World of Warcraft

Linwey firethorn
Age: 650
Sex: Female
Race: Blood Elf
Class: Hunter
Pet: Spirit Saber (rare spirit beast from northrend) named ~ Luna (female)

Personality: Anastacia is a sweet caring young blood elf who only wants what is best for her people. She hates her fathers vengeful evil ways. She has a strong nature with animals and can easily be friend an animal. She hates anyone who harms animals or her friends. Although her father is a rude selfish tyrant. She is a beautiful nice young lady.

Physical: http://imgday.net/?di=DRGP

History: She was raised secluded from the outtside world. Her father keeping her from the outside world to hide her from his evil ways. When she was very young her mother passed away of fel poisoning. leaving her with very little memories of her mother but most of which in her presence she was as kind and caring as Linwey is now. In present day she is trying to neogiate a sort of treaty with Jaina Proudmoore it is one of her forst trips in the outside world and she knows not of how her tyrinacal her father truly is, her journey is just begining

Saronvicorous Delinator The Third
Age: 527 + 183 undead
Sex: Male
Race: Night Elf
Class: Death Knight
Companion/Mount: Sindragosa

Personality: Pensive and Distracted most likely not thinking about the task at hand. He is cold and ruthless, however, he is tormented by the memory of what happened to his father. He is proud, and knows that its is a great flaw, but he cant help it. He is not boastful, but is hugely competetive. He is a staunch friend and an even stauncher foe. Diplomacy is not his a strength.

Physical: Saror is tall, 7' 5", and broad shouldered like his father. He has long, White hair and a fair countenance. He weighs in at 302lbs and has Ice blue eyes

History: As the sun set beyond the ancient Ashenvale wood, still towering over the shaded enclaves of the Silverwing Sentinels, the sounds of battle waned. The guttural warcries of the orcs, the shrieks of agony, and the sounds of buckling metal and rending flesh echoed in memory as the surviving combatants surveyed the results. The Warsong orcs had retreated, battered, but at cost.

Among the allied victors stood a Night Elf empowered by the dark energies of the Lich King but shorn from his will. His eyes, glowing with their unnatural light, revealed little of the emotions below. His cold presence chilled the grass he carelessly trod underfoot leaving the sheen of fresh frost upon its leaves.

Unlike the others he took little consolation in the victory over the Orcs, his motivation was not to win, but merely to kill. The Lich King had imparted this drive to slay the living in his dark servants, and it remained an unshakable urge, a will-breaking hunger that demanded satisfaction. For him, the hunger was the only constant. His allies allowed him the opportunity to sate this hunger, and even celebrated his victories, but that still left him little more than an opportunistic mercenary.

It was with good reason then that few of his allies truly trusted him, viewing him largely as a dangerous weapon to be directed toward their foe rather than a friend to be cultivated. He saw little reason to change their minds, remaining aloof and alone rebuffing any approach outside of battle.

His journey to Ashenvale had its roots in the city of Stormwind. Like many of his fellow Death Knights, the transition from the Lich King’s service was difficult. The hunger was less intense at first, perhaps due to the traumatic nature of what had occurred at Light’s Hope, or due to the positive influence of the Light which had restored the vestiges of free will to those once enslaved by the Lich King. Nonetheless, the determined purposeful nature of his life had been replaced by a confusing mesh of purposeless drifting. The people of the city reviled and distrusted him, and while there were calls for recruits for the war in the North, he was unwelcome among them. Like many, he felt a deep sense of betrayal by the Lich King, yet despite this betrayal his feelings remained unsettled for the seemingly soulless dark lord had still been the only source of purpose for the only existence he could remember--a wayward father.

Into this void stepped a very simple object, a book. A book whose simple beauty was held within its blank pages, the empty slate which reflected the Death Knight to whom it was given. The binding was that of simple leather, with a basic lock, and inside the cover a simple inscription:

”The Light shines in the strangest of places. May it bless you, who need it most.”

The book had been presented to him, or more accurately pressed upon him, along with a pouch containing a pen and ink, by a smiling priest who had seen him walking aimlessly along the canals. Before he could refuse, he was gone. He opened the book, flipping through the open pages, running his gloved fingers over their surface with a strange sense of familiarity. Later that evening he sat at a table in the inn, and opened to the first page of the book. Instinctually he removed the pen and dipped it in ink before pressing the pen to the paper and dragging it along in what felt like a well practiced maneuver. To his astonishment a series of symbols began to appear on the page, left in the trail of the pen which moved as if with a will of its own. He recognized not the script, neither the letters nor the words. The handwriting did not seem like it could belong to him.

