Historic
Heroes of Pandaria
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Lord
Arathram Departs (Old-time
Hero of Pandaria, leader of paladins, leaves on a Holy Quest –
never to return...)
Lord
Arathram, half-elven Ranger-Wizard-Priest, veteran of the Giant Wars
and Hero of Pandaria, cannot stand idly by when forces of the
despicable Thardans profane and destroy the Sun-Temples in the
southern city of Thay.
With a band of his most loyal Paladins and Rangers, he seeks leave of absence to undertake a Holy Avenging Quest. Acting Arch-Priest Melascol, previously temple almoner but now - following the disappearance of both senior High Priests in the Thayan disaster - the effective Primate of all the Ammonite Faith, grants his request. Rather than despatch the questors immediately to Elorinar, Holy Father Melascol in his wisdom charges Lord Arathram's group to retrieve a suitable means of vengeance - a mighty weapon from a legendary realm he knows as the World of Ohtacuru.
Solemnly the incantations are intoned and holy chimes sounded. With an oath to return only when their Quest is fulfilled, Lord Arathram and his party miraculously shift from the plane of Pandaria... and pass into the realm of Legend.
Time passes and Lord Arathram does not return.
All that is known of his name thereafter was recorded in an ancient scroll and recounted by elven sage Halewyn of Kel'Thalas on a far distant world:
“Arathram’s
Bane, otherwise known as the Plague of Nations, was said to be lost
from this world many generations before the Elves of Quel’Thalas
settled in their lands. The artifact is believed to grant
unimaginable powers to it wielder. There is none that would not fear
it when held by one of purity and truth. If used by one of unsavory
conviction, the world would be his to command. While none have found
the artifact, many signs point to Quel’Maron, the most northern
mountains.”
“Arathram was a mighty warrior among the
night Elves of old. He killed the largest and most deadly dragon that
roamed the northern lands. No one has ever seen him since that
battle. He disappeared into the mountains. All that was found was a
magnificent blade. It was Arathram’s sword, yet it had been
changed. Through some act of arcane magic, a small vial of the
dragon’s blood had been placed in the hilt of the sword. This
is the plague of nations. They say that the poison of the blade could
kill all that opposed it. There was another quality to the blade that
many cherished. The blade seemed to give ultimate power to the one
that bore it. For many years it was used as a symbol of strength
among the Elves. Those Elves that used the ancient magic, and were to
become the Elves of Quel’Thalas, protested the use of the
sword. One night, a group of Elves attacked the Night Elf camp and
stole the sword. They fled many leagues in one night, taking the
sword to Quel’Maron. There, they hoped to return it to
Arathram, or his grave. They believed he was the only one worthy
enough of using the magic blade. Before they found Arathram, they
were ambushed in a deep mountain pass by the Night Elves. The sword
was never found.” (Excerpted
from "Prophetic Truths: The Quest")
---------
Queen
Drahena Restored
(One-time
Hero of Pandaria, Chosen Champion of Chaos, is restored to normal
physical condition...)
“Oh,
come
on,
Smeggus!” bellows the beautiful blonde elf maid, lolling on her
throne. Having returned to the Chaos stronghold of Demon's Vale after
her glorious 'victory' over routing Thardan forces (in which her own
army was wiped out) Drahena is, as ever, bored. “I'm bored of
this. An eye-patch is not 'cool', it's just tedious. Regenerate me,
now!
Call yourself a cleric...”
“Dear Queen, I have found
something that may.” says her loyal priest, emerging from the
nearby Chamber of Magical Storage. “This 'Elder Scroll of
Master Restoration' is the most powerful healing the Library of
Brazenase the Chaotic has to offer – and...”
“Yes,
yes, yes. Stop prattling and read it!” interrupts his
mistress.
“At once, Your Majesty...” the priest
replies, bowing, and mutters “...and my name is Smerjus.”
“Who
cares? GET ON WITH IT!” screeches the sharp-eared,
sharp-tongued elf.
Brevet High Priest of Chaos Smerjus reads
the ancient scroll. Magical blue fire crackles and arcs across from
the page to the throne – engulfing Drahena and drawing her
upright. The eldritch energy burns, seemingly in reverse – a
concentration at her ruined eye-socket pulses azure and leaves a new,
elven eye in it's wake! The flames continue, running all over her
body... over the face, along the outstretched arms, and lingering
intensely on the chest and nethers. Finally the cobalt conflagration
dies.
The elf tears off the now-superfluous eye-patch, and
laughs – but suddenly stops and listens, forcing another laugh.
