Tales From Gallows' End, 31/7/09

Number of posts : 102 Registration date : 2008-08-25

Once again, people from every part of the Horde came together at the tavern in Brill to swap stories, with the Sang Real, the Ashen Order and the House of Sylvanas most in evidence this week. Alaster Grymm set the tone for most of the rest of the evening by opening with a story called "The Tragedy of Hope's Reach".

Alaster's tale:

"In the time after the Second War mankind was proud and successful...then the plague came to Lordaeron. At first it was thought to be a normal disease and so King Terenas Menethil looked to his priests and his doctors. But they knew of no way to cure or forestall the condition, so King Menethil contacted his brother Lord in Stormwind for they had just opened a new academy for the Medical Arts. He asked for the best and Brightest Doctors to be send to aid his people. And sent they were, they set up a hospital which they called 'Hope's Reach'. But Hope failed to deliver, day after day the victims came to the hospital only to die Vaccines, surgery, medicines; all tried, all failed.

Eventually one of the Doctors fell sick of the plague also and fled like a coward into the woods. Morale was at a heartbreakingly low point, and then one of the Doctors, a Marcus Cole, felt he could take the sorrow no longer and hung himself. It was then that the true horror of the plague was revealed: as they tried to cut poor Marcus down, the Scourge that he had become attacked them. Terrified doctors and paitents tried to flee from the monster but the Guards stationed to protect the hospital erred on the side of caution.

They closed the doors on the poor paitents and their helpers as they tried to flee and nailed it shut. Locked inside a hospital with a Scourge on the loose, the Guards heard their screams echo in the night till they could stand it no more and burned the hospital to the ground.

If you call someplace a bastion of Hope, expect the worse when it fails, and that was the tragedy of Hope's Reach."

Lynnora made an attempt to brighten the atmosphere after this, with a humourous anecdote:

Lynnora's tale:

"As some of you may know I own the restaurant formerly located in Silvermoon City. I fish a lot, therefore. So today, after a day of fishing in Ratchet, I cleaned my fishing rod and walked from the pier, carrying two brilliant smallfish in a bucket. I was approached by a Goblin Conservation Officer who asked me for my fishing license.

It had not been a successful day to fish and I was not looking for a fine. Hence, I said to the officer: "I was not fishing and I did not catch these smallfish. They are my pets." He raised an eyebrow and peered into the bucket. I continued to convince him: "Every day I come down here and dump these fish into the water and take them for a walk to the end of the pier and back. When I'm ready to go I whistle and they jump back into the bucket and we go home."

The Goblin, not believing me, reminded me that it was illegal to fish there without a license. I turned to the Goblin and said: "If you don't believe me, then watch.", as I threw the smallfish back into the water. The Goblin said: "Now whistle to your fish and show me that they will jump out of the water and into the bucket."

I turned to the Goblin and I smiled: "Fish? What fish?!"

Crowley then spoke up with his first story of the evening, an old fable from Zul'aman:

Crowley's tale:

"I have a story from the Amani forests - old one, the details change a lot, and no sod's sure what the moral's supposed to be.

This happens after the old empire's fallen, and the Trolls and Elves have really started hatin' the shit out of each other. The trolls were strong, and fierce, and cunning, then and now, but they couldn't match the Elves' superior weaponsmithin', magic and general ability to think with somethin' other than their foreskins. We - they, more like - held their own well enough for a while, usin' the same tactics that'd served them well in the inter-tribe fightin', but soon the Elves brought in even more new weapons: golems. Giants powered by magic with skins of stone and metal. Precursors, probably, to the ones ya've probably all seen wanderin' Silvermoon and telling the Elves how brilliant they all are.

One young chief, he wasn't about to let the Elves drive him out of his land, but he had no weapon that would do him any good against the golems. So he got his witch doctors to pray over him as he slept, and the answer came to him in a dream - the way to forge a Loa-blessed blade that'd tear right through these golems. The witch doctors called down meteors from the sky, and from the star-iron he found in them, the chief set to work forgin' himself a sword. When the time came to quench the new-forged blade, though, the touch of the water shattered the sword into a hundred shitty little pieces.

Our hero, not so much of a thinker, stubbornly refuses to give up, and gathers up the shards of his blade. He gathers up the shards of the first blade, and reforges them, only this time when it comes to quenchin' the sword, he takes the proudest lynx in the forest, and plunges the sword through him, quenchin' it in the lynx's blood. Bloody thing shatters again, naturally.

