[A] Servitors of Lothar (Heavy RP)

Welcome to our newest member, Latsari.

Additionally, if you are out and about in Stormwind this afternoon at 5pm server, you can meet Servitors wandering around as they canvass the Alliance pandaren population prior to their next agitprop campaign.
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Thanks to everyone who helped us out this afternoon, folks!
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
So this happened.

2/5 22:38:56.862 GCD: Philomene: Her family has been probably boiling sheep heads for hundreds of years.
2/5 22:40:35.322 GCD: Prikka: They should probably take them out. I'm sure it's been long enough.
2/5 22:41:37.261 GCD: Philomene: <slooowly> ...do you think that is possible? To boil a head for hundreds of years?
2/5 22:42:00.257 GCD: Squínk: Probably. If one kept the fire at a reasonable level, and added water regularly.
2/5 22:42:14.155 GCD: Squínk: I wonder how long it would take to completely atomize.
2/5 22:42:15.163 GCD: Prikka: I imagine you'd just have sludge after a few weeks.
2/5 22:42:34.785 GCD: Squínk: Does anyone have a head handy? Now I'm curious.
2/5 22:42:41.042 GCD: Philomene: It would become a sacred trust, of sorts, generationally-speaking. Keep the skull sludge hot.
2/5 22:42:45.056 Squínk sets off for the mess without another word.
2/5 22:43:11.531 GCD: Squínk: Like the disgusting, soupy version of a sourdough starter.
2/5 22:43:29.768 GCD: Squínk: Seriously, though, accepting all heads.
2/5 22:43:49.060 GCD: Philomene: But what would one start with skullsludge? Starter is for bread or ale. I am not good with cooking things but I know that much. Because beer and pancakes are cousins.
2/5 22:44:29.708 Squínk hauls out the biggest cast-iron pot she can find and sets it on the back burner of the stove. She sets about filling it with water.
2/5 22:44:40.341 Prikka says: Shouldn't you find a head first?
2/5 22:44:42.627 GCD: Squínk: Well, it'd be thick and fatty, so... gravy? Stew? Sauces?
2/5 22:44:52.194 GCD: Squínk: And you'd keep adding more heads, of course.
2/5 22:45:05.689 GCD: Philomene: Skulls for the skull pot?
2/5 22:45:17.027 GCD: Squínk: Precisely. Now who's got one to give up?
2/5 22:45:27.152 GCD: Squínk: Come on, you guys. Give me a head. For science.
2/5 22:45:35.018 Prikka says: I don't think anyone here just... keeps heads around. You'll have to go make one.
2/5 22:45:45.272 Squínk says: Godsdamnit.
2/5 22:46:25.435 GCD: Squínk: <grumble rasser frasser gotta go get my own head sasser frasser mutter>
2/5 22:46:50.930 GCD: Philomene: Where is the new meat. You could remove his head. For science.

Servitors of Lothar: We Promise Not to Remove Your Head for Science. Probably.
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
Events this week:

Tonight at 7:00: "Suspicious Sands" The Reliquary have sent a heavily-armed detachment to the very heart of Tanaris. What could draw Brightblade's people away from Krasarang in the midst of one of the war's most heated offensives? (Puzzle/problem solving, possible emote combat. Run by Squínk (alt+0237))
Thursday at 6:00: "Rock the Saurok" The Jinyu gave us aid during Operation Submission. We're returning the favor with a show of strength against the Saurok that've been raiding their village. (Emote combat. Run by Etharion.)
Friday at 8:00: "Shelf Raising" If there's gonna be a library, we're gonna need shelves. Outside the lab, where there's room to spread out. Hot drinks will be served. (Social. Run by Sïgarni (alt+0239))
Saturday at 3:00: "Spar Club" This will be a meeting to discuss Spar Club, and perhaps even have a few bouts. We will meet at Aerie Peak. (Inaugural face-punch meeting! Run by Nelmadge.)

Lots of great stuff! If you'd like to observe an event or schedule RP, just whisper one of our members.
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90 Night Elf Hunter
12075
Bumping with a journal entry. Onoes, Eth is in emotional crisis! (When isn't he?) But this time, it's spiritual. Turns out his visit to the Lunar Festival did not grant the peace he sought:

There was a moondance ritual for spiritual refreshment. Attunement with the Goddess in all her Aspects. Sounded like a good place to start.

An hour before highmoon I shed my clothes and stepped into a secluded stream for the necessary ablutions. Scrubbed myself raw and then dipped backwards underwater the required three times. When I rose again, dripping and cold, thigh-deep in the water, I looked up to Her.

In my short life I've performed the purification bath dozens of times, and each time emerged shivering in body, but warmed inside with a sense of peace and love and utter trust. I'd always felt cleansed and prepared to face whatever ritual lay ahead.

This time...I could rinse dust and sweat from my body, but the weight on my heart would not wash away. I stood there in the stream, face and arms turned up to Her, reaching out like a child for his Mother, and there was only a cold white rock in the sky. A pale glowing eye, hard and merciless. Tears streamed down my face as I looked up to Her; the world slipped from focus until there was only Her Face in the vast dark, staring down without love or pity or even interest. I think I cried out in the silence between us, "Why? Why?" and the night swallowed my voice.

I did not go to the moondance.

Sila is here. Essilte is having fun and I hate to cut it short for her. I'm leaving her with Aunt Sila and going home. There's no point in staying.
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Random journal bump!

She is cold and hard, the Chirurgeon. She is cunning and calculating and often reminds me of a lioness, or perhaps a snake. Both have that same deceptively lazy slow blink, that distant regard that hides knife quick reasoning and reflexes. Her expression is often inscrutable, but not her posture. From her posture, if one watches, one can tell when she is annoyed, when she is intrigued, when she has misunderstood.

We met on Draenor, because it pleased her. We flew upon her carpet to a floating island in the sky, and made our camp beneath the twisting, undulating branches of a large warpwood tree. I didn't know it was called warpwood then, though. I found that out today, because I realised it looked odd for me to show no interest in wood, new or otherwise.

I just can't carve. Not since the turtle shell.

She asked her probing questions, and I was able to answer most of them. I wonder if she saw my evasiveness when we discussed my failed idea of offering comfort to my swordbrethren.

I wonder if she sensed my eagerness in wanting to answer her questions about my anger, about Father. We traded bits and pieces of our childhoods, but hers was alien to me as mine was to her. The difference is that she can imagine the horrors, especially in light of our recent business, whereas I could not fathom her mundane upbringing. I couldn't even ask intelligent questions.

Fel, the anger. I can feel it rising and twisting, feel it wanting to explode in violent lashings. I am angry about it all. I am angry about this aching hole in my stomach, this gnawing that will not go away and only worsens when I think of Etharion. I am angry that I do not see Mavhren, that I must track him down and hope to catch him, that I must chase what is already caught. I am angry I have broken my word to him. I am angry that his gentle words and open arms chafe so.

I am angry at myself. I am angry at Father. I am angry at the people in that list of names the Chirurgeon has.

But it was good to sit by a fire in the long dry grasses of a Nagrandian island, to grow used to an alien sky terrifying in its breadth. It was good to listen and talk and try wonderfully spicy food and eat cake from one plate with two forks. It was good to hatch a ridiculous plan that is audacious and not at all normal for me. It was good to know that vengeance would be granted, that it was mine to grant, that I could offer that.

And it was good to know that when our bellies were filled and our nerves were soothed with poppy tea, when the fire was banked and the night breeze whispered in the grass, that when I opened my arms to her, she came and laid within them.

The Chirurgeon is a cold and hard woman. She is also a small woman, who kicks in her sleep and makes a small not-quite-snoring sound.

I can hold both of them in my mind.
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90 Blood Elf Paladin
16365
There's plenty to like about a guild named for the Lion of Azeroth.

Bump
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
We're about to start a series of events to wrap up a long-running story. Hearts (and faces) will be broken. New bonds will be forged. Gnomes will Get Mad. The Servitors may never be the same! Since this is a plot that new members can easily jump into, it's a great time to get involved.

Welcome to new members Latsari and Arunix!
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Here are some old Menawrites, this one from October 2011:

Some call the central chambers the heart, some the presence; there are a few other names for it besides. But my eyes are drawn away from the hub of activity, the comings and going of this and that person -- to whom I must curtsey or render a salute as required and in the precise degree appropriate in every circumstance without seeming to rely upon the movements of my peers -- and toward the war room. As I do not garner access to many parts of the Keep (access depending on status and personal relations, neither of which I possess in any real measure) so long as my body performs motions which are required my eyes are free to roam.

