The Spider's Web

Not so much a formal organization so much as an informal network formed within the Cult of the Damned, the so-called "Spider's Web" still posed a significant threat in the years after Lordaeron's fall to the Plague. Cultists considered part of this network were either direct disciples of or otherwise closely associated with the necromancer known as the Spider, who had retreated into hiding after the reclamation of Quel'thalas by the Sin'dorei. Early in Lordaeron's post-Plague history the network was particularly active, with many of its members working openly with Scourge forces to undermine both Forsaken and Scarlet efforts to reclaim ground. However, the specialty of this network was its ability to remain hidden, and ultimately as the Scourge's grip on the Plaguelands weakened, several of its members managed to slip back into the shadows and continue working towards their own nefarious goals, often at the expense of their unaffiliated Cult colleagues who were sacrificed in their respective escapes. With the Spider's execution in recent years, the network is considered defunct; it is not yet clear, however, if all of the members were apprehended, or even if all of its members were known to the enemies of the Scourge in the first place.

''OOC Note: This page is a compilation of brief NPC biographies for a set of enemies of the Classic guild Hand of the Unblinded, as the creator of these NPCs does not wish to create an unnecessary number of individual pages for these characters. Should any of these NPCs become more recurring characters in their own right, individual pages may be created for them, and this page used as a redirect page.''

Aepherion Bel-Annar, the Spider
The leader of the Spider's Web - the enigmatic "Spider" himself.



Father Karentz Svoltof, the Revenant
A lonely, shriveled figure emerges from the haze. It hardly seems human at first; one could easily mistake it for one of the shambling husks that wander the wastes. But the creature beneath those tattered black rags still draws breath – a hissing, wheezing, labored breath, in and out, slowly as if the action simultaneously brought him great pain but reminded him that he was alive. His skin has shrunken to his bones; he has not eaten mortal fare in many months, instead animating himself as he would the dead, powering his failing limbs with dark magic. As such, he hardly looks human anymore, merely a skeleton still bearing human flesh. His face seems unnaturally long and narrow, his jawline utterly flat but low beneath his lipless mouth. Remnants of plague pox run the length of the emaciated arm that lifts now from beneath his robes, jabbing a single pallid finger in your direction. It is difficult to believe this was once not only a cleric of the Holy Light, but a powerful bishop in the royal court of Alterac. How far he has fallen.



Silas von Daermont, the Baron
An ancient scion of an ancient line, brought low in recent years by the whims of fate. The aging baron’s sons died battling the Horde, his one daughter lost in what once seemed an advantageous marriage to an Alteraci nobleman; what was left of his ancient line, and his once grand purpose? Only death remained. When the Plague of Undeath struck, the Baron locked himself within his fortress, abandoning his people to rot, and when the Scourge’s onslaught came to call, he butchered his surviving servants himself and laid them at the necromancers’ feet. There is little reason to his actions beyond the wanton destruction of life, a slap in the face to everything he once held dear. He holds little necromantic talent, and he is certainly no death knight, but his cruelty knows few bounds and there is still power behind his blade. The Baron has taken to dressing in all black in honor of his new allegiance, his snow white hair slicked back and mustache groomed, ever a longsword sheathed at his side, or in his victim’s heart.



Sera DeVonn, the Smiling Ghoul
She seemed polite enough as a child. She smiled at the right times and said the right pretty things, liked bows in her hair. No one suspected the emptiness festering inside her. No one noticed that the rats in the barn kept dying when the cat grew too fat to chase them, and no one cared when the cat soon disappeared too. A farmer’s life was boring, so freckle-faced, green-eyed Sera sought to entertain herself. Soon her entertainment caught the eye of those who sought to bring death upon others, and Sera had found her purpose. She has no interest in the Scourge’s grand purpose. She just enjoys killing. She’s learned a thing or two about necromancy, but mostly just so she can keep her victims alive and lucid long enough to keep screaming as she guts them past what the living could handle. She’s a bloody-handed monster with a smile on her face, who still wears a ribbon in her hair.

Albhert Hoffman, the Martyr
At best, he had a bad case of pox as a child; at worst, he is a leper. But he is, all in all, still human. Standing just below average height, at just below average weight, this ruddy-skinned man carries a unkempt head of shaggy black hair that falls into his face to obscure his sea-green eyes. His features are too blocky to have ever been considered handsome, but now they are riddled with sores either crusted with infected scabs or oozing noxious pus. Pain is his constant companion. He walks with his arms hugged around himself for comfort against it. The Plague eats him alive inside, and yet it does not claim him. He is just immune enough, by some grace of some cruel japing god, to survive the insidious blight that festers within him, and with every step he takes, he spreads it further. Tyr protect those who show him pity.



Amos Brock, the Silent
This man is nobody, really. Average height, but he seems smaller. He hardly seems to have a thought of his own. He cuts his hair so close and so thin over his caramel-colored scalp that it looks like hardly more than a black cobweb spread over his head. He is anonymous, with a simple linen tunic and dark trousers. Faint tattoos like ovals sharpened to points run perpendicular to his coffee-dark eyes, striking straight through the pupil when he looks at you. He’ll look at you with the strangest mixture of sadness, hatred, and fear as his minions lunge by to disembowel you, and your poor spirit will be left to wonder who or what he hated and feared most.