Panashea

you didnt even ask me 😭

add WITCHdoctor c:

me me made by gammabyte gomoore idk who evonpire commisioned for these

love how many people said shamanism now help me finish writing it

The red sunset of the Mesa cast hope over the children of Krug as they bid farewell from orange rock and ashen sands. Azuras held greater treasures for them, and home was in the heart. The clan banner of Akaal felt good in Ghoraza's hands. The winds cast purple pride high, toward ambition and toward purpose.

p much my character's aesthetic to a T

The Horde marches.

༺ ✧ T H E C O L D T R U T H ✧ ༻ The pride of my clan bled for a new age. A Heartbeat as strong as steel, and as bright as the sun. I could feel the heat of pride inscribed in the runes we cast, for how could an Uruk forget home? How could Krug’s purpose be maligned by those who bore his blood? When the book opened, the vision drained from my eyes. The smell of blood reminded me I was alive, but I was dead. There was no home in failure. There was no Stargush’Stroh, nor hope for me to claim from these wastes. My pride had been met with ice. My journey, its end. The power of the Throqu’grizh began to die. I had seen this in omens- A clarity bestowed from the blood of Izig. To know that the curse of my forbearers traveled here, even beyond the mortal plane. This realm was penance then, to embrace the cold death we had given others. I would not see the Stargush here. Damned by the Spirits, entrapped in anathema, the Bloodflame Shaman could do little but think. Centuries drifted by in visions when the pain let up enough to be conscious. His flesh lamented this place, and yet he was caged. The tall trees formed the long arms of his jail. The fires within his soul stirred, offering him warmth in a place without it. But eventually, that fire would fade. Hours became days, and days to years, and yet he remained steadfast. It was only when the Akaal heard Ixli’s words again, did his purpose melt through the snow. THERE IS NO SIN IN SHADOW OR IN LIGHT THAT THE FIRES OF THE DEAD CANNOT FORGIVE. There would be nothing to gain from dying here, nor worth the difficulty of traveling to such an awful place. Danthir’s hate would only breed a new resolve from the Akaal, and a new world of fire on the lands below. It was uncertain whether the Akaal had been shown a cruel reminder, or an inevitable omen, but he would continue nonetheless. The spokes of fate would continue to turn, and he would melt the ice.

The hands of the Akaal trembled, for the spokes of fate had turned once more, and he had been called toward greater purpose.

shaman purging second mind is in the voidstalker lore

You can use RPsigns, link other videos, gdocs or other kinds of media if you want to represent the visuals, unless you mean just wanting a [Story Approved] Sign in front of the mural