I look down the hall to where I know the maps are kept, to where pieces are shifted daily. I know this is where the real decisions are made for Alliance High Command and not in the 'open war councils' which occur at the Command Center. I watch who comes and who goes. I wait to see the stiffness in the neck which speaks of disapproval. Sometimes I see a smile which speaks of dissatisfaction, or hear the occasional affected sigh which is meant to impart a weariness unfelt; the eyes of the sighers gleam because they are like me. Made for war. I listen to the cadence of boots clicking upon the floor and I swear to myself that should I ever have cause to come or go from this room I will float so no one can measure me by the sounds of my feet.

I do not speak. Some of the others believe this to be shyness. These are the fops, for the most part. Some of the others believe this to be grief. These are the young women. And still others believe this to be rudeness springing from a belief that I am better. These are, invariably, the dowagers and mistresses. I stand out through my silence only because there is no visible reason why I should be present. I do not dress to attract. The garb I chose for 'armor' is dark (appropriate for mourning and my habit already) and unrevealing. My face is unprepossessing in repose. There is nothing about me when viewed against a wall or at the edge of a throng of people which suggests me to be worthy of notice.

Some do, however, notice me. I receive the faintest of nods and the odd greeting (never has "King's honor, friend" sounded so insipid) and in return I sink like a stone into a curtsey so deep the recipient is forced to wait awkwardly or continue on without engaging me.

I will be this in the times I am here until it is time for me to be anything else.
Edited by Philomene on 2/11/2013 12:29 PM PST
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
We're recruiting at the Three Lanterns Market in front of the SW boat to Vashj'ir. Come see us and learn about the 423rd Special Operations Unit!
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Thanks to everyone who visited with us tonight at the Three Lanterns Market. We'll be running the alt project tomorrow, some come visit some coffeegnomes!
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90 Draenei Mage
4645
Bump 'cause these guys are cool.
Edited by Arunix on 2/14/2013 5:38 PM PST
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
Actual quote from a former member when asked how he's been (emphasis mine): "Aside from SoL setting a high standard of RP, so much that I cannot find another guild (in SWTOR) that satifies me, good. lol" He's applied with a new character. You can do the same.

SoL: So good that every other guild will be ruined for you.
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
We are serious about IC interpersonal conflict. Case in point: Prikka writing about her fellow senior officer, Etharion, and his mother:

I'd never believe it if she didn't admit the fact herself. The woman has all of the spine, dignity, and commanding presence her son lacks. I know he blames his failings on her, but that's utter nonsense. "Oh, my mother never loved me! She was cruel and domineering and sent me to be raised by someone who actually DID love me a great deal! That's why I'm such a moody wanker!" Hello, I grew up amongst a people to whom the concept of affection is alien. My caretaker beat me nearly to death. I was worth so little they named me for the fact, then expelled me from their society. I manage not to be crap.


Prikka can be just plain mean, and Etharion's player is a fantastic sport about it. I'm lucky to be in a guild of mature players who thrive on IC conflict. If that describes you, go to www.servitors.org and check us out. You won't regret it.
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90 Gnome Priest
13055
Not all of our RP is serious. This is how I introduced today's structured RP.

As announced to all and sundry by a thoroughly incredulous Prikka at the Keep, King Deng-Deng--notorious Hozen pirate--has obtained the Golden Banana Hammock. Forged by the Monkey King himself, this wang sling renders the wearer invulnerable... and dangerously sexy. The Alliance must have this powerful artifact!

Locate King Deng-Deng. Resist his mystical allure. Get the Banana Hammock.


Then the Servitors murdered a defenseless man who while he was in the throes of passion, because that's how they do.
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Then the Servitors mercifully ended a stupid monkey while he was trying to seduce a summoned shivarra.


FTFY.
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((Here are some RP logs!))

The deathcharger's shoes sound loudly on the cobbles as Philomene rides the thing straight into the fortification then leaps down.

Cedrinn leaps from the saddle as well. Inside, two dwarves trade melee blows with three well-armed orc grunts. A dwarven priest lays crumpled by the barrels nearby, a head wound bleeding profusely. Cedrinn lifts the barrel of his gun, an incendiary cartridge already loaded and ready to fire. He fires it towards the back corner, aiming for a spot behind the three orc grunts.

Philomene's deathcharger wades straight in, heedless of its own safety, kicking and biting. Uncle Boogers does much the same, looking to cause as much damage as possible. As he hurtles toward them he doubles in size, and by the time he engages he's 400 lbs of horned, fanged Kun-Lai Runt. Philomene, however, slips off toward the priest.

