We joke often that we’re not an RP guild - and playing on Medivh, a PVE server in the US, we’re not on an RP server, either.But, what we are, is a collective of highly creative folks being creative in a place with other creative folks where ideas can be bounced around like a Pong puck. It’s an atmosphere thats enjoyable to the like-minded, and bringing a bunch of folks together to DO STUFF and doing stuff with people you enjoy is rad because you’re DOING STUFF.A couple of us live in a place that’s really hard to find a D&D game, so we’ve used WoW as a substitute for that, crafting stories and such and sometimes, we share them on tumblr when we’re feeling particularly brave.Today, I’m going to be telling the story of the Waypoint Guild, the full meandering story, because it’s something I’ve been threatening to do for a while - there’s parts that are vague (on purpose) parts that are based in real history (on purpose) and room for inclusion of every character in the guild, even if you’re not max level or raiding: especially if you’re not.
So the history of Waypoint gets added to by each player and character, as they see fit. Opt-in role playing, as it were.
Cynwise was recruited, ostensibly, to help train, guard and guide inexperienced cartographers in dangerous lands. As an ex-mercenary with little chance of employment with the Alliance military after the events of Homecoming, it was a job, and a pretty good one for what it was. A druidic night elf who had served under Cynwise had referred her over to the guild.
The initial interview with Visper and Karanina went well, since Cynwise had a good grasp of why maps were so important - often the hardest point of the entire enterprise - but she didn’t seem very interested in actually making the maps, just content to train people in basic military skills without resorting to the bullying tactics of a Sergeant. “Oh yeah,” Visper muttered, looking first at Cynwise and then over to Ilithia Hale, who was, even then, rapidly becoming the de facto leader of the burgeoning Waypoint Coven. “Keep an eye on her, too.”
But that leads to another story, one for a different time.
There was a different incident, early on in Cynwise’s employment, where things could have gone very wrong. Kara was at the guild hall, gumbling about some feature of the Northern Barrens that her latest dispatches from the junior cartographers had brought from Kalimdor. ‘wise excused herself and returned about thirty minutes later with a battered journal in her hands. Sitting next to Karanina, she flipped past pages of battle tactics, warlock notes, and simple, precisely-drawn strategic maps depicting dozens of military engagements throughout Azeroth. Cynwise settled on one that showed a skirmish to the northwest of Orgrimmar. Kara’s eyes widened.
“Here,” she said, tracing an outline of where the mountain ridges drew together. “That’s what those two are arguing about. At least that’s how it looked five years ago. It might be different now, but I doubt it. Most of the damage they saw was to the south.”
Karanina is nothing if not composed, so she politely thanked Cynwise for providing that point of clarification and quickly penned a dispatch back to the field team instructing them to survey the range from a different location.
It was only later, when Cynwise had left to conduct lessons, that she told Visper about that brown journal. And Visper didn’t see that it was entirely necessary to let Kara know what happened next, though she was pleased to present copies of those maps to her administrator several days later.
What happened next was that Visper went to Zable, the magical rogue himself, and instructed him to make a copy of that journal without Cynwise knowing about it. It was a potentially fatal mission the likes of which she knew Zable couldn’t turn down. And she was right.
What Zable never told her was that the night after he performed the job, after deftly sneaking into the warlock’s room, stealing the journal, making rushed copies over the course of a frantic few hours, and then returning it all undetected - he slept far deeper than was his wont, only to awaken to find a faintly-glowing green gemstone on his chest, somewhat warm to the touch. Above his head his two favorite daggers had been thrown into the wood of his headboard with enough force to sink them to their hilts, pinning a note in place:
“Next time, just ask. I would have let you borrow them.”
Some things, the magical rogue mused as he struggled to get the blades free, are best kept to oneself.