Now, by this point, even a lackwit like our hero's got to start wonderin', so he sends his fool witch doctors away. By now, most o'his land has been lost to the Elves and their golems. For a hundred days - always a hundred bloody days, for some reason, but that's probably just how long it takes a hero to get his brain in gear - he thinks on it, never sleeping or eating. Until at last, the answer comes to him. He gathers up the shards once again, and calls to him the most beautiful of his wives, and the one who's dearest to him.

He's a sensitive sort after all, our hero, and says, "Close your eyes, my wife, and know that I treasure you above all". He plunges the sword through her heart, and finally, the sword is tempered. In her blood, and in her love, and in his grief.

There's two morals to the story, and you can choose whichever you like better.

Either some things are worth more even than love, or flashy magic sword gimmicks are always more trouble than they're worth."

Number of posts : 102 Registration date : 2008-08-25

Siverus of Sang Real then mentioned that a similar story was told among the elves:

Siverus' story:

"It is one of the legends of how the bell atop the Sunfury Spire in Silvermoon City was forged. The visitors to Silvermoon City have surely noticed the sound of the bell that tolls at each hour. To some of us elves this is the most beautiful tone. But hardly anyone knows how the bell's clapper came to existence. It is said that the then king of the elves called to him the most famour elven bell founder and asked him to prepare a clapper for the topmost and biggest bell of the city spire. The founder, Filavandrel, bowed to the king and promised to have a clapper ready in one month.

He returned to his smithy and for a month worked tirelessly, trying to come up with the perfect mixture of precious metals. And the main ingredient he decided to use gold. After a month, when the clapper was ready, he took it to the king and had it mounted inside the bell. But at the next hour, as the bell tolled, the sound that came was rather flat. Displeased, the king told Filavandrel to work harder and have a better clapper ready within a fortnight. Embarrassed, Filavandrel returned to his home. Seeing his distress, his daughter sought to cheer him up somehow but the bell founder merely shook his head, ignoring her, and went straight to his smithy to ponder.

If gold, the most valuable of metals was not sufficient, he would use silver as the main metal. Silver, which is like the light of the moon. For two weeks Filavandrel worked tirelessly, forgetting to eat or drink or sleep. But as the deadline came, the new clapper was ready. He went to the king and had it mounted in the bell. But at the next hour, as the bell tolled, the sound that came was very shrill and much too high. Again the king was very displeased and warned Filavandrel not to fail him for the third time and set a week's deadline for the final clapper to be forged.

Severly distressed and disappointed, the bell founder returned home and sat at the table at his house, holding his head and holding back the tears. His daughter was highly dependant on him and should he fail for the third time and be executed she would have no one to care for him. However, as she tried to soothe his pain and cheer him up he told her everything that had been happening over the past weeks. Attentively she listened to him and as he ended his tale she told him not to worry but to rest and begin the work again in the morning. She assured him if he rested the work would proceed much better and surely the king would be pleased with his third attempt. Tired and soothed by his daughter's words he agreed, instructed his helpers to get the metals ready and the fire under the melting pot burning hot and he went to sleep.

In the middle of the night, Filavandrel's daughter quitely left the house and went to the smithy. There, she looked around, looked over he shoulder at what little of Silvermoon City she could see and she undressed. Once naked, she poured a bucket of water over herself, climbed the anvil, and threw herself into the melting pot where the metals for the third clapper were already bubbling. She died without a sound.

In the morning Filavandrel returned to work and worked for a week, forgetting to eat or sleep, as he wanted to please the king. As he went to the king he was a little surprised that his daughter was not there to see him off but paid little heed to it. Then, as the third clapper was mounted, Filavandrel clutched a hand to his breast, awaiting the bell's sound. And as the next hour came and the first stroke of the bell was heard, the sound that spread through Silvermoon was the most beautiful tone anyone had ever heard and the whole city literally came to a stop.

Once, twice, thrice the bell tolled and as the final tone finally died, Filavandrel finally understood. In the sound of the bell he recognised the voice of his daughter.

The king was pleased."

Kevgrethor volunteered a short joke to lighten the mood:

Kevgrethor's tale:

An orc, a troll and a tauren are wandering through Dustwallow Marsh when they are captured by the guards of Theramore Isle. They are marched in front of the Captain of the Guard, who tells them "You'll each receive 20 lashes of the whip before you're thrown out of our lands. You may have one wish granted to ease your suffering while you are punished." he adds.

