The Twilight Campaign: Defense of the Sunwell
-February 15th to March 1st-
A Midnight Pre-Patch Event
The Twilight’s Blade, loyal now to Xal’atath, have seen a rise in activity. Members have been spotted in cities around Azeroth, seemingly recruiting new members from both the Horde and the Alliance. Meanwhile, patrols in the Twilight Highlands report attacked caravans, stolen supplies and an increase in void activity in the area…
For Blood Elf players and enthousiasts of Quel’Thalas, an immense role-play opportunity presents itself: to band together and immersve ourselves in a thrilling and high stakes campaign to defend Silvermoon, the Sunwell and all of Quel’thalas against the forces of darkness that threaten to snuff out the Light.
Inspired by the Year of the Scourge campaign of 2020, we are looking for collaborators and eventually participants who would like to form a community with shared goals and objectives to participate in a collective narrative in the weeks leading up to Midnight.
Discord Link:
https:// discord.gg/HQNHNC7B2S
Prologue: Twilight Approaches…
The chamber was carved deep into the stone, far below any banner or road that still claimed the Twilight Highlands by name. Candles guttered in violet flame, their light bending strangely across damp stone and half-eroded sigils. The air tasted old, like ash left too long undisturbed.
Preceptor Malraven Korr, once of Lordaeron, now something far more deliberate, stood at the center of the chamber with his hands folded behind his back. His robes bore no excessive ornamentation, only the muted sigil of the Twilight’s Blade worked in thread dark enough to vanish in shadow. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, measured, and utterly certain.
“The time draws near.”
The words were not a rallying cry. They were a statement of fact. Around him, his subordinates shifted. A dozen figures, living and dead, stood in attentive silence. Malraven’s pale eyes passed over them slowly, assessing, weighing, discarding weakness without comment.
“The Harbinger has not yet given the call,” he continued, “but we feel the pressure building. Alignment is never announced. It is recognized.”
One of the acolytes stepped forward, a young orc with trembling hands. “Preceptor, our numbers here grow thinner. The patrols are increasing. The Horde watches more closely.”
Malraven inclined his head slightly. “As expected.”
He turned, boots scraping softly against stone, and gestured toward a map etched into the floor. Lines radiated outward from the Highlands, branching toward distant silhouettes of cities.
“We do not answer scrutiny by hiding. We answer it by multiplying.”
A Forsaken adept near the wall let out a dry chuckle. “The cities will not welcome us.”
“No,” Malraven replied. “They will deny us. They always do. Until the cracks show.”
He stopped beside the map, skeletal fingers hovering above Orgrimmar, Stormwind, and other marked points. “Fear is not born from destruction. It is born from awareness. People sense what approaches long before they understand it.”
Another voice spoke up, lower, steadier. “And what do we tell them, Preceptor?”
Malraven smiled, a thin, humorless expression that pulled against the withered flesh of his face.
“The truth. Carefully measured.”
He straightened, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. “We speak of inevitability. Of cycles that do not break simply because we wish them to. We speak of correction, not annihilation. We tell them that something is coming, and that pretending otherwise will not save them.”
A murmur rippled through the gathered cultists.
“We recruit the disillusioned,” he continued. “The exhausted. The ones who already feel the strain in the world’s foundations. We offer them understanding last. First comes readiness.”
The orc swallowed. “And those who refuse?”
“They still serve,” Malraven said. “Fear spreads faster than faith.”
Silence fell again. Somewhere deeper in the stone, something pulsed. Not a sound, not quite a sensation, but a pressure that pressed against thought itself. Malraven closed his eyes briefly, listening.
“Go,” he said at last. “Into the cities. Into the alleys, the academies, the taverns, the shadows where doubts gather. Speak softly. Leave marks. Let rumors grow teeth.”
He opened his eyes, pale and unblinking.
“The Harbinger watches. When the call comes, only those who prepared will endure it.”
At the far edge of the chamber, a symbol flared briefly, then faded, as if acknowledging his words. Malraven bowed his head toward it, reverent but unafraid.
“For the Twilight’s Blade,” he intoned quietly. “For the will of Xal’atath.”
One by one, his subordinates echoed the words, then melted into the tunnels beyond, carrying whispers with them.
Above, the world went on unaware. For now.
The Twilight Campaign is a server campaign initiative intended to create role-play build-up and excitement leading to the launch of Midnight. Those interested (primarily characters that reside in or defend Quel’Thalas) are encouraged to join our discord for announcements, event details and to join in.