Cedrinn's incendiary trap opens successfully, a jet of heat searing the backs of the orcs, who grunt in surprise and turn towards them just as Uncle Boogers closes in. Cedrinn murmurs a few words to Bandit and claps a hand against his furry shoulder. The wolf begins to circumvent the tower wall alongside the Lady Marshal. Ced leans himself up against the entryway, glancing back out into the war zone to check for an incoming assault.

Philomene's now-enraged yeti companion starts going absolutely ape!@#$; at one point he's bit by the deathcharger over a stray claw. He sprays spittle, piss, and blood from his enemies all over the place like a furry whirlwind of havoc. Philomene gains the priest unchallenged and kneels to check his vitals.

Cedrinn advances into the tower as Uncle Boogers mauls two of the orcs, the sounds of necks cracking audible even as the cannons blaze outside. One orc tumbles to the floor in the aftermath; Ced promptly impales his throat with one of the twin bayonets on his gun.
Cedrinn says: Clear over 'ere, Lady Marshal. Sendin' a flare for reinforcements.

Philomene looks over her shoulder just in time to see Uncle Boogers pick up a dwarf. "HEY!" she shouts. "Put that down and go upstairs or NO KAFA." At 'no kafa,' Uncle Boogers drops the dwarven fighter and disappears around a bend in the central staircase.

Cedrinn kneels by the entrance, hands shuffling through his pack as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. The dwarf set down by the yeti looks considerably paler, but looks to Philomene with a shaky nod of gratitude. Cedrinn pulls a flare from his pack and glances over his shoulder. "How's he doin'?"

Philomene rouses the priest. Aside from a bloody knot from where he was sapped, he seems in good order, pupils even and showing little sign of lingering disorientation. "This one's fine, Reqar." To the fighter she says, "Sorry. We're still having trouble remembering not to get carried away!"

Cedrinn nods, readying only one flare for signal. The dwarf strokes his beard, doing his best to remain composed as his partner secures another entrance. "Aye lass, I knew ya had 'er all under control!" The slightly-shaken dwarf takes a post at the entrance adjacent to Ced. Cedrinn releases a flare and backs himself up to a safer angle of the doorway.

Philomene's yeti is heard crashing and thrashing about upstairs. Soon the unmistakable sound of a goblin screaming issues forth from the upper level, going a bit Doppler as it descends, and ends with a wet thump at the base of the tower.

Cedrinn glances back again over his shoulder as Bandit's ears perk at the 'thump'. "Ya weren't kiddin' when he said 'e had his uses."

Philomene's yeti half-falls, half-shambles down the stairs again, fully half the size he was before. He comes over to Philomene and tugs her skirt. She offers him a few drops from a vial, and then he slumps against a wall, apparently out of the fight for a bit.
Philomene says: He does, at that. Quite the useful lucky-do. See any sign of incoming reinforcements?

Cedrinn says: I do, Lady Marshal. OI! We got five, 10 o' clock, boys! Two heavies, two wolfskins, one Blade!

Philomene gives Bandit a hesitant nod, as if to say thanks for the backup. She then turns to join the dwarven contingent. A waterskin is located and passed around. "Drink whilst you can, boys. Reqar, get topside with me. We'd be of more use up there."
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Cedrinn puts a hand to the stone block beside him, peering towards Lion's Landing before looking back to the encroaching Horde strike force.
Cedrinn says: Where're the bloody reinforcements? Should be 'ere already...

Philomene edges up and whispershouts, "Ready?" Before she draws Shadow down again it's clear her eyes are fair gleaming with an anticipation that has nothing to do with bloodlust and everything to do with the sheer joy of war.

Cedrinn's head snaps back to the Lady Marshal, his expression a combination of hesitation and curiosity. He nods, however, and lifts the his gun, butt nestled against his shoulder.

Philomene sticks her head out, calls over a shoulder. "Some illumination rounds, boyos! Let's light their arses up!" And boy does the team on the roof comply.

Cedrinn pulls back the hammers to both barrels, tugging on the trigger with a gloved finger. It's unclear how much of his shot reached the strike force and how much work was done by the commanded rounds, but either way, the strike force is quickly left sprawling, either dead or moaning in the sands.

Philomene waits for the arty team to show her what to hit, then blinks as there simply isn't anything for her to have a go at.

Cedrinn wets his lips, squinting towards the distance. He cups a hand over his brow, even though there's little sun to shield against. "...Incoming Horde vessel, Lady Marshal....it's...it's full o' the bastards, can see 'em from 'ere."

Philomene smiles as the artillery team behind her picks up Cedrinn's spot. A dwarven spotter calls, "Lemme see!" and elbows in. He then starts bellowing a string of numbers. Philomene cries over the din, "I can't do anything for that, so we'll have to pray it gets taken care of!"

Philomene's deathcharger streaks out of the tower and starts biting and kicking at the wounded Horde on the sand. Once everything alive is dead it stands, oddly quiescent, tail swishing as it mimes cropping nonexistent grass.

Cedrinn scrapes his lower set of teeth over his upper lip and scratches at his jaw. "They're comin' in for landin', behind the burnin' ship! Can we nix 'em from 'ere!?"

Philomene says: You try and if you can't get them, I'll have a go when they close a bit!
Philomene covers her ears as a cannon behind them belches fiery death.

Cedrinn glances over his shoulder as one of the dwarves shouts back, "Not with that bloody snot rag'uva banner they got blockin' our shot, we can't! Best we ready fer some company, boys 'n girls!!"

Philomene disappears from Cedrinn's side. She puts her head down the trapdoor, shouting something unintelligible at the people on the lower level. It's a conversation along the lines of why don't we have grapeshot for sails up here, and oh, !@#$, what do you mean we're all out? It ends when Philomene slams the trapdoor closed again.

Cedrinn cranes his neck and reloads his shotgun as the Horde ship anchors near the shore. They can't hear the groans of the plank lowering from here, but they're able to catch glimpses of it through the tattered Horde sail in the distance.

Philomene scrambles back over to Cedrinn right as the dwarves send another illumination round or two up. It'd look pretty were its purpose not to outline the silhouettes of the men they mean to kill.

Cedrinn adjusts himself in his kneeling position, roaring at the top his lungs as Horde reinforcements spill out onto the Krasarang beach, a wave of brutal spiked armor and barbaric wolfskin leather.
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Philomene watches the onrushing Horde through the fading twilight, bides her time. The guns shriek and bellow behind them, and on the ground the dwarven mortar teams start performing their range-finding checks on the deathground between shoreline and tower.

Cedrinn loads additional incendiary cartridges into both barrels of his gun. Closing one eye for just a split second as he aims, he pulls the trigger twice in quick succession, landing the traps at an impressive distance at the choke points in the Horde's barricade.

Philomene squints at the scene below. Her deathcharger trots back up to and into the tower in a weirdly unhurried fashion, tail high like a banner meant to taunt. Somewhere below them, the dwarves begin to chant.

The Horde forces charge through the barricade spaces towards the tower. The incendiary traps inevitably go off as they're activated, though they only manage to down perhaps a half dozen. The swollen strike force rushes towards the tower, a resounding "Lok'tar O'gar" booming from below as the sounds of pounding plate boots and rustling chainmail reach their ears even through the gunfire.

Philomene listens, trying to make out the words: ~Singe thy beard with spirit's ire! Set to roaring the blood's fire! Forth we march again' our foes! Death to enemies! Feast for crows!~ Her grin becomes a gritting of the teeth as she strives for patience. Her gloved fingers twitch against the hard stone of the merlon to her right. Juuuust a bit closer...

Cedrinn reloads his shotgun in a frenzy, though his aims and blasts are quick and calculated. For the briefest of moments, it almost seems as though the firepower, combined with the others atop the tower, are holding back the wave of Horde forces. The idea lasts for only a couple seconds, however, as the surge finally reaches within a few yards of the tower's entrance. Shouts from the Lion's Landing reinforcements can faintly be heard approaching from the south.

Philomene pops her head over the edge and unleashes an a psychic scream sufficient only to temporarily unnerve a few of their attackers. This is followed immediately by a flung-forward hand as she seeks, through the confusion, to seize the mind of the squad leader.

Cedrinn reaches to the side of his gun, one gloved finger pulling back a lever clearly modified from the gun's original model. He loads both chambers once more, aims, and points downward. Instead of simply pulling back the trigger, he holds it back for a rain of shot down below.

Cedrinn's assault distracts a few of the Horde soldiers below, even sending one sprawling to the ground to be trampled, but most lift their shields and block the scattering of shot.
Cedrinn says: Bloody hope that's reinforcement's on the south end!

