Post by Kayess on Jan 29, 2011 7:18:01 GMT -5
Name: Jonathan
Race: Forsaken
Class: Warrior
Concept: How To Survive Irony
Age: 36 at time of death
Description
This undead man typically stands slightly hunched, as if burdened by his condition, but when he stands straight he's easily close to six and a half feet in height. His build, muscular and powerful in life, has withered in death, and he's more wirey and lean now. Despite this withering, his body seems well-kept, the bone at his elbows and knees only just starting to show through the grey-hued skin. The withering that's wasted away at the muscle of his body has effected his face too, and his long, oval face ends in a pointed chin, making him look quite gaunt. His hair, long enough to fall past his shoulders, is brushed just enough to keep it out of his face, though otherwise it's fairly dirty and tangled. The golden glow of his gaze is surprisingly intense as he looks upon everything around him with naked dislike. When he speaks, he does so quietly, his voice raspy from a lack of use over the last few years. Perhaps interestingly for one of the Forsaken, he doesn't smell of rot or decay. Actually, he smells more of strong, but cheap, alcohol.
~~~~~~~~~~
((The following is a bit of private writing by Jonathan, which should convey enough of his personality to give everyone an idea of what, exactly, they're dealing with. On the surface, anyway))
Irony at it's finest.
I was, once, a Knight of the Silver Hand. A paladin. A virtuous knight of righteousness, justice, peace, hope, love and all that other good stuff.
And then I died.
And now, by the power of some ex-Scourge, I got better.
The Light slips through my fingers as I try to grasp it, a butterfly unwilling to be caught. What family that remains would no longer recognise my wasted, withered body, and would likely chase me away without ever knowing who I really was. Even if I didn't try to contact my family, the Alliance would never take me back, simply because of what I am.
I can't live amongst my fellow self-aware undead. I hate the self-titled Forsaken, and their 'Banshee Queen', for taking over my home and decimating it further, rather than trying to heal it. I hate the Horde they are now a part of, with a hatred that comes from surviving two wars involving them and seeing my homeland destroyed, and people I knew killed before me, torn apart by riding wolves and summoned demons. Of course, the dislike is mutual. The Forsaken have been busy little beavers having traitors amongst them. Something about a modified plague and killing hundreds of Alliance and Horde soldiers as they faced down the Lich King. I've already been in a few brawls with drunken orcs venting anger.
So I am forced to sit here in this tavern in a goblin port and give a quiet chuckle at the irony of it all.
The most ironic thing, though? I like what I've become. I can't channel holy magic anymore, but this undead body is capable of great feats. I can hold my breath for longer periods of time. I don't really need to eat, or sleep, or drink, let alone go to the bathroom. I can sprint a good twenty-five yards without feeling the barest bit of fatigue. I can swing a weapon harder, and faster, and I can only imagine what would happen if I could empower it with holy magic as well.
Oh, and alcohol doesn't effect me, apparently. At all. Still seems to burn going down, though. Three bottles of cheap, goblin-made whiskey proves it.
So, if I'm stuck like this, I may as well enjoy it as best I can, even if I can barely tolerate my neighbours.
Because I didn't really like being dead. I'm pretty sure I liked it less.
Race: Forsaken
Class: Warrior
Concept: How To Survive Irony
Age: 36 at time of death
Description
This undead man typically stands slightly hunched, as if burdened by his condition, but when he stands straight he's easily close to six and a half feet in height. His build, muscular and powerful in life, has withered in death, and he's more wirey and lean now. Despite this withering, his body seems well-kept, the bone at his elbows and knees only just starting to show through the grey-hued skin. The withering that's wasted away at the muscle of his body has effected his face too, and his long, oval face ends in a pointed chin, making him look quite gaunt. His hair, long enough to fall past his shoulders, is brushed just enough to keep it out of his face, though otherwise it's fairly dirty and tangled. The golden glow of his gaze is surprisingly intense as he looks upon everything around him with naked dislike. When he speaks, he does so quietly, his voice raspy from a lack of use over the last few years. Perhaps interestingly for one of the Forsaken, he doesn't smell of rot or decay. Actually, he smells more of strong, but cheap, alcohol.
~~~~~~~~~~
((The following is a bit of private writing by Jonathan, which should convey enough of his personality to give everyone an idea of what, exactly, they're dealing with. On the surface, anyway))
Irony at it's finest.
I was, once, a Knight of the Silver Hand. A paladin. A virtuous knight of righteousness, justice, peace, hope, love and all that other good stuff.
And then I died.
And now, by the power of some ex-Scourge, I got better.
The Light slips through my fingers as I try to grasp it, a butterfly unwilling to be caught. What family that remains would no longer recognise my wasted, withered body, and would likely chase me away without ever knowing who I really was. Even if I didn't try to contact my family, the Alliance would never take me back, simply because of what I am.
I can't live amongst my fellow self-aware undead. I hate the self-titled Forsaken, and their 'Banshee Queen', for taking over my home and decimating it further, rather than trying to heal it. I hate the Horde they are now a part of, with a hatred that comes from surviving two wars involving them and seeing my homeland destroyed, and people I knew killed before me, torn apart by riding wolves and summoned demons. Of course, the dislike is mutual. The Forsaken have been busy little beavers having traitors amongst them. Something about a modified plague and killing hundreds of Alliance and Horde soldiers as they faced down the Lich King. I've already been in a few brawls with drunken orcs venting anger.
So I am forced to sit here in this tavern in a goblin port and give a quiet chuckle at the irony of it all.
The most ironic thing, though? I like what I've become. I can't channel holy magic anymore, but this undead body is capable of great feats. I can hold my breath for longer periods of time. I don't really need to eat, or sleep, or drink, let alone go to the bathroom. I can sprint a good twenty-five yards without feeling the barest bit of fatigue. I can swing a weapon harder, and faster, and I can only imagine what would happen if I could empower it with holy magic as well.
Oh, and alcohol doesn't effect me, apparently. At all. Still seems to burn going down, though. Three bottles of cheap, goblin-made whiskey proves it.
So, if I'm stuck like this, I may as well enjoy it as best I can, even if I can barely tolerate my neighbours.
Because I didn't really like being dead. I'm pretty sure I liked it less.
I look forward to catching people around in-game too. Hopefully sometime soon. If not, I guess a tavern set up here works too, hehe))
Founded April 26, 2005