Flakkach! Your world is a lie.

Embrace us or run, all will lead you back to Chaos. Chaos was here first, all is from
Chaos and it cannot be defeated.*

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# Guild name: The Destroyer's Legion
# Guild Website: http://www.mordkessel.com
# Main Time Zone: EST/PST
# Guild Leaders: Grimjack, Ringhorn, Serivahn, Vahl
# In-Game IC Contacts: Sevirahn, Reng, Ghrang, Rawn,
# Halethrain's TDL/SB YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/halethrain **

7 years and counting,The Destroyer's Legion, a guild that began in the primordial days of Shadowbane Beta, will be bringing some of its Godsent carnage to Age of Conan. There never has been a moment in our history that hasn't been Marked by the Will of The Destroyer.

The Destroyer's Legion has built empires and The Destroyer's Legion has thrown them aside in favor of running with a small group of dedicated PvP'ers. We have fought and led server-wide wars and we have fought smaller guild versus guild battles. There has not been much The Destroyer's Legion has not achieved during the guild's time in Shadowbane and World of Warcraft.

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Chaos in motion. That best epitomizes the nature of our guild. Change, not for the better, not gradual - but violent and cataclysmic change. And we are changing again.

We are offering the players of Age of Conan a chance to be part of the next phase of our history as a guild. But we do not want weaklings, we do not want sheep. We want wolves thirsting for blood, we want blood crazed warriors eager to embrace the secret of steel and the glories of Valhalla.

If your nerves are as cool as the Utter North and the thought of a coming slaughter brings joy to your black existence, then you have a home at the campfires of The Destroyer's Legion and you may approach Vengeance Throne for admittance.

The Last Battle is at hand and everyone has a choice, there will be those who will carry out His Vengeance and there will be those who receive it, choose wisely flakkach!

Guild category: RP-Lite / Heavy PvP / Raid
Roleplay: We do have role-players but we are not a role-playing guild. Those of us who wish to role-play may do so and are encouraged to do so.
Ventrilo: Mandatory

If you are interested in applying to The Destroyer's Legion register on the Mordkessel forums and send Grimjack Spinesnapper a PM. You can see his profile here:

memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&u=283

* Text by Mymloch with revisions by Grimjack
** Halethrain's YouTube Site: Here you can find recordings of The Destroyer's Legion from our Shadowbane days. They were made by one of Mordkessel's Warlords, Halethrain Al'Vere.

ON THE ARRIVAL OF THE LEGION.

The Messenger

A Short Story by Goretash the Brute

The sound of the sharpening stone echoed around the stone corners of the chamber. For the last four days, the Messenger's world was dark and damp, filled with the sound of rats scuffling among rags and the gentle clink of metal chains whenever he shifted. He listened to this new instrument, the long sc**** of metal and stone, and wondered if it was real or imagined. He tilted his head back to lick moisture and moss off the manacles that bit into his wrists, the bitter taste of blood and rust sticking to his tongue. He closed his eyes, dozing again, dreaming of a weeping willow overhanging the river, where he held hands and laughed and made promises. Sometimes the long fingers of the willow turned to snakes or spider legs in these dreams, warped by delirium and pain, but he braved the nightmares for those fleeting moments where he could almost smell the grass in her hair again.

He was kicked awake, eyes opening painfully in torch light after being dulled by the pure dark. He blinked tears away, squinting at the blurred halos of men that stood before him.

"He's awake."

The reply was just a grunt, low and guttural. The Messenger shifted, pain rolling down his shoulders. He squinted to focus in the shifting shadows of the twin torches attached to the wooden cart. He could smell the oil burning, and the smoke stung his nostrils.

"My dearest love," said the low voice, deep and raspy. "I fear I am discovered. I am riding South at the dawn. I send this letter ahead, by a safer passage, should I not stay hidden the night. Do not let yourself be stayed with fear. Think of the future, and of our time together, to keep your heart full, as I do when I think of you and roses in your hair. Pray for me, and may Mitra keep you safe."

The Messenger looked up, feeling his muscles protest. The man was massive both in height and girth, with thick limbs and a chest like a keg. His face was lined with wrinkles and scars that ran up over his shaved skull, and ran down to be hidden by his great white beard. His eyes were sunken, dark and dark-ringed, and reflected the torchlight like sparks. The Messenger knew the giant man before him, saw the thick leather apron he wore, and a moment later knew what was to come.