”I write these words. I recognize not this hand. Not this language. I feel the words, but I cannot read. Perhaps I could never forget, By the Grace of the White Lady. I lived once.”

He had been created as a killing machine, and the Lich King had done his work well. His Death Knights were embodiments of the Scourge, motivated by a dark hatred of the living, and fueled by intense negative emotions which provided ferocity unmatched. As the days in Stormwind extended to weeks the intensity of these emotions that had once controlled him refused to be restrained. Over time the confusion over the Lich King settled, any vestiges of loyalty melting away in the memory of his betrayal. Whether out of cleverness or foolishness, these self-same emotions that had once made Death Knights a powerful weapon in the Lich King’s arsenal, were now directed towards the creator. Absolute loyalty funneled into a desire for vengeance. The anger, the hatred, and most of all the hunger returned, urged on by his faint, cold, and lingering whispers.

Only the book provided solace, and perhaps protection. Although he remained unable to read what had been written, he understood in some sense that it gave some control over the powerful feelings that at times threatened to pull him apart.

”Hate him. Maybe always did. I hear him still. He calls. He knows I hate him, he must know we all hate him. Mograine is right, the Ebon Blade is the way. I want to kill. I must. And him eventually. Do not forget, By her Grace, I lived once.”


"Have you considering going through the portal?” The question startled him from a walking stupor as he focused on the grizzled soldier in Stormwind Army attire who presumably had just addressed him. “Well, have you? I’ve seen many of your kind head that way recently; supposedly you’ve proved useful on the other side. You should think about it.” He gestured towards the walls of the city as if to accentuate his purpose.

He had heard stories of a land beyond a demon gate, a dark portal to a world nearly destroyed by the power of the “Legion.”; He could remember no experience with the Legion, but just the thought of the word sent a shiver of fear through his body. The beat of his unnatural rushing heart obscured the words of the soldier to his companion as he passed by, “Better dying in Outland than killing us in our sleep. Can’t trust them, I’m sure of it.”

That evening he returned to his journal, penning a few more lines in the unfamiliar script:

”They say they will reward me to kill. To kill who they want. To kill and earn their trust? Earn reward? Too good to be true, but the hunger burns. I must go. Through the Dark Portal. What of this Legion? I fear it."

As he continued the script became steadily more graceful and true, and he wrote more than he had thought, and more than he knew.

"I cannot forget. I lived once, by her grace.

The woods of Kalimdor, covered in graceful snow. The stride of the deer, the prowling sabers.

Through the portal now, to sate the hunger.”



The scorching sun and burning winds were to be expected from a place aptly named “Hellfire Peninsula”. Fiery demonic blood, spilled freely, did little to quench the thirsty landscape as the Death Knight buried his sword deep in the helboars’ flanks. “Not so scary after all,” he thought to herself after leaving another twitching demon-tainted husk behind. Instinctively he wiped his brow, unable to feel the presence or lack of sweat through her mailed gloves. The deep internal frost that he had hidden within during him time in Stormwind, was replaced with a burning heat, like that of blood rushing to the surface of his skin; he burned with a deep ferocity that displayed itself as a trail of broken helboars, tainted orcs, and local carrion feeders.

The explosion of violence left him with a satisfaction that he had felt unobtainable during his time in Stormwind. The hunger that had burned so powerfully within faded slightly with every death blow; with every fatal strike delivered to a once living creature. He returned to Honor Hold with the burning heat of the day bearing down upon him, and despite the stifling armor he had earned in the Lich King’s service, he felt the intense heat within her subside little by little. The hunger that had once threatened to consume him felt sated and satisfied, and the authorities overseeing the fortress soon lavished rewards of treasure and gold upon him for the efforts he would have gladly undertaken of his own accord.

He returned to the book, and penned another short entry, this time absent the longer flowing words that had poured forth in Stormwind:

“Everything I was told true. Gold, treasure, weapons, and glory are my reward for killing what they want dead. Mercenary. Satisfied.”




The powerful swing of his two-handed sword cut a wide gash in the wyrm’s throat. Its cry of anguish was stifled by the gush of blood pouring through the open wound. Through the blood haze he took no note of his allies: they may have fought by his side through a small horde of orcs, and even a mighty demon, but all that mattered now was the dragon—the kill. As its head and body thrashed about in the agony of death, he lifted the sword, blade down, in both hands. The drake's head fell with a heavy thud to the stone parapet, now wetted by its ancient blood, and he drove the sword downward, through its skull with resolute force, releasing its last gasp of life. Through his helmet, the blood splatter obscured the unnerving grin that grew across his face. While his allies cheered their victory, he exalted in the kill. The haze was slow to lift.

To his allies the feat was impressive. His movements were both graceful and deadly: he dodged lightly around incoming blades and strikes while delivering his own expert blows. Those too quick to avoid he bore with an indifferent endurance, extended by the healing powers of the Light used upon him. The bloodlust he displayed seemed little different than their own drive for victory. Other than the resounding Horn he used to sound the next charge, he was completely silent in his drive for death and destruction. If they knew how little he cared about them, other than that they enabled him to slay the ever more powerful foes, they would not have trusted him with their lives. But all of this was hidden by his stoic silence, and inexorable advance. Only in the dim light of the fading day, hidden in the shower of blood and gore, was the truth scrawled across his grinning face and brightly burning eyes. Victory mattered not: only death to this Knight.

He returned to great glory, displaying the head of the dragon as a grisly trophy of his success.

His hands shook as he opened her book. A few moments passed before he settled into the luxurious script of that unknown hand, which flowed across a page haphazardly stained with the blood of the kill:

“By Elune’s Grace, I once lived.”

Beatiford Delthran
Age: 46
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class: Paladin

Personality: Beatiford Delthran is a paladin in all senses of the word. He is Righteous, Powerful, and benevolent. Never standing for segregation, or to allow the oppression of another Beatiford hates more then anything, those who would bring harm to those he cares about, be it his friends, his city, or his beloved wife, any sort of action against them, would be met with swift, and righteous retribution.

Appearance: ((New Members cant post links xD so heres a little description)) Standing at Six foot,Three inches, and heavily muscled, Beatiford is the picture-esque paladin. His body, hardened from years of battle, is crossed with scars and burns, most noticeably, a large X-shaped scar across his chest. His eyes are a dazzling green, and his hair kept short, and jet black, aswell as a finely trimmed beard.

History: Raised a child of Westfall, Beatiford was no stranger to hard work, and defending his own from Bandits and wolves. At the tender age of thirteen, He left it all behind, He was destined for greater things, and He ment to achieve them. Working tirelessly over the next years, Beatiford was granted the tittle of a fully fledged Paladin. Over the years, he participated in several campaigns, fighting in all corners of Azeroth, and Outland. Killing foes from the Quraji to the Undead, Slaying anything from Orcs, To Demons. Shortly after his one of his last campaigns, His second tour in Northend, Beatiford mustered up the courage to do the one thing, he never thought he would have to do. He Proposed to Alexandrea. The two held a small ceremony, choosing to get back into the war quickly, and finish the Lich Kings reign. With Arthas' defeat at the hand of the group of Argent Heroes, Beatiford spent his days training lazy recruits in Stormwind, and running back and forth, defeating Bandits, and Gnolls throughout Elwynn Forrest, a leisurely change in pace for him. As all was going well, He had the woman of his dreams, The world was at a tentative peace with the Horde and Alliance, Beatiford thought it safe to hang up his shield and sword, and live peacefully in Stormwind. Deathwing had other ideas. The large Black Drake broke though Azeroth, causing the great Cataclysm, Sending Beatiford once more unto the front lines of battle. Where his battle cry inspired his men, and his righteously glowing sword drove his enemies back.

Alexandra Delthran
Age: 34
Sex: Female
Race: Human
Class: Paladin

Personality: Alexs spunky, protective, motherly, and sweet

Appearance: http://imgday.net/?di=MFLS
Long blonde wavy hair, dark green eyes, and a muscular figure.

History: Wanting to be more then a Chef like her parents Alex set off to become a strong powerful Paladin healer. After a few years she met her husband Beatiford Dlethran and is now a well known Healer in the church.