The orc steps forward and requests that a pillow be tied to his back while he is whipped. After 10 lashes, the pillow breaks, and the orc is forced to endure 10 painful lashes. The troll is up next. Grinning smugly, he asks for TWO pillows to be strapped to his back, and escapes without the whip finding his skin. The tauren is up last. "What's your wish to ease your suffering, tauren?" asks the Captain of the Guard.

"Strap the troll to my back", replies the tauren."

Alaster followed with a joke of his own:

Alaster's second tale:

"A warlock walks into a bar with an imp on his shoulder. He settles down at the bar and asks for a pint, which the tavern keeper duely supplies. Whilst the warlock drinks the imp runs down on to the bar. The imp runs the length of the bar and dives into the skittle alley. He grabs the skittle ball and swallows it whole. The Barman is amazed, although slightly agrieved and he tells the Warlock so. 'Ere, your imp just ate that skittle ball whole!' The warlock apologies but tells the Barman that the imp, called 'Karpit', swallows the first thing he sees whole. The warlock pays for the ball and pint and leaves

A week later, the Warlock returns with the imp on his shoulder and orders a pint. As the Warlock drinks, the imps dives off his shoulder and runs down the bar. The imp stops at a bowl of cherries and shoves one up its' rear before pulling it back out and swallowing it whole. The Barman is, understandably, disgusted. He turns to the Warlock and tells him what his imp as done and the Warlock nods sadly

'Well' the Warlock says 'he stills eats the first thing he sees whole, but since the skittle ball he measures everything first!'"

Not to be outdone, Crowley finished the evening with a second story:

Crowley's second tale:

"This one's more of a ghost story, of sorts. Amani, again, although not so well known. Out in the forests, a few troll whelps had managed to give their elders the slip for an afternoon, and were climbin' trees, raiding ravens' nests for eggs. They didn't have much luck for a while, 'till the smallest and youngest of 'em spied an uncommonly large nest high in the branches. The whelps climbed up, and found in the nest, no eggs, but a newborn girl child, fast asleep among the black feathers. Children bein' children, a couple of them wanted to drop the baby and see what sound it made when it hit the floor, but the oldest won out, and took it back to the tribe.

The witch doctors and the old wives of the tribe were all for burnin' it. They said she would bring bad luck on the tribe, that she was a daughter of ravens, and not meant to survive. The chieftain, though, was an uncommonly decent sort, and instead had the girl child locked away in some old human ruins nearby. Every day, one of the wives of the tribe would go to the baby, and look after it. Soon enough most of the tribe forgot her, especially when the locusts and pestilence they'd been predictin' failed to materialise. Time passed, not that the trolls knew it. They kept as they'd always been and stayed the hell clear of Elves and golems.

Time passes, as I say, the wives keep on raisin' the girl. By the time she's fourteen, she's grown into the prettiest thing any of the wives had seen. I'll not wax lyrical about her, since I know there's only a couple of us here who can appreciate a real Trollish beauty. Suffice to say, her looks were the talk of all the wives there, and women bein' women, soon enough they'd talked too loudly and too often about what a fine thing their daughter o'ravens had grown into. The son of the kindly chieftain had taken up leadership by this time, and he wasn't half so nice as his father. Crueler, rasher, much more like me, in short.

Now the chieftain got word of the girl in the tower, soon enough, and he gathered his favourites to him and arranged to meet by the tower, at night, when all the wives would be asleep. The night came around soon enough, and the men of the tribe snuck out and left the village in silence to get their closer look at the girl in the tower. They kicked their way into the tower with laughter on their lips, and found her there, everythin' they'd heard. Girl hadn't been taught a word of Zandali, and had never seen a man before in her life, but she could tell what they meant all the same.

She trembled, and looked at them with pleadin' eyes, but them being twenty five carat bastards, this only made them want her all the more. They were so intent on their fun, they couldn't hear the sound of a hundred pairs of black wings outside. And next time the wives went down to check, they found a tower full of black feathers and clean-picked bones.

There's the usual after that. Sometimes you see her in the trees, etcetera. Some say she'll only come for men, some say only the men who try to take her like the chief did will have to get their eyes picked out. Some maintain now that whenever you're in that part of the forest at all, you run like a shit if you hear black wings on the wind."

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