Grim Views

This has been a strange few weeks for the Horde, Grim. In Icecrown Citadel the battle rages as we close in on our prey. And even as Horde soldiers die to Scourge beasts, our streets are decorated in pinks and reds and paper lanterns. First for a week of Love, and now to celebrate the Lunar Festival with the druids of Moonglade. We celebrate many things these weeks--the coming victory over the Scourge, past victories over the Burning Legion. So I have asked the Shadowblade to bring us together in this place so that we might consider not our victories, but our failures, so we might remember the stories and be stronger for them.



This is Oshu'gun. Many of you know this place. There is a terrible story to tell of this place, one of betrayal, blindness, and loss. Many of you know this story. Some of you lived through it. It is the first great failure of the Horde, though it was not the last, as surely there will be more in the future as well. By remembering the story of the shaman Ner'zhul and his blindness, his bald ambition, we steel ourselves against the same losses and failures.

Sometimes, though, the losses aren't as huge as this. This snowshoe rabbit I keep as a pet is my own reminder of a failure. One of the first to wear our tabard and keep the Mandate was a shu'halo druid who died to the Burning Legion. I could not keep her alive, and so I carry that story, that failure, in my own heart today.

So this is your task, before we meet again, Grim: tell me your own stories of failure, so that we can share them, remember them, and be stronger for them.

~Yichimet the Seer, Keeper of the Mandate

(( This is a story contest! There will be a prizes for the contest. The prizes will depend on how many people enter. If I can get ten or more different players (not characters by the same player!) to enter a story in this contest, there will be three prizes. Less than ten, there will be two. If ten people enter, the prizes will be: 1st, a [wowitem]Primordial Saronite[/wowitem]; 2nd, a [wowitem]Glacial Bag[/wowitem]; 3rd, an epic gem of your choice. If less than ten people enter, it will be the [wowitem]Glacial Bag[/wowitem] 1st, gem 2nd. (I'm hoping this gives you motivated people a reason to encourage your equally creative but less motivated friends to join the contest.)

Starting Points/For Reference:

There are many places where the Horde races failed. If you don't have a personal story for your character, you can choose to narrate your character's involvement in one of these greater stories:

• The WoWwiki page on Oshu'gun and the start of the demon-tainted Horde.
• The WoWwiki page on The Dead Scar and the destruction of the Sunwell.
• The WoWwiki page on The Third War and the loss of Lordaeron.

The list is fairly endless here. I would also very much so encourage you to use your character's personal lives as a starting point--this story could be as much about the personal moments as it is about the epic narratives of the Horde. As always, I just want to see some creativity, inspiration and good storytelling!

Rules and limitations:

1. You may work together and present something collaborative along with other Grim, but you may need to split the prize between you if you decide to do so.

2. Any form will do--text, art (if you would rather draw than write), verse, some combination.

3.This is one contest where publishing something counter-Mandate may actually work, as it's about failure. I encourage all kinds of stories this month!

4. Keep it to an R rating. As long as it's acceptable in a public movie theater, it should be fine.

5. Submissions can be made through a post in the Gallow's End (ideally, respond to this thread!) or by PM to me sometime before the deadline, which is April 4 by 11:59 PM.

6. BMR alts are allowed to play, especially if their back story is more fitting for the contest.

(( 3. requires an edit as it was copy/pasted from Scholomance thread ))

(( C&P is always my downfall. Fixed! ))

(( Two and a half weeks! Don't make me buy MYSELF a glacial bag for fun, folks. APPEASE YOUR RP MASTER. ))

((And here is my entry for the contest.))

