Thundering Hammer Clan actively recruits mature adult PvP and RP focused players who are looking to join a community and be committed to a movement that is bigger than themselves.
In-Game Contacts: Malkavet, Thorgrun, Daralyn, Cantoria ]]
An acrid, sweaty pall sulked over the central promontory of the basin. In its midst an undead mage surveyed the aftermath of frenzied battle. The ozone stench of arcane discharge stung his nostrils. At his feet the twisted wreckage of what had once been a druid of the Kel’dorei lay tumbled halfway down the slope to the water’s edge. Behind him a torn and singed banner of the Horde hung dank atop the main building of the isle. A barely functional forge and smithy, it was the central feature of the valley and one of the two most hotly contested elements of the battlefield.
Seven years they had been fighting over this narrow crevice between Arathi and the Hinterlands. Capturing, losing and then recapturing in an endless struggle for resources and supremacy. Some might call it madness, but for the dark-clad mage it was a most useful state of affairs, one which he sincerely hoped would continue.
Kneeling slowly he removed a small crystaline vial from a fold in his robes. From his waist his other claw-like hand retrieved a twisted dagger that pulsed with dark energies. With a surgeon’s care he sliced gingerly along the wrist of the fallen elf and teased forth a sample of blood.
A grunt of disgust erupted from over his shoulder, as an aged orc stared down at his work.
“Must you continue that vile habit, Blackheart?” Thorgrun Ashgrip wore a perpetual snarl between his long, white, braided mutton-chops, but his voice always carried a warm overtone that often left others wondering whether he was truly angry or simply speaking in jest. In this instance there was a little of both, mingled through many shared scars and years of long association. He did not in fact care for most of Malkavet’s habits, but he tolerated them.
For his part, the mage was content to show a modicum of respect for the wizened old Orc. The elder shaman was the titular head of the Clan, and this too was a circumstance which suited the Blackheart’s intentions and which he was happy to see continue.
“My research continues.” It was as close to deference as anyone was likely to get out of him.
Thorgrun sighed and turned his head. Malkavet could see by his eyes that he was counting the fallen. Not the enemy, but their own. He wore that weary look of resignation that always brooded over his eyes after a battle. Not for the first time the mage pondered what a curious dichotomy this old orc represented. He would fling himself into battle with as much blood lust as any of the Horde, but he was always affected by a melancholy regret after the fact. He was staring now, with that hollow expression, at the body of a fallen troll near the eastern bridge.
Malkavet did not remember the troll’s name. He had never bothered to learn it in the first place. So few of them lasted long enough for names to matter. They lived out their short existence as a bulwark against rampaging enemies and then they were replaced. Occasionally one would survive and become deadly enough to be really useful. Then perhaps he would bother with the names.
Another figure approached from the south, a gleaming metallic lump rounding the dilapidated corner of the blacksmith with a thick stave draped in umber and sable cloth. Mackh was one of the more useful killers. He had survived blood and fire and hell itself a dozen times over to still be here. Patches of leathery green flesh peeked through his bristling steel armor as he planted the standard of the Thundering Hammer Clan just outside the smithy door.
He looked up, flashing a wicked grin at Malkavet - all teeth and fangs, glistening with spittle and gore from the fight.
“Just like old times, eh Blackheart?”
Yes, Malkavet nodded. Just like old times. And off he moved without a word to find another elven corpse. Preferably fresh.