Philomene's face goes slack and she slumps, suddenly defenseless, against the merlon. The orc lifts his axe and turns, swinging it in a chest-high arc at his comrades, who conveniently have their shields raised.

Cedrinn's jaw drops, shock settling in for only a brief moment as he watches the Horde squad leader begin butchering his allies. Snapping himself out of the surprise, Ced begins to reload his shotgun as the cannon blasts continue to shriek around them. The sounds of engaged battle can be heard below as the Lion's Landing reinforcements flood into the tower to meet the detachment of Horde invaders who are oblivious to the chaos in the rear.

Philomene remains oblivious to her immediate surroundings as the squad leader sows confusion and death to his own in the front. There is a bellow from within the tower, and Uncle Boogers lumbers out, all revved up and ready to rumble!

Cedrinn opts this time for a more concentrated attack. Below, Bandit slips through the mess of Alliance soldiers, prowling for vulnerable targets. Ced takes aim at a troll whose spear end is pointed at the Lady Marshal's ensorcelled orc.

Behind them, a dwarf says, "Wuh oh. Laddy, we're all oot of 'luminashun roonds!" Sure enough, the sky above is no longer constantly lit by the flicker of descending rounds. Soon, the battlefield in proximity of the tower will be mired in darkness.

Cedrinn's blast is a miss, peppering the sound behind the troll as the Hordeling's spear shot punctures the throat of the mind-controlled orc leader.
Cedrinn says, "Bloody !@#$in' hell!" He opens his pack again, shuffling around for additional flares. "I"ll give ya what I can!"

Philomene offers up a gurgling shriek oddly in tandem with the squad leader below. He goes down as Philomene slides to the ground behind the merlon with a hand cover her mouth. Don't puke, don't puke... oh, here we go. As Uncle Boogers gets the murder machine rolling in the fading light, Philomene brings up everything she had for dinner. Hurk!
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Cedrinn shuffles himself to the right carefully as he reloads another round, reaching a hand over to give her shoulder a quick pat before lifting the barrels up once more to aim below. "Y'a'rright, Lady Marshal!?" he shouts over the commotion as the dwarves behind them scramble to reorganize.

Philomene coughscreams, "I'll be fine! Plug those thrice-damned !@#$ers back to the Twisting Nether!" She wipes her mouth, takes a few deep breaths.

Cedrinn flinches a little in surprise, obviously expecting a more woozy response from the Lady Marshal, but he complies: he unloads another round of shot, sending two orc shaman to their knees.

Philomene shakes it off, creeps back up again amidst the sound of booms. She speaks words in Old Common, words that mean Pain and Death. Her yeti goes wild until he's pulled down by a quintet of pissed-off sin'dorei, disappearing under a rain of blows. The sound of bulhorns reaches their ears even from atop the tower. Rallying cries from the Lion's Landing reinforcements sound out as a wave of blue and gold floods from the tower, smashing into the Horde's frontline.

Philomene works for as long as she can with her spells. When she's drained dry she rolls cannonballs over to and through the murderholes. Too close to shoot now, anyway.

Cedrinn reloads and takes aim once more, though he manages a raspy 'They made it!' over the chaos. He pulls the trigger once more as shields lock against shields below. Another two Horde soldiers fall shortly after the trigger is pulled.

Philomene pauses when it gets too dangerous to indiscriminately drop cannonballs into the darkness below. She staggers for the trapdoor, flings it open, and sticks her head down, having another screamed conversation with people below.

Cedrinn looks over his shoulder, then back down to the chaos below as the darkness firmly settles in. As acute as his vision is, he still can't see at this point. He begins cracking flares and tossing them over the edge, their flaring tips hissing as they spin.

Philomene hollers, "Get them in and secure those damned doors. Or will you let them have one of your Marshals so easily, men and women of the Alliance?!" Philomene is rewarded by the banging of shields. %^-* yeah. She slams the trapdoor and heads for Cedrinn again.

Cedrinn shakes his head and curses in frustration as only one of his three flares manages to stay lit as it reaches the sand, a small orb of illumination glowing in the chaos below.
"Ready to descend, Reqar?" Philomene manages to whispershout this in an oddly-conversational way, like they're going to visit a friend or a bar or something.
Cedrinn says: Aye, Lady Marshal!

Philomene claps a hand down on Cedrinn's shoulder, much like he did hers earlier. As a storm blows up, further complicating visibility, she moves for the trapdoor a final time.


((Want to know how the rest went down? Hit us up for RP!))
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