One week after the Wrathgate Incident.
A shadow slipped past the northern gates of Icecrown Citadel, across the broad courtyard of dead land, unobserved by the ever vigilant guardians, and to the dark and foreboding walls of the fortress of the Lich King himself.  The shadow paused for a moment, alone at the foot of the tower, mulling over some thought and tapping bone against bone.  Inzema watched the patrols of the gargoyles overhead, counting seconds between each pass, swaying back and forth as he waited.  When he was satisfied he dug into one of the dozens of pockets in his cloak, removing a glowing vial containing a bluish substance.  He sat down, removed the stopper, and carefully smeared a thin coating of the noxious liquid across the toes of his boots.  He replaced the stopper, struggling slightly to remove his fingers, and returned the vial to its place.  With the bottle safely away, he smeared the substance on his other hand and, after a slight struggle and a grunt to free them from each other, stood and made his way to the wall.  He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, muttered a curse in Gutterspeak, and began scaling the wall as easily as might a spider.
Hand over hand, foot over foot, Inzema crawled up the side of the citadel, his goal, the balcony far above that, if his information was right, would lead into the inner sanctum of the Lich King’s head lieutenants.  Blood Queen Lana’thel, the mistress of the darkfallen, elves who had sold their souls for the vampiric power bequeathed upon them.  Sindragosa’s lair would be here too, the undead dragon, when not terrorizing the frozen wastes of Northrend, resting or whatever it was that an undead creature of that size did.  Neither of these Inzema cared about in the least. 
Once reaching the platform, Inzema took a moment to apply a solvent to the climbing adhesive.  His hands and feet properly un-stickied, he walked towards the large double doors ahead of him, slipping past a pair of large skeletons without a glance.  He pushed against the doors and found himself unable to move them.  Trying again with more force and a slightly different angle rendered a similar result, so Inzema resorted to more extreme methods.  Pulling a ridiculously large bag from the contents of his cloak, the bulk of which could not have fit within, Inzema began pulling a variety of gadgets and technological doodads from the bag, tossing them aside hither and thither, some causing quite a racket as they smashed against the metal floor.  The two skeleton guards turned slightly, lights in their empty sockets appearing as the constructs awoke.  They watched the smaller undead and his bag of tricks, and if bone could display confusion and curiosity, their faces surely would have. 
Inzema shouted “Aha!â€

The assembly of Grim broke off into their different paths at the end of their gathering at Oshu’gun.  Failure….Eternalnight remembered her own moment of failure…of weakness. It defined her, made her, that which she was today.  She was Eternalnight, of the Grim.

Eternalnight mounted her Nether Ray which she had tamed herself (with the help of the Shi’tari Skyguard) and glided to a small hovering rock high over Nagrand.  Here, alone, she remembered her own failure that made her.

It had many several years ago, before the Lich King arose anew, before Illidan and the Dark Portal resurged to Azeroth.  It was roughly 4 years ago, when the Horde had full attention on the soft skinned Alliance. 

She was not Eternalnight yet.  The sundering of her mind had not occurred. She was merely the Witch of Tirisfal Glades, and still heard the whispers of another life…a young girl, alive, with a family. 

She was not the Eternalnight of now.  Her robes were tattered, her packs held a few items which were merely enough to get by in her wanderings.  She still listened to an axe carrying, thick headed warrior, Sammuel.  He had convinced her to walk with him from Tirisfal, all the way to the forests of Ashenvale.  There was gold to be made, knowledge to be discovered.

Even Sammuel was tattered at this time.  His axe did not gleam as it did now, and his gear clunky and mismatched.  But the two together, blade and magic, had proved strong in battle.

As they made their way through Ashenvale, it happened.  Eternalnight sat in Nagrand, sneering as she remembered.  The elves attacked.  She hadn’t heard them, seen them, or felt anything…..she was only aware she could no longer move.  The Witch simply seized up, fell to the ground, and laid there.  No fight, no struggle, she was…immobile. 

Then, four Elves were on them.  They were followers of the Nature’s Path…Druids.  All were female, with soft features, and small daggers or bows in their hands.  They had bound the Witch in thorns and briar, and now they played around with Sammuel.  They prodded him, snared him, and forced him from one target to the next.  He would chase the one elf, who would then dance out of reach, as another blasted him with magic, driving him down. 

This went on for several minutes.  As she would start to loosen herself free of the vines, another wave of thorns, vines, branches, rose forth to smother and bind her.  She was unable to move, only able to watch.  Those damn elves…they enjoyed the game too. They enjoyed forcing Sammuel to fight, only to fail.

Finally…his armor smoking from numerous hits….Sammuel dropped to his knees…..unable to get back up….he hung his head…dropped his axe….

But before the elves finished him, one came over to her to look at the Witch.  She leaned close; faces almost touching…and the elf spoke softly ...â€

Hau Greyseer arrived on the back of Kopi, an enormous silver wolf and their orange eyes gleamed together as they caught the flames of the Grim gather fire. Broad and ancient with a grizzled grey mane and beard, he wore no armor over his kodo skin robes. He carried nothing but a medicine bundle, a small knife and a knot of wood for his carving.

The triplets, having trouble with the concept of failure, had invited him to speak his piece and hopefully bolster the spirits of their beloved Grim. They were already smashed, sprawled out in their noisy mechanical reclining chairs pieced together from scraps of northern metals and gadgets. The recliners had been a nuisance at many caravan gatherings-- unnecessary and noisy. Hau heard them bickering with each other and wondered.