A low-timbred laugh. Then looks intently at the upraised hand, now
less fine - momentarily noticing the Priest's aghast expression
beyond - before glancing down, at the flat chest, and finally feeling
discomfort from trews suddenly slightly tighter.
The elf long
known as beautiful Drahena is restored to his true form as plain male
elf Darthrom.
---------
Lord
Raedil Passes the Time
(Hero
of Pandaria, Wizard-Lord and retired Warlord of Quendor: Traveller in
the Imperium borderlands...)
Wood-elf
Wizard-Lord Raedil left the lands of Pandaria for the life of a
traveller in the borderlands around the human Imperium, particularly
those of the elven forest known as Greenheart. Sometimes hearing the
call to arms, he mostly passed the next two to three long years* in
training others, notably two talented dwarves. On one occasion
retired warlord Raedil famously recruited a large force of elven
warriors clad with cloaking devices to fight against the ever-growing
human empire. Sadly though, these arrived too late for the terrible
Battle of Yuletide - the druidic-led allies there suffered grievous
loss of life, and druid-elf relations were soured for decades
afterwards. Later, in middle age around 1326TR, he once again felt
ready for adventure but found the world had moved on. [*
340 human years approximately]
---------
Dranlen
Frontis Returns
(Chief-Bard
and Hero from Glorantha, followed the Muse to the world of
Pandaria...)
Dranlen
the bard bad farewell to the Shaman Baobon and set forth again across
the Grazzendaal Plaines. Having learned much of the local nomads'
folk tales, and noted many similarities and correlating differences,
he long ago realized the tribes in this world of Pandaria are exiles
originally from Prax. His vast persuasive skills could convince them
to return with him, resist the rising tide of Chaos, and save their
home world! But no. His time has gone – wasted in fruitless
learning. A faint harmonic of the mystical chord, on which he first
travelled here, reaches his ears – and, surrounding him, grows
to a crescendo! Then, as it fades away once more, so with it does
Dranlen's physical form... until he is gone.
---------
Chas
Torran's Last Stand
(High
Priest of Ammon-Ra, Reliquarist of St. Bemontë
of
Shiran, and other Martyrs of the Shiran Rebellion...)
Inspired
to foment insurrection in the city of Shiran, to regain the temple of
his Patron Saint Bemontë.
Support faded away when he spoke, nervous in front of the gathered
crowd, and his sincerity was not evident. Surrounding Thardan forces
then closed in and High Priest Torran, with Fathers Scrote, Karraway
and Brother Rocky, fought a gloriously heroic but doomed last stand.
Magnox the Coward fled via a dimension door immediately the battle
began, but was never seen again*. The High Priest's highly-polished
armour, alongside the lesser priest's wooden leg and giant brother's
skull, now adorn the Temple of Hecate in that city. The whereabouts
of St. Bemontë's
relics are unknown.
* Father Karraway fought bravely, with
honour, and eventually fell – but won deliverance via angelic
transference into the catacombs beneath the nearby temple ruins.
While recovering there, he found Magnox's sun-blazoned shield at the
edge of a flooded area infested with killer frogs. (It seems the
angel had transported the coward into the water, where he drowned
even before the battle above was over, his corpse being devoured by
the frogs and their carnivorous tads). Once healed, Karraway escaped
again with angelic aid, to tell Chas' inspirational tale. It is said
the martyred High Priest's armour gleams gloriously whenever Ammon's
goodly heroes win victory over insidious agents of the evil red sect.
---------
Darthrom
Goes Home
(No
more 'Drahena', plain old elf warrior Darthrom returns home to the
frog-swamps of Ghinor's City State...)
“Come
on out,
Smeggus!” shrieks the plain blond elf Darthrom, formerly known
as Drahena, while stalking chaos priest Smerjus round the throne room
of Demon's Vale. “I'm bored of this now, too... I only want to
talk
to
you.” he adds, unconvincingly.
“What's the sword for,
then?” the voice of the hidden priest says, from a nearby dark
room.
“Er – nothing. I just like swinging a sword.
Relieves stress...” replies Darthrom, becoming nostalgic: “...
takes me back to the good
old days.
No stupid politics. Just me, a sword, and maybe an axe, walking into
a nursery and chopping and hacking to my heart's content! The gore,
the severed heads and limbs, the screams and pointless pleas of
innocents... ah, bliss!”
“But
I'm bored of it all now. Pandaria. The idiot gods plans to 'Save the
World' – pah! Who
cares if
it's destroyed by slimy Cthulhoids? There's always other worlds.”
the elf-maniac continues, then sidles closer to the Magical Storage
Chamber's doorway.
“So you would leave – and return
to your home plane...? Urk!” says Smerjus – as Darthrom
darts into the hidey-hole, and puts sword to priestly throat.
“Yeah
– but you can't Plane
Shift,
you're not high enough level. And there must be No
Witnesses...!”
the murderous elf says, twisting the blade to cut...
“Wait!
This can!”
gurgles
the desperate priest – and holds forth a fragile glass globe,
swirling with grey smoke inside. “It summons a demon, able to
travel the planes... 'Tis the twin of one Brazenase tricked a druid
into using to humiliate the Chenat Canon Court...”
“Stop
waffling then, and do it.” commands Darthrom, letting
sword-point fall. “I'm a player-character - get me out of
here!”
Chaos-Priest Smerjus flings the globe to the
floor, shattering it, and grey smoke billows in a huge cloud.
“Command the demon when it appears – tell it where to
go...” he says, diving for cover. The smoke coalesces
unnaturally and, even more so, solidifies into a towering humanoid
form – a large grey-skinned man, totally naked but for a belt,
holding a fine-wrought giant club tall as himself in one hand. For a
few moments he is mid-air, bestriding the smoky cloud, but then it
darkens and coalesces into... a many-horned dragon, of black scales –
his mount.
“Who dares
summon
the Grey Man?” demands the Grey Man.
“I, Drahen-...
er, Darthrom.” the elf replies hesitantly. Then feigning
boldness, “Demon, I command
you,
as Champion of Chaos and Chosen One of Arioch - take me home to the
frog-swamps of the City State of the Invincible Overlord in the world
of Ghinor!”
The face of the Grey Man twists with demonic
rage but he roars “Come,
then! UP!”.
His dragon mount spreads it's wings, rears, snatches Darthrom and
leaps upward, in front of the gigantic statue of Arioch, directly at
the temple-throne room ceiling... But then with just one flap –
WHOP!
-
they vanish.
The chill high air rushes past, and Darthrom's
pointy ears grow cold, as he flies clutched in the demon's dragon's
talons. Far below he sees the land – yes, the once familiar
bleak landscape of the frog-swamps, and in the distance the dark
towers of the City State, where nearly forty years ago he was
transmuted into beauteous female form, bathing at a dubious inn.
Home!
The
talons release their grip. The elf falls and hurtles earthward –
then remembers this is exactly how he first reached the world of
Pandaria, as Drahena. So like then, the elf again screams for aid
from all deities he can name: “...Hermes, save me now! Orcus,
save me now! Arioch, Arioch, blood and souls!... Oh damn you all!
This can't be happening, it's just so stupid!” Finally, he
thinks - and shouts: “Demon, I command you! Take me down!”
At
once, the black dragon swoops below him and catches Darthrom on its
spiny neck, in pain but intact. Seated backward, the elf faces the
Grey Man, who looks beyond him for a suitable spot; then steers the
scaly beast down to perch on a bare rocky outcrop amidst scum-covered
waters.
Finally the Grey Man looks at the elf. “Now, as
you command,
Drahene-er-darthrom – I will take
you down...”
and his huge club strikes. Darthrom, with incredible dexterity still
gripping the sword despite cold-numbed hands, raises it to turn the
blow, while also trying to dodge aside. [GM:
16%(special), damage 3d6+3(x2)+7=4,5,5=41; DD: 24%(special),
AP10(x2); Chainmail AP5, Defence 26% (normal) 10; 41-35=6 damage; HP4
→ -2 in Locn 10 (Chest)]. But
the grievous impact bats
the
parry back and smashes into the elf's body, even through elfin mail.
The force knocks Darthrom, still clutching sword, off the dragon's
neck into the green slimy water – SPLASH!
Though
incapacitated by injury, Drahena/Darthrom is conscious and horribly
aware, as the water's green slime attaches itself to hands, legs,
face – areas of living flesh exposed by ill-fitting mail - and
hungrily begins to feed, soon eating down to the bone. Also the mail
is quickly dissolved, exposing torso, but she/he cannot scream as
relevant organs are gone. No flesh remains to stop the voracious
slime pouring into lungs and devouring all from the inside. Then
oblivion.
The Grey Man, Paladin of Chaos, watches impassively
for two minutes until the remains are entirely consumed. “So –
there's a vacancy for Champion of Chaos and Chosen One of Arioch, is
there? Interesting...”. Once again the Grey Man bids his dragon
“UP!”
-
it leaps, flaps and – WHOP!
-
they vanish.