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Astus Duskwither [Necromancer]
#1
Player: Aphetoros

Character Full Name: Astus Duskwither

Character In-Game Name: Astus

Nickname(s): N/A

Association(s): The Cult of the Damned (ex), Silvermoon City

Race: Blood Elf.

Class: Necromancer (Mage)

Skills and Abilities: Astus is a proficient necromancer, possessing potent unholy, blood, and frost/fire magics. Whereas he used to dislike his older magical arsenal, he has found an appreciation for the other magely magics, such as arcane magic. He will weave this into his necromancy, setting skeletons aflame (reducing their duration but... making them on fire) or turning them into living bombs, for example. He loves to read, and studies magic avidly whilst he waits for new purpose, turning back to his old past-times of conjuration and enchantment.

Age: 1,797

Sex: Male

Hair: Silver-white.

Eyes: Dark Emerald

Weight: 182 lbs

Height: 6’1”

Usual Garments/Armor: Black-violet robes.

Other: Three-pronged burn scar on his wrist that always seems recent.

Alignment: Neutral Evil.

Personality: Astus is a rash man, often giving easily to his whims or first thoughts. He denies insults, providing an arrogant shell to house the insecure, frightened soul within. He can be quick to anger, but slow to act upon it: while he may enrage at someone’s words, he usually maintains enough self-control to devise a plan for vengeance at a later, safer time. Lying is second nature to the man, his true persona choosing to hide behind numerous facades. The law is irrelevant to Astus, for it is his personal law to which he abides, although he cares for them enough to know when to tread carefully. Manipulation is exhilarating, a lovely feeling rising from deep within at successful control. He feels the need to assert himself over what he cannot change—a need to be in control lest terrible and horrifying things happen to him.
The events of his past have lead him to several realizations: Fate is cruel, and people more so. And when people and, by extension fate, are not under control, death is ready and waiting with a cold, remorseless embrace.

History: Astus was born within the walls of Silvermoon City, the youngest son of eight children, to a wealthy family with the last name of Ashwalker. His parents were both well respected by their peers, his mother a talented huntress-turn housewife and his father a skilled and well-off magistrate. Magic ran not only through his race but also through the bloodline of his family. Magical affinity had skipped each generation, and each time in the family it was the youngest that took quickly and easiest to spellcraft. At an early age the child was noted an able sorcerer from his attunement and interest in magical artifacts and books—this fact slightly perturbing to his parents as they’d formed an assumption that a sorcerer’s lack refined knowledge is dangerous, uncomfortable experiences in their past leading to this thought (such as strange bursts of flame or magic accidentally performed in anger.) The plan had been formulated the day his natural talent was realized--as soon as he was able he would be sent to an academy.

He had been a sociable child, often scolded by his parents for shirking responsibility before his teenage years. He went through school (basic, non-magical school) almost as if floating through it, caring little for the facts he learned about mathematics or history. None of it mattered, really. In short, he was a spoiled rich kid, the one with many ‘friends’ (also known as those who wanted him to buy them things) that arrogantly believed himself to be better than the other children.

His childhood passed and he was happy enough, babied by his parents and sheltered from any news of impending danger from the outside world. As the young high elf grew, he maintained a strong relationship with his family and often played games with his elder siblings. He didn’t quite know what he’d do without his family. Despite this, the rotten child was often disobedient and crass, quick to anger and slow to calm.

His eldest sibling was Esmir Flamestrider, a huntress taking highly after her mother. A zealous feminist, Esmir believed that women deserved more than men— for without them the men would lose not only grand amounts of pleasure, but their offspring as well. This led her to take up a bow and join the Farstriders, to prove herself a strong and independent woman. Swiftly progressing through the ranks and much older than him, she was never around much during his childhood. When she did return she brought gifts to further spoil Astus and his other siblings, and attempt to impart her feministic ideals. While some of this took, her distaste for men did not stick within any of the rest of them, especially not in Astus. However, she did imbue him with a strong respect for women, and he looks on them as equally as he did men, despite any cultural predispositions set (even if men and women are nearly equal in Sin'dorei society.) The woman not only brought with her a respect for women, but a boiling hatred for Trolls. They hated the green-skinned heathens, the entire family. Astus even had dreams of becoming a soldier just to slay the beasts, though he knew that was not in his stars.