"Them's some pretty words, innit?" said the other man, thin and bent, missing more teeth and fingers than still left. He had the greasy, lank look of too many nights cleaning stables or scrubbing stone walls in the dark.

The giant man crouched down, sighing and knees popping, before the Messenger, and turned the paper he held towards him.

"You forgot to sign it," he said.

The Messenger said nothing, turning his eyes downward. The giant man crumpled the letter in his huge hands and placed it gently in the Messenger's hand before standing back up. The Messenger squeezed the paper tightly, his hand numb and cold and stiff from days of being clasped above his head, but he ignored the maddening needles of pain that rippled down his arm, and just squeezed.

"My name is Vaegoth," said the giant man. "You can tell me your name if you like."

He turned his back to the Messenger and began to rustle in his wooden cart.

"No? That's fine. Love is such a pure thing. I ever tell you I was in love once, Rem?"

The thin man shook his head vigorously, thin blonde hair flipping about. "Nope, never. Never, ever, ever."

"Rem here doesn't understand love. He was born slow, made dumb by the gods in some cruel jest. He understands pats on the head for doing his job, and stealing from me when he thinks he can get away with it."

Rem's eyes went wide, his mouth open and twitching, the few ruined remains of his teeth jutting between lips like yellow tombstones.

"I never stoled, not once, whoever telled you that is a liar, I can-"

"Quiet, Rem," said Vaegoth. Rem closed his mouth and looked at his bare feet, sinking his toes into the muddy cracks between the stone slabs of the floor.

"But what justice is there for a man like Rem?" said Vaegoth. "I could kill him, but death would be welcome for a pained mind like his. Torture? Imprisonment? He doesn't understand pain like you or me. It's just a sensation, with none of the emotion, the greater sense of mental distress that makes it so delicious. I'd just as soon put a thieving dog to the screws. I just haven't got the patience to deal with the yapping."

Rem glanced at the Messenger, mumbling something that let a thin gob of spit escape between his lips, hanging on a long thread from his mouth.

"But the gods are with us today, my well-lettered friend," said Vaegoth. "You're sharp enough to be in love-real love-so I know I am talking to someone who understands me. You do understand me, yes? Just nod if you like."

The Messenger nodded and squeezed the crumpled letter again.

"Good, good," said Vaegoth. "Let's get started, then."

He turned back towards the Messenger, a long, curved carving knife in his hand, serrations shimmering like gems. The Messenger's eyes went wide as Vaegoth leaned over him, twisting back the hand that still clutched the letter, sending an explosion of creaking pain along his bones. Quick as a butcher, Vaegoth slid the knife around the Messenger's wrist, cutting flesh to the bone, and with two hard saws, cut that too.

Four days of having his arms chained above him had long drained and numbed him, and until Vaegoth dropped his hand with a wet thud in his lap, the Messenger barely understood what was happening. Vaegoth tilted his head, waiting, waiting, and then nodded as a shrill scream finally escaped through the Messenger's cracked lips.

Continued on Next Page

Vaegoth calmly tied off the Messenger's wrist with thick twine and then wiped his knife on his leather apron, as Rem watched with gleaming eyes at the blood that pooled on the floor. Moments like hours passed, the Messenger heaving and screaming, spitting and choking.

"Throw up if you like," said Vaegoth, patting him on the shoulder. "Rem'll clean it up."

Rem nodded, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Then the Messenger threw up, acrid bile splashing down the wall, and Rem looked disappointed.

"I've heard of men much older than you learning to write with their other hand after losing their proper one," said Vaegoth. "So don't worry too much just yet."

The Messenger was shaking, cheek pressed into his arm, looking pale and sick.

"I want to know if you sent any more letters out. Before that one," said Vaegoth, pointing the glittering knife towards the blood-soaked ball of paper still clutched in the Messenger's severed hand.

The Messenger looked up, feeling a shaking illness creep over his body.

"Don't look so troubled," said Vaegoth, tapping the knife against his thigh. "We still have much use for a one-handed courier. With no hands, it's going to be more difficult to find you work. How many letters?"

"Hundreds of letters," the Messenger said. "Maybe a thousand. There's a spy from Tarantia in your ranks."

Vaegoth's bushy white eyebrows raised underneath his wrinkled forehead.

"A spy, you say?"

Vaegoth pushed aside the wooden cart and the Messenger saw clear to the other side of the damp room, for the first time visible by the light of torches. Renault, a fellow messenger he consorted with many times over the last few months, was chained up the same, but with his jaw missing, and his tongue hanging down long and limp from the ruin of his mouth, like a worm from a rotted apple. The Messenger winced at the sight, then cried out when Renault twitched, his tongue swaying soundlessly beneath him as he tried to turn his head.

"He's still alive," said the Messenger, new tears in his eyes.

"Mhm. For awhile longer," said Vaegoth. "How many letters?"

The Messenger stared at his mangled friend trying to sit upright, his eyes wide with madness and pain.

Vaegoth sighed and grasped the Messenger's other wrist, raising the knife.

"Wait," said the Messenger. "Six. Maybe seven. I don't know."

Vaegoth nodded, not releasing his grip.

"How much did you tell them?"

The Messenger closed his eyes tight, new waves of nausea sweeping over him. Vaegoth waited a moment longer for the reply, then the knife flashed again, sleek and slim and fast, a pale fish slipping and shimmering against a current of blood.

The Messenger screamed and slumped to the floor, the manacles jangling freely against the stone wall above him, coloured the mixed red of blood and rust.

Vaegoth tossed the Messenger's other hand over his shoulder, where Rem caught it like a greedy bird, clutching it close to his chest, still dripping as he petted the fingers.

The Messenger held the stumps of his wrists tight against his chest, convulsions seizing his muscles. Vaegoth patiently waited, turning the knife over and over in his hand, watching it reflect orange wisps of light against the walls.

Once the Messenger's sobs calmed, Vaegoth crouched down and gently pushed him on the shoulder, looking into his blood-stained and tear-streaked face.

"How much did you tell them?"

"They know," the Messenger said, vision blurring, darkness creeping at him from the edges. "The twisted cult that rots this land. They know that you seek favour from a weak, dead god. They know."

"What did you call this god? In your letters, what did you name him?"

Spit foamed on the Messenger's lips, his eyelids fluttering.

"Your Lord of Destruction, bogeyman. Simple, child-scaring-"

"Shhh," said Vaegoth, petting the Messenger's head. "Think about each word, you're going mad with pain. What did you call this Lord of Destruction?"

"Some Stygian *****son, *******-bred godling-"

"Tell me what you called him," said Vaegoth, resting the cool blade of his knife against the fevered cheek of the Messenger. "Or I'll seek out your precious maiden, the one with the roses in her hair, and let Rem **** her until she forgets what you look like."

The Messenger turned up to the grizzled face of the giant man, aged evenly by time and battle, and looked into his dark eyes.

"Ahriman. We called him Ahriman-"

The Messenger finished his sentence with a gurgle, the blood-stained handle of the long knife sticking out from his eye. Vaegoth wiped his hands on his apron and stood up, and began to pack up his wooden cart.

"Can I still get her?" said Rem. His pocket bulged with a hand-shaped lump, a dark stain spreading down his thigh. "The maiden you said about. Can I still have her?"

"I have no bloody idea who she is, Rem."

"Then why you made him say the name?" His voice lowered to a whisper, "Ahriman? Why you make him say it?"

"Because," said Vaegoth, pushing the cart towards the door. "I didn't want him to waste his last mortal breath on some pathetic godchild like Mitra. Let the Destroyer have him, and be full and rested for his return. I have to report. If the throne-****ing dogs in Tarantia got those messages, we've got preparations to make. Clean up this mess."

Vaegoth pushed the cart out of the chamber, and Rem looked at the Messenger, burbling and leaking on the floor, the handle of the carving knife still sticking from his eye socket, and he giggled a wet giggle before going to find a mop.

I was in Morloch's Horde and Morloch's Vengeance. I approve of this thread. Now I just need to remember my forum login and see about rolling a Minotaur Cimmerian Barbarian.

razor:
I was in Morloch's Horde and Morloch's Vengeance. I approve of this thread. Now I just need to remember my forum login and see about rolling a Minotaur Cimmerian Barbarian.

Akad mar pgknad Korz!

Old Axe! You were with the Horde and Morloch's Vengeance? It's always good running into an old member of Mordkessel. What moniker did you use back then?

I was Tyranos. I made it to around r5 and still remember being part of the GM event involving the summoning ritual and a skull. The necklace we got at the end was one of my prized possessions in SB.