let me know what u want

Shamans too please? Otherwise looks good

K i n s l a y e r The Scaddernak, which was not supposed to be there, dripped rot from the invulnerable flesh. Our emblem had become corrupted, a plagued titan marked by Orgon’s image. Had you not seen it its hate and thereby understood its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a Father scolding his children, a fevered dream, a trance laced with horrors having no precedent, an itinerant carnival, an endless journey whose ultimate destination is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning. I could feel the chaos of my pilgrimage. It resonated in me, like a voice oceans away. Morning began hot and idle. Familiar druddery of sandstone blocks pushed by ologs. A steady heartbeat. The face of a fortress began as simple steps and a visage of many hands. Labor was peaceful, and I could see the gold within the desert sands. Clans from Mor’ghuun sent to claim more in Krug’s name. When I had seen my home become a hazy blip at the water’s distance, I had smiled for the fortunate opportunity. A new age wrought of KRUG’s vision. Blood blessed the morning with haruspexy. Long crimson lines created a red road at the maw of San'Khatun. A wry smile shone beneath the cloth of the haruspex, a scarred hand gesturing toward his reading. The sun pushed its way into my fresh wounds, and I could feel a sickness overcome me. There was a darkness. An impossible black, a strangling night in a familiar sky. A stain that pushed panic in the core of my being. “It is an omen, Skaatchnak.” The voice whispered from oceans away, as if his wisdom had sailed back home. The sun had moved our shadows into view before I finally spoke, for the world had shifted, encompassed by the black. I do not know what the haruspex had said after, but my mind returned to me when I had found myself isolated within the desert. The gold was a respite from the truth I had seen that morning, and the pain of walking on hot sand eased the fear that gnawed within my stomach. Faces of family and kin frowned within the winding sands. This place was not Uruk- it did not speak of Krug’s light, and yet no matter how many alms were given to the Spirits, they remained silent. What could stifle their presence? And yet I knew. I knew before my eyes had opened that morning, and before the haruspex had spoken. When the boat had docked here, and I placed my faith in this land- truth had branded a horror into my mind. S K A A T C H N A A K •• ━━━━━ ••𒋝•• ━━━━━ •• WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT THAT CAME FROM THE HAND OF THE KINSLAYER I SHALL BRING FORTH THE FIRES OF THE DEAD TO SHARE WITH THE WORMS THAT GATHER IN THE DARKNESS AND SURROUND THE WORLD WITH THE POWER OF THEIR LIVES WHILE FROM THE DIMLIT HALLS OF OTHER PLACES FORMS THAT NEVER WERE AND NEVER COULD BE WRITHE FOR THE IMPATIENCE OF THE FEW WHO NEVER SAW WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN. IN THE BLACK WATER WITH THE SUN SHINING AT MIDNIGHT, THOSE FRUIT SHALL COME RIPE AND IN THE DARKNESS OF THAT WHICH IS GOLDEN SHALL SPLIT OPEN TO REVEAL THE REVELATION OF THE FATAL SOFTNESS IN THE EARTH. THE SHADOWS OF THE STARGUSH ARE LIKE THE PETALS OF A MONSTROUS FLOWER THAT SHALL BLOSSOM WITHIN THE SKULL AND EXPAND THE MIND BEYOND WHAT ANY URUK CAN BEAR, BUT WHETHER IT DECAYS UNDER THE EARTH OR ABOVE ON GREEN FIELDS, OR OUT TO SEA OR IN THE VERY AIR, ALL SHALL COME TO REVELATION, AND TO REVEL, IN THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE STRANGLING FRUIT—AND THE HAND OF THE KINSLAYER SHALL REJOICE, FOR THERE IS NO SIN IN SHADOW OR IN LIGHT THAT THE FIRES OF THE DEAD CANNOT FORGIVE. •• ━━━━━ ••𒋝•• ━━━━━ •• Ixli’s words were familiar, and yet in the sanguine tithe I paid her, I knew not the cost of her sermon. No coffer, no ocean could hold the cost of that prophecy. Eyes, like my own, bore down upon the treasure laid within the valley. A rift within the earth, bearing the familiar rumblings of times long ago. Across the pit lay a red-blue smattering of orcs who chattered atop the hill. Confusion struck both sides like a mace to the skull. The single beat of confusion rolled into the thrumming of war drums within my ears. Urukim could hear the violence of this world, and as Izig descended down the valley, flails singing above their heads, it was met in kind with the shuddering of bloodsteel, and the cackling of Laklul’s scions. Before our weapons could meet, the eternal mountain ripped up from the earth and divided our peoples. I could see it now, as my body was engulfed in black shadow and primal fear. Every orc an ant in the face of strength. Twisting into the sky, eight obsidian towers shuddered as they drove themselves into the earth. Connected to the black pillars was a massive body, gilded with scars from thousands of years. A hole had been punched into a section of the chitin, insides crumpled and folded against the confines of its carapace, black blood and decay. Only a single pinsir was free from disease, an onyx flower beneath a coat of mold and sinew. Its eyes, clouded and cold, saw all the orcs the same. It could not see the blood that tied them together, nor the hate that would fester in their hearts. Supernatural anger eroded the ground we stood on as the Scaddernak thrashed about. Bones broke like glass. I could hear the cries of foreign orcs, a desperate scramble to shriek and to understand. Their greed too, bloomed. The Scaddernak’s arm ripped through an uruk, a red bannerman whose squeals muted the drums into an uncertain rumbling. Pierced through the stomach and out the back, his life rained down upon us in a bright crimson shower. The banner wilted toward the ground, a jagged depiction of the icon who sought to claim our lives. When I had stepped off the boat onto these lands I was seeking peace, and I sought in those moments of violence, even the most painfully familiar, a kind of benign escape. A death that would not mean being dead. O O C: