordsman guarding the gates of Ironforge.
“How much longer can dis go on?” asked a Zandalari guardsman in Dazar’alor.
“We are warriors. We should not just be sitting here, watching them!” complained an Orc grunt in Orgrimmar.
Nerves were frayed and patience was wearing thin. To some, this seemed like the apocalypse. Rumours abounded about a coalition of champions who had set off to find the Scourge leadership. Some said they had made it to Northrend. Others claimed they had perished long ago. Others still were certain they had been turned, and with them the hopes of the world ever seeing peace again.
Then, all over Azeroth, a flash of lightning was seen, even in those areas which had a clear sky. A crackle of thunder then, followed closely by a quick but intense burst of wind, ice-cold, from the north, catching everyone off guard and diminished as suddenly as it had begun.
People looked up at the sky and back at each other, confused about what had just occurred. It took a few moments for them to recognize the silence that had followed. The groans and moans of the Scourge, which had been incessant for weeks, had stopped.
Local guards defending the gates and walls peered down, using spyglasses or binoculars, to try to understand what was happening.
The undead looked as confused as they were. The same ones who had been acting with singular purpose, looked at each other and around them. As if not understanding what had happened. As if not knowing where they even were.
As if no longer being controlled by some unseen, greater mind.
Commanders all over Azeroth came to the same conclusion, and wasted no time.
“They are no longer being controlled!” cried a Ranger-Captain in Quel’Thalas.
“They’ve become feral once more!” exclaimed a Shal’dorei magus in Suramar.
“This is our chance, our opportunity! Slay the ones you can, and drive off those who would dare threaten the Alliance!” barked a Commander in Stormwind.
All over the world, brave soldiers and heroes charged out over the city walls and gates and assaulted the still confused feral scourge that lay in wait. They easily carved their way through the crowds of undead, slaughtering dozens, hundreds in a matter of minutes. Those whose brains were too rotted to think for themselves fell easily. Others fought back but were quickly overwhelmed.
Battles waged on, the living overwhelmed with a renewed sense of hope.
Ghouls who could still think for themselves tried to escape into the woods or deserts. Some made it, disappearing into the darkness as night settled. Others were not so lucky, and experienced their true death at last.
A few hours passed, and the battles died down. Slowly and with caution, gates all over Azeroth opened to the outside world for the first time in months. Captains of the guard, commanders and soldiers ventured out with caution, torches lighting the way as the Sun had set just a short while ago.
Piles of undead corpses littered the ground for miles, but little movement could be seen, few sounds could be heard.
Following the guards, then, the peoples of Azeroth emerged from their sanctuaries. Some, citizens of those very cities, others refugees who did not know if their villages and homes still stood. All with the same look on their faces. Some laughed. Some cried. Others dared not breath. All felt relief.
___
None would forget this terrible year. The scars, both physical and emotional, would run deep, not just for the citizens of Azeroth, but especially for those brave heroes, from all walks of life, who had come together to wage war on death. And who, against all odds, had won.
In Orgrimmar, a child emerged from the crowd, a wreath in his small hands. Finding a rogue nail on the wooden gate to the city, the child hung the decoration. The crowd was silent as they watched. Winter Veil would be upon them soon, and the people of Azeroth would finally have something to celebrate.
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Congratulations to everyone who put this on, and for so long. I admire your dedication and creativity, and certainly hope this is not the last we see of it.
The community thanks you. Nothing but praise and honor to you all.
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Lara was finally back in Orgrimmar, the city that she had come to love. Yet, she did not feel welcome, even here in her small apartment. She stared out the window as the city continued to celebrate the defeat of Damnedfate and the Scourge, far to the frozen north. Orgrimmar was still packed with refugees waiting for their homes to be rebuilt, settlements cleared of remaining mindless ghouls. The energy in the city did not reflect the state of its inhabitants though. People had taken to the streets for revelry, drinking, dancing, Forsaken in hand with Orcs and Tauren and Vulpera, differences of the past forgotten.
They had welcomed her back with open arms of course, a General of the Horde military that had gone to Northrend, fought in the frozen wastes of Icecrown, defeated the evil and returned home. In their eyes, she was a hero. But she knew the truth. She was a failure. What had she accomplished? She had gone north, killed a few ghouls, and been captured. Tortured. Turned into a weapon and set upon her allies, she had even killed one of her own Horde brothers. The guilt still weighed upon her at night, preventing sleep, even as free as she was of her mental demons.
Lara was a fraud, and she didn’t deserve to celebrate with her people, to receive their adulations. So she hid in her home, and watched. Recovered, or at least tried to. Perhaps her home was part of the problem? She turned and looked at her surroundings. She was rarely here, preferring to be in the field with her men, and so it was furnished very spartanly. A wooden table, a single chair, a far too firm mattress. All hardly used, basically brand new though the layer of dust on everything might confuse the casual observer.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Not even this place was her home anymore. Her home was out there, fighting enemies of the Horde and ensuring that her people would never end up in chains again. She would die out in the field, she was certain, retirement was an impossibility. The vixen let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, making peace with that thought. After her week off she would return to where she belonged, back to the fight.
Maybe one day she would be worthy of their praise.
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Home
Axiann reached the stoop of his building, stopping to feel the texture as he touched the railing on his way up the stairs. He admired the stonework of the archway that framed the purple wooden door, and as it creaked as it opened and gave way to the small lobby and spiral staircase.
Trudging up the stairs with his heavy backpack on his shoulder, he finally reached the second floor, and the door to his flat. Reaching around his neck, he pulled off a necklace which held his key, unlocked his door and entered his home for the first time in nearly three months.
The air was a bit musty, but his plants were still alive. He’d have to thank his neighbour tomorrow.
Setting his backpack down on an armchair, he went to his glass doors and opened them to his balcony. The air was crisp, but he stepped outdoors and took a moment to take in the view. The street below, the rooftops above, the clouds, hanging low over the city that soared to high above the world. And the sensation of ambient arcane magic, so present, so readily available. Like a gentle humming throughout his entire body. He had missed it.
He came back inside and closed the doors. Went around the rooms and lit his candles, admiring his things, all exactly where he left them, all exactly where they should be. He headed for the bathroom and started running a bath. As the tub filled with hot water, he slowly began to undress, removing his armour and uniform, folding them neatly on a side-chair.
He stood before his tall mirror, in his undergarments now, and took a look at himself.
Bags under his eyes. Bruises on his chest, shoulders and thighs.
And along his torso, on his ride side, the long scars left behind by the drake talons that dug into him just a few days ago, dangling him dozens of feet in the air.
The healers had forced the skin to grow too quickly, and these scars would likely remain.
Many scars, physical and emotional, would remain as painful reminders of the wretched year he had endured.
He grabbed a sachet from a shelf above his tub, filled with dried lavender, and dipped it into the bath. He undressed completely and climbed in, lowering himself slowly, until completely submerged, for only a moment, and then raised his head out of the water and resting on the edge of the tub, crimson red hair, wet, cascading down his shoulders.
Steam lifted off his body and filled the room, the smell of lavender filling the air and helping to relax him. He had dreamt of this moment, hoped for this moment, for weeks in the frozen wasteland of Northrend. And it was as gratifying as he had imagined. Perhaps more-so.
There were no ghouls, here. There was no debate, here. There was no pressure here.
And here he would stay, until the water turned lukewarm, and he would climb out of the tub and into his lush bed. And he would sleep in, much later than usual, until almost noon the next day.
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I think a lot of our characters are going to be affected by the Year of the Scourge for a very long time.
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Thank you, very much!
It started with an idea, and then a post, right here on this thread (which was later edited to the OP seen now), asking if there was any interest in co-creating content for the characters who have stayed behind on Azeroth.
It turned into a discord community with over 95+ amazing folks, weekly campaigns, daily conversations, much pleasure and a feeling of not being alone on Azeroth.
I can also share that those who have planned and lead this project do not want to see an end to community RP. We are already brainstorming on what we do with this amazing feeling, moving forward.
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The morning after the final assault-
With a quick opening of his eyes, he awoke within his tent feeling… Not much at victory, Not much at a loss either. He just felt heavy, that damn weight upon his shoulders was still so heavy and it was never going to get any lighter.
This was the first day this campaign was over, at least for now. The orc packed up the things within his tent inside of the Argent Stand and began to write letters. One for Selowyn , One for Saeldis, and one for Corvin, and even one for Ari. All in orcish so he hoped they could read and write in such. He wrote in common for Sel though.
He left the letters at the foot of each of their tents.
For Sel, Corvin, and Sael he wrote down: ‘I am so sorry for the mistake I have made. I am glad to hear you recovered after the battle. If you wish to kill me for what you are now, I will not blame you.’ And gave them his home address which was his dorm in the barracks he lived within orgrimmar.
For Ari he wrote: ‘Dear Gabe Itch, You did a good job.’ Just simply that.
After all was said and done, he pulled his stuff over his shoulder and began to head off early in the cold morning. He looked back at the camp, and thought of the campaign. It was a hell of a ride, for better or worse. Being reunited with Garzura , Being with Loviattar and her crew, meeting Beloran and the other argents, as well as everybody else whom fought alongside them. It was great.
But the pain of how he got them put some of them into that dire situation, sure the info was good but was it worth hurting his friends, and Ari? He had to move on for now, it was part of his retraining afterall. If not for all of that, he wasn’t sure where he’d be right now… Sure the campaign is over, but he felt the after effects now that it was over he was almost lost again, but he kept remembering what he was taught, he had to be strong… He’ll try…
He had a flashback when he was still a pup back in the second war, way back during the second after the portals were blown up and the base was established in the swamp of sorrows, stonard. He remembered being a pup that was no less than eight or nine years old training to be a grunt huddled with other cubs and watching their blademaster teach and train them for what was to come for units in their horde.
“The path of the warrior is lifelong, and mastery is often simply staying on that path” He remembers him saying. It was something he was always going to do and stick by. All he knows is fighting afterall, so he’ll be there when needed once again.
Upon returning to his dorm, he didn’t feel like much of a hero, even with the occassional good job, back pats and the cheers given from fellow soldiers for his deeds. Even getting another letter and talking from his CO’s that once more they’d want to give him a promotion but it was yet another one he denied as he knew this time around he damn well didn’t deserve it and knew it was only for obligation. They figured not and still assured him the offer will always be on the table. After both his gigantic mistake, as well as his wish to continue to be a frontline soldier in the thick of it, he was going to always be a grunt thats never going to retire. At least… He hoped.
He was going to the gym however, after he ate a whole roasted pig and prepared to leave for such and when he arrived at the orgrimmar gym, he was more than surprised to see alot of other grunts, scouts and others there with him as they assured him, like usual, they were going to hype him the hell up and give him a hard workout. Rest as a grunt? Whats that? The thought made him almost want to cry as he smirked and inside, they did just that. Hell-to-the-no was he going to rest.
All there was to his life was fighting, and fu-well, the other thing that starts with the ‘f’.
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– The North District in Eversong –
The leaves in forest wither from prolonged plague toxicity. But these millenia-old tree’s roots embedded deep. Their trunks, grand. They will recuperate back.
The great plain, with river crossing, that he had seen fostering farmlands, which then feeding over hundreds of townfolks, residing under those villages by the hill, since prior generations of his bloodline, taking part in governing this land – for more than thousand years.
Now that Scourge army commanders are subdued, the chance to heal the land, and live off it, returns to these people.
The Townfolks, and even those work for local governor, wear garments that show signs of worn, unlike usual. Food materials were cruder and cheaper.
Significant wealth was lost in past crises, providing medical aids, shelters, skirmishes…
But despite all, and despite weariness and worriness, the villagers returned to repair farms and plants, with surprising focus.
These are possible, because military and governor sections, mobilized to clash with enemy, people are able focus on living, without ghouls chasing after their lives.
– The archive hall –
The atmosphere has magical radiation, that appears to spread throughout essence of existence. Like hot steam moving through. Like his body was holographic ghost, anything can pass through. The Light seems to give peace and warmth, that can calm even the soul. And the arcane give so familiarity.
Anar’theril spread both hands to his sides, inhaling deep.
If Sunwell ever explodes 2nd time…
Grandios building of white stone, cover vast area. Sculpture patterns, made with very fine craftsman’s accuracy and aesthetic, gilded with gold, decorate edges of walls and columns. They glitter against the light, as he passes.
His work hall, which is also where he practically live, is large, deep-red brown. And dimly lit.
His ancestors and allies were able to protect this city, for centuries, albeit with some breaches, but the overall peace was enough to attain this level of wealth and artistry. And, this time, he and other present generation governors, are able to protect it from Scourge. He touches the sculpture.
His apprentices and colleagues turn to greet him, delightfully.
He had thought, he could abandon everything. The Sin’dorei, his aristocrat status, to protect himself, alone, as Quel’dorei in another city. He had lost hundreds of comrades and family, he had been living with for centuries. He had thought, he had enough.
And he did live as an individual from nowhere, for many years. But when he sees the surviving relatives in close range; Sees the North District civilian gathering right behind his back, facing dreadful enemies; He finds himself unable to leave them. Relationship is such an odd topic.
He is descendant of aristocrats of this land; Where his father, and multiple generations of ancestors, used to govern and protect.
He will protect his people, in this land, and lands beyond.
If he must, he will die for his people, and royal government institution, whether he decide to officially accept, or not accept, his nobleman position.
And while at it, he will live with a style that he like.
He peers at ball invitation card, he had received.
Let’s join. And show the Shal’dorei, how we party and do ball dance.
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Markings
Axiann roamed around a part of Orgrimmar he seldom ventured into, even on the odd occasion he was in the Horde capital. He walked among quarters of the city occupied by the Trolls of the Echo Isles. Tents gave way to huts, the music changed and the smells of various food being cooked became spicier.
He found the hut that seemed familiar, and checked his scroll where a crude map had been drawn for him. X seemed to mark this spot. He approached the entrance and pulled on the rope, banging coconuts together to signal his desire to enter.
“Come in, come in, why dontcha,” came the voice from within. And so, come in he did. The air in the hut was humid. He had been glad he had not donned his entire uniform. Just a simple tunic and tabard. His eyes scanned the room, noticing the tribal artifacts and decorations. The troll snapped him back to reality. “What can I be doin’ for ya today, elfie?”
“You marked me once, and I have come to see you out again.”
“We be meetin’ before?”, asked the old troll.
“Yes. I am Sungazer, of Dalaran. You… did this a few years ago.” He showed off his left arm, which he rarely had exposed. Cobalt glowing ink tattooed all over his arm, tracing the veins starting at his wrist and climbing his forearm and biceps, stopping just before his shoulder. “You covered the scars I had recently acquired.”
“Sungaz’ah’, yes. I rememb’ah now. You had had da silver sickness, awhile back. Left ya marked and ya wanted those scars to really glow. I rememb’ah.” He looked the elf over and raised an eyebrow. “Where you wantin’ to be marked dis time, heh?”
Axiann didn’t pause. He removed his tabard, and then his belt. Finally, he removed his tunic, revealing his bare torso, and the scars that remained where the drake’s talons had dug into his flesh on his right side.
“I have new scars, and I will wear them with as much pride. I should like the same glowing ink”
The troll smiled. “We can do business.”
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Post to be deleted momentarily.
The Wheel of the Year turns…
Friends, the Year of the Scourge has come to an end, and with it, so does this forum Master thread. It has been a hell of a ride, and I for one hope to return to this thread in the future, and enjoy the memories it will always bring back of the best year of my role-play career.
Words cannot properly express what I’d like to say here, so I’ll keep it short: to the many individuals who have, by their participation in events or in story meetings, or by their writing/running of events that will never be forgotten, I offer my sincerest gratitude for creating something amazing in 2021. I very much look forward to our continued cooperation and collaboration for many, many years to come.
And on that note, we move onto the next chapter of our story.
You can find a brand new Master Thread here:
Azeroth: Year 35 (Master Thread)
Safe journeys, and may the Eternal Sun bless you all in the New Year.
-Axiann
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