"Pass the biffing brew Dehau." Nehau demanded, using the strength of earth itself to rock her sister's chair. She cracked her knuckles and sparks of lightning crackled between her palms.

"Deh can get your ale after mine." Tehau cackled. Her cunning at the game of Boulder-Parchment-Shears knew no limits. Her sisters were indebted to her for several ale hauls and who knew what else. First dibs on treasure? The hardest of the caravan chores? Time spent with elderly uncles?

Dehau looked wild eyed from the ice bucket to her sisters and then back to the ice bucket. She was too drunk to reason and fixated on which sister would be the least painful to reject. She felt a spike of rage and dismissed it. It would have to be Nehau first. Tehau's sullen simmer would seep like poison for hours but it rarely drew blood.

Hau watched his grand-daughters wasting their talents on petty arguments and wondered. Did they always bicker, or did they work together? The vision had come to each of them almost a year ago and it seemed they were still uncomfortable. He had made the suggestions. He had watched. He had wondered. Had he failed?

He felt the wind and the heat of the fire. He drew life from the elements and cleared his throat. His voice rumbled like thunder caught in the barrel of his ribs. "My grand-daughters assured me welcome at the fire of their people. I come with the gift of a story from my ancestor's ancestors. The story of Brother Bee."

Hau's eyes rolled back in his head as he called upon his spirits to help him tell the tale. The magic of two worlds entered from the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. His medicine bundle was offered to the flames. The fire burned green and blue among the orange and red. The air was perfumed with the incense of dreamfoil.

"Long before Buzzard split the world, orcs and animals lived in one tribe." Hau began his story in a voice so deep that it could be felt as much as heard. He was entering a story trance, and his pupils overtook the orange of his eyes. He stared at the fire, seeing the past as he spoke.

"Brother Bee showed the tribe how to build their homes and expected them to work very hard and never play. He was so strict about it that no one wanted to work with him. But Sister Spider was loyal to him, and always helped.

Seasons passed and they finished many homes together but she never worked good enough or long enough to keep up with Brother Bee. 'You are a failure, Sister Spider.If only you had a stinger like me.' he said at the end of every day."

As Hau talked, his knife cut at the wood in his hands. Unknowingly he removed the bark and enchanced the natural shape of dense pine. Have I failed? His eyes never left the fire. When he was finished with the story, part of his answer would be in the palm of his hand.

"'Why Brother Bee, why are you buzzing at me to spin more clay when I have done so all along and just wish to stretch out?' she asked him.

Brother Bee was angry. If he was driven to work so, why should not all others be as well? He was so unhappy that he decided to destroy the work she had already done. 'This clay is spun poorly. After all this time you should know how to spin better, Sister Spider.' he argued.

'I will do better tomorrow.' she agreed.

Hau's voice wove a story spell and the triplets watched the flames with their own thoughts stilled. The medicine bundle burned in streams of color. The blue of the sky. The red of the earth. He continued to carve, a soft click-click of the wood and knife. Shavings scattered like petals at his wide feet.

So it went for many moons until one day Sister Spider could take no more. 'Brother Bee, I do not believe all that you are saying is true.' She set down her clay and refused to spin any longer. Brother Bee was so angry at her refusal that he stung her right in the heart.

Now Gramps' voice was as low as a growl. His carving was still and his body seemed nearly to grow larger as he drummed a rumbling beat on the stringy muscles of his thighs.

The Great Spirit roared with a rainstorm. Sister Spider lay still. Brother Bee was scared. He left his stinger in her heart and flew away. "Who has done this?" The Great Spirit asked.

Although she was dying, Sister Spider told him all that had happened.

"'Brother Bee has failed the tribe Sister Spider. He has lost his temper and hurt one that he should love. Brother Bee will learn that with the loss of his temper comes the loss of that he loves most. His sting will kill but the first tears of your people will carry the gift of poison.'"


Hau held his hands tightly around the idol he had made. Later, after he was prepared for a vision quest, he would bring the carving and get the rest of the answer he needed. He nodded gruffly at those gathered around the fire.

"To this day, the spider may poison as often as she needs but the Bee may only sting once. True failures punish themselves."

(( Super awesome entries so far! Y'all have one week to write yours if you haven't yet. ))

(( I missed putting up my "This contest is closed!" sign a couple weeks ago, and this month's guild meeting is tonight which I won't be able to make. Expect the winners of this contest to receive their prizes by the end of this week, and the new contest to go up on Saturday or Sunday. ))