The second oldest was Jayr, an interesting case to say the least. This member of his family was born early and improperly, leading to complications within his mind and body. Physically weaker due to some deficiency or defect, he could not be a soldier or a worker, and his mind disabled by the same issues, Jayr lived at home even though he was extremely old compared to the rest of the children, having been born hardly a year after Esmir. Astus could not bear to look at him, and each time their eyes met the child quickly looked away, afraid. He could not understand how it would be to be limited by such impediments, and he feared that if he were like that he wouldn't want to be alive. When Astus was six, Jayr died of severe seizures, and not even the healing magic of priests could save him from the damage it caused to his brain. This event served as a motivation for Astus's prime fear--that being a fear of death. He had been in the same room as him when it happened. Jayr had walked in and begun to stutter out a few words, and moments later he was on the floor screaming incoherent sounds, sounds that clearly were supposed to be pleas for help. Astus imagined them as terrifying things, 'Agh, Light! Light, make it stop! The pain is unbearable make it stop! Kill me now; let me die to be free from this pain. Kill me, kill me!' Astus did not sleep that night for fear that he would wake up screaming those very words.

The third child of the family was a failed magistrix, a girl who cheated her way through school and through life. She lived at home until the age of seven-hundred before she finally acquired a well-paying job, as the previous job-holder mysteriously "disappeared." A few months later, Astus overheard her talking with an accomplice, a man she had help her in the deed. She murdered the man in her previous position, and Astus reported it to the guards the next morning. They came to arrest her on Astus's fifteenth birthday; the guards broke down the door and surrounded her. Her charges were said, and her rights given. She began to sweat, screaming furious obscenities at the men. She demanded to know how they found out, and Astus said that he overheard her talking about it. She shot him an insane glare, eyes wild and hateful. Just as they were about to clip anti-magic cuffs to her wrists, she raised her hands with a clap she was gone. Her location is still unknown, and Astus was afraid that she had gone insane and would come back to kill him. This never, of course, happened, but it was a very real terror to most of the family for a time.

The fourth child was a man of no talent or special quality, but an average man who would make a fair living. Gansun Flamestrider became a chef, having acquired a job at a fine restaurant within town. He and Astus were great friends, and whenever Astus was stressed Gansun was usually there for support, which caused him to indirectly influence Astus to have a difficulty in dealing with high amounts of stress, or extremely high-tension situations pertaining to difficult choices without help, lest he panic and make a bad choice.

The fifth child another son, he was only one hundred and fifty years older than Astus. He joined the military with the promise of slaughtering trolls, and he was killed in a raid by the Amani; his body was eaten whole by some kind of dark shaman, and his bones forged into weapons and voodoo totems. From birth a military child, Udyn Flamestrider tried to convince Astus to follow in his soldierly path. Astus did not, however, and because of his refusal Udyn spat insults at Astus and refused to speak with him, as he was ‘as unpatriotic as a high elven prostitute.’ He tends to avoid soldiers due to their zealous patriotism. It irks him to this day.

The second to youngest was a girl by the name of Kuribtha, and she perhaps has the largest influence on Astus of all the family. The two were playing by a fast-moving river in the woods, and they were jumping in and laughing, running out to a high promontory to jump over a few sharp stalagmites at the cliff’s base and cannonball into the water. They were talking, and Kuribtha was breathing heavy, tired. "One minute." She said, bending over and putting her slippery hands on her knees. Something was never quite right about the girl’s lungs, Astus knew that much. It always took her longer to regain breath, to inhale and to exhale. None of this crossed his mind now, though. Astus snickered inwardly and pushed her from behind. He whispered a cantrip that he'd learned from his father to defend himself in case he'd ever need to do so. It was the only bit of magic he could do at the time. The arcane caused the thin bit of water to frost over as he pushed, causing her to slide more than intended. “I gotcha, Kuri!”

She toppled off the edge of the cliff, spiraling headfirst into a sharp rock. Astus looked over the edge only to see her face, with a giant hole in the side, sinking beneath the waves. Astus screamed as the water turned crimson and the body sank to the sand below, claimed by the river. Astus's vision blurred and swayed, and soon he collapsed backwards, unconscious. To this day he believes he murdered her.

When he awoke the body was gone, swept away by the current. Worse still, he never spoke of it for naive fear of his own execution, a punishment that would not be exacted upon a mere child. He came home and his mother was weeping, his father nowhere to be found--presumably searching for Kuribtha, who wasn't found. After this he became detached for a while, taking a few months, nearly a year in fact, to get over the death.

He reached the proper schooling age and was sent away to the Duskwither Academy, a school for the more magically-inclined elves to learn. There the violence was beat from him, both physically and mystically. Strict discipline molded out of him a respectful and studious man, and he didn’t quite want to leave the academy when it was his time for graduation. He technically had graduated, however he wrote to his family asking for continued funds, as he wished to increase his magical knowledge. The gold was received, and what neared a century passed from when he’d been sent to the school. Astus left to study further on his own within Silvermoon and within Eversong itself, using magic to construct fine objects, repair items, among other things as a means for self-sustaining income.

He received a position as a tutor at the Duskwither Spire for struggling students, a position that had once helped him in his youth. His family, all children left for their own lives, sold most of their possessions and split their wealth among their children. They constructed a small cottage across the river in Eversong, and occasionally the family would visit. Everything was calm, for a time, each family member living their own lives, and ignoring one another’s.

Quite some time later, Astus received a letter from his mother. It was written on fine, conjured parchment, as all letters from his home, though the font was less than spectacular. Normally his mother took the time to write each individual letter as a piece of art—calligraphy was a pastime of hers. These letters, however, were hastily scrawled, and the tone of the introductory paragraphs left him feeling a vague impression of worry.

He’d crumpled the letter in his hands. Esmir, his sister, was slain? And it was not in battle? His mother had suspicions that a man in her squadron was responsible. He felt his pulse rise, and his face felt hot. The blue of his eyes lit up further with magic. With an impassioned and ireful shout, he hurled the letter against the wall. The ball of paper shot across the room with arcane pushing it, halfway lighting aflame. The now fireball slammed into a fine painting of a girl—given to him by a student. The piece caught aflame easily, and as Astus’s rage boiled the fire sparked and spread along the wall. It leapt from object to object, effectively ruining his room.

As the heat of the fire began to burn at Astus’s arm hair, the man caught control of his rage. The flames dulled as the keen edge of his anger was weathered. He saw the burning study and with a quick snap of a syllable they sputtered and the smoke darted out the windows like a caught burglar. He began to gather his things. He’d have to find out where she had been stationed, and that wouldn’t be the easiest information to acquire. His sister had advanced into some elite group, presumably joining her murderer in it. Their current base of operations wasn’t exactly public knowledge. He’d charted a wagon from the academy to Silvermoon City. It was a meager sum of money, a bit more to get it so early in the morning. The sun hadn’t even risen yet.

Astus gathered his garments about him, a concealing hood and a knife sheathed at his hip. He muttered something and the weapon found itself invisible—it would be his clandestine accomplice. He tightened the leather armor and headed out into the morning fog. A storm was coming. Astus lay in the carriage for a while before the driver was ready. The man flicked the reins, “So, what’s waiting for you in the big city?” Astus didn’t respond for a few moments, the driver looking back at him. “Nothing much, just need to check up on some things. If you wouldn’t mind, I’m rather tired.” The driver gave him a nod, and silenced himself. Astus lay back, eventually falling asleep to the soporific beating of the horse’s hooves.

He awoke to the carriage’s jolting stop, and labored grunting. He peered from the caravan to see that it was near night, and in his low-light vision he could see they were nowhere near Silvermoon City. The road had long since turned to overgrowth, lush brush and large, curling oaks. The driver slid out of the carriage, and instead of what should have been a light-fall, Astus heard the clink of armor. “Damn.” He cursed under his breath, knowing full-well the carriage he had taken would not be going to Silvermoon. Trolls, dozens of them. It was always a bad idea to hire a trade carriage, but it was so much cheaper and Astus didn’t expect his carriage to be intercepted. The wheels were stuck in mud, probably wet from a recent rain. The elf pressed himself against the back of the carriage, and as he looked down he noted—in the darkness— the driver tied and gagged. Except, the gag was over his mouth and nose, and he’d suffocated. The trolls growled and hit the caravan, attempting to pull it loose. It wasn’t happening. The beasts said something to each other, and began entering the van to unload the goods; Astus meanwhile crouched in the corner with his blue eyes narrowed to slits. He prayed they wouldn’t notice him, and his prayers were rejected.

One of the creatures looked directly at him and barked something, moving swiftly outside to put down its items. He didn’t have much time, and he knew it. His lips began moving swiftly, and arcane began to fill his body in a euphoric glow. He pumped arcane through each cell, nearly to the point where his nerves began to burn. He filled his mind with rage, disgust, and loathing for the trolls. Searing, scalding emotions poured from his hands, shooting about the caravan like distant stars erupting. The flamestrike rose and shot outwards, bending around him to keep him safe from the heat. Troll squeals were heard and he soon was alone in the darkness. It was silent, barring his breathing, and after a moment he sat back in the wrecked cart, the embers of which had died suddenly with the loss of their arcane fuel. Smoke rose, and though he had no idea of where he was he knew he needed to leave before the smoke alerted other warbands. It was unfortunate, then, that he was not alone. As he stood, a stone slammed into his skull and he fell down, unconscious.

His vision swayed as he awoke, the trolls dancing to some primal beat around a bonfire. A large roasting station was set-up, and an elf was tied to it. By the man’s writhing, he was being cooked alive. His lips moved, but hardly any sound came forth, “Gruesome…”

“You’re telling me.” The reply was spoken in far too proper Thalassian to be from one of the trolls, and turning his head he found another elf beside him. They were tied to pikes of bones, probably spines with skulls on top if Astus knew Amani culture well enough. “The witch is coming for you. Sun’s Blessings watch over you.”

An old, hunched, hag was making her way towards him, a bent cane helping her along. A large troll was with her, and the spike he’d been tied to was literally ripped from the dirt and carried into a dark hut. He was replanted, and the crone stared at him with clouded eyes. The bigger troll barked at the crone, “Fus’obeah mek noh a smadda, Zufli.” She snapped back at him and he left, cowering.

She said something in Zandali that, of course, he couldn’t understand. Black flames grew along the tips of her fingers, and she gripped his wrist. He yelped as the flames began to burn three identical spheres into his flesh. She then made a concerted effort to speak Thalassian, “Dose who love you die, and yo’ flesh be consumed on dis night. Not much meat, doh you will do. Da loa need mo’a Blue-Eye blood.” The burns began to bubble, his flesh blistering disgustingly. The blisters cracked and sizzled, cooking till they’d pop and then again till they’d harden. He screeched as her vile magic permeated his form, and tried to block out her infernal trollspeak murmuring.

The music outside came to a sudden halt, clanking of steel heard over all. The hag turned and hurried outside, and a moment later the wretch’s vile blood spattered the tent. Astus grimaced at the gore, and moments later an elf entered. “Name’s Krecalus Bladestrider, and if you want to live I suggest you get your ass out of here.” It was him, the name in the letter. “I’m tied to a post, if you didn’t… see… duhmmmsss…” His voice trailed off as his lips no longer worked. Poison seemed to be in his mind, drugging him and dragging him down. He tried to stay awake, but soon life went black once more. In this curse-induced nightmare, he began to realize that he was getting knocked unconscious far too often, far too quickly. It began to irritate him.

Elves were around him, now, which was a large plus. His body, however, was exhausted, and his mind was terrified. He didn’t know what the hag had done, but at least he’d found his target without meaning to. Fate seemed to be repaying him for all she’d begun to take. That or she was setting him up for something worse, though that thought did not occur to him. “So you’re awake, eh?” He said nothing, his voice too hoarse for him to get any words out. “Bet you’re pretty sick, still. We’ve got priests back at the main camp to take care of you, if you can wait that long.” Astus merely gave a weak nod and the woman returned to staring at the fire. He rested his head back on the bedroll, letting himself be swept along the current of deep yet restless sleep. In his nightmares, some sort of infection slowly consumed his body, limb by limb, until he died. In the morning they started to pack up the camp, and Astus was feeling entirely fine. The fatigue of whatever the troll witch had done was gone, though his sleep didn’t go too well.

Making an eventual arrival in Silvermoon City, Astus had fallen extremely weak during the trip back, and was admitted immediately to a priest’s infirmary for care. A week passed, and yet his mind caught no memories from it. The incident passed, the memories passed, and years passed.

In those years, Astus grew close to the man who he so believed murdered his sister. He married, bearing a single child with his wife (whom he loved very much.) He bided his rage, letting his emotions well up within him until while they reclined in an inn, Krecalus drunkenly admitted to killing Esmir. Astus lost himself and drove spikes of ice through the elf’s heart. He was arrested and, due to his good standing in the city and unmarred reputation, sentenced only to prison, and not death. Many long years in prison brought him more than any years without could have. While locked away, he cheated on his wife with a man who genuinely seemed to love him. Disease took him, and the man died, leaving Astus more alone than before.

His long sentence served, Astus was freed with such a dark smear over his reputation that his wife divorced him, and he was forbidden from seeing his son. He could find no solace, nor a job because of this mark on his transcripts, and he soon fell into the gutters of society, where he starved and lived as if he were dead; a vapid and worthless existence. When his ribs began to stick out like fragile tooth-picks, his robe tattered to expose his pale skin and his hair matted and unruly, a dark-clothed man fished him from the roadside. The man was a dark-caster in service to the Cult of the Damned. He fed and clothed Astus, brought him back to health. The magister was then offered a chance at a new life; new power.

He then signed his soul to the service of this man, though not yet fully in-service to the Cult, he was moreso a slave to a master than a true member of the Cult of the Damned. Astus ran about preforming menial labor for his new master while, when he was not busy, Astus was taught of necromantic magic. At first, it repulsed him. But soon he became intrigued by the magic. Perhaps he could bring back his stolen love. He learned necromancy aptly, due to his already strong grasp of the arcane. His tasks grew more important as he helped his master silence ‘dangerous contacts,’ or ‘be rid of’ those who might ‘tell.’ He, of course, never had any truly important mission as an 'uninitiated member.' He saw so many vile acts and sordid rituals that, at first, he had night-terrors. Eventually, he was numbed to torture, murder, and corpses. His master had begun to plan his final initiation to the Scourge and the Cult of the Damned (the drinking of the soul-damning potion), however such an event was interrupted by a sudden, extremely important task. He, along with a large group of cultists, aided in disabling the protective runestone near the Eldrendar River. Nearly dying in the battle, he fled until the Sunwell’s eruption. The shock left him unconscious for hours.

He slipped from the world for some time, hiding away in a cottage in some forgotten part of Azeroth. There he assumed the guise of Nemeth Stormstrider, a scribe. He copied all sorts of tomes for a time, living off those earnings. His urge to practice necromancy became so great, however, that he slowly stole away townspeople and, killing them with black magic, hid them in the walls. He left that place in fear of being caught, flitting from city-to-city for a time, becoming more proficient with raising the dead and the conjuration of blights.

On his first attempt to create a true plague, however, he misread the incantation and caused his blood to boil with the disease. The disease stripped him of vigor, weakening him and causing his body to grow frail and sickly. Eventually, the priestess Annabelle Greene managed to cure him of that weakness permanently, but also his trollcurse for a time. Unfortunately, that magic clung to his very soul, and no matter the healing he received, the ailment returned. He found a necromantic spell that allowed him to drain life from others, and the life he stole would last for a time, removing the sickly scars of disease. (Not of course, however, affecting his natural life-span in the slightest.) Over time though, and increasingly quickly, the benefits would fade and reveal the true cripple underneath. It is safe to say that without the necromantic spell as a means of self-sustain, the illness would have taken his life some time ago.

He lived for some time, progressing with his necromantic knowledge without the aid of the Cult of the Damned. He studied on his own through trial and error, and through stolen tomes from secret places or black markets. Eventually, the curse began to wear on his mind. The various guises he had adopted seemed to be more real to Astus than simply disguises. He began to feel like many people, and he began to hallucinate. He grew further obsessed with necromancy, working alongside Felsworn and the scum of Azeroth to progress in his art.

Soon, a single idea possessed his mind. He had been researching the concept of lichdom for a while, and he believe this to be his only hope at fulfilling the promises made by the Cult of the Damned and of escaping the death he so feared. He began to prepare the ritual, using the services of the merchant Craer Naharev to acquire some rare goods that would be needed. He headed to Shadesfell Island, and a chapel held in particular regard to one of the founding priestesses of shadow magic. It was in that church he conducted his ritual, and did not succeed.

The ritual failed, a huge backlash of energy erupting outwards and blasting away the various ritual ingredients. The spell collapsed in on itself, and the necromancer at its center, thrusting his soul back into his body from its travel toward the phylactery, causing him to cry out in pain. The spell filled each cell of his being, and the overload of energy caused him to collapse, motionless. He seemed dead, to any who might see him lying there. His body was cold to the touch, but upon further inspection he breathed slightly. The ritual, though unsuccessful in its original intent, had stripped the curse and disease from his soul and body. Despite this benefit, it trapped him in an unending, lucid nightmare.

He dreamed of strange creatures and strange worlds. An endless darkness chasing him from planet to planet in some dark space. It suffocated him, held him prisoner, and just as it was about to finish him off, a brilliant white light saved him, and told him that he would be safe. The shadows writhed around him, taunting him, scoffing and reprimanding him for the sins he had committed. And each time, the light forgave him.

The explosion of energy, and its resulting lights, drew a witch to his location. She found him lying in the decrepit church, and went to his side. She worked some of her healing magic on him, and took him to her cottage in the nearby woods. She looked after him, trying to heal him into consciousness. Her magic kept him alive and in good physical condition, but her attempts at waking him were unsuccessful.

When Deathwing tore through the crust of the earth and out of Deepholm, and the cataclysm rocked the planet, a vociferous earthquake jolted him into consciousness. He gasped, and the witch rushed to his side and shushed him. She stroked his cheek, and his entire form tensed up. His eyes opened, burning a confused and furious emerald, to see the middle-aged human and her loving eyes. He felt suddenly disgusted, and pushed her away. Leaping from the bed, he dug his untrimmed nails into her neck and began to drain her life-energy with a spell. Her skin grew black around his fingers, and spread through her body as he drained her into death. Upon her dying gurgles, he saw the brilliant white light from his nightmares in his mind, and fell to his knees. He felt guilt rise in his chest, and he couldn't bear to look at the body.

After a few minutes, the necromancer staggered to his feet, looking at his pale white hands and clenching them. Despite his failure, he felt free. Shuddering in the cold of the island, he began to pick his way through the rubble in hopes of finding a new life.
[Image: Ml7sNnX.gif]
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  • aroes, muhaha8, FlyingSquirrel, SachikoMaeda
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#2
Aphe what happened to Astus being perma-dead. :|
Spoiler:
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0[/youtube]
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#3
(04-19-2013, 08:54 PM)Kretol Wrote:
Enough gabbin'! Unleash the flood of profiles for Cata! Remember that this will be a "soft reset," meaning a profile rewrite for existing characters is completely optional! You may wish to take this opportunity to change something about an existing character (such as race or class), or perhaps start a character anew (such as one that died or the like).

This happened! I don't yet know what will even be done with Astus as a character, but I just had this tugging in my gut that says to bring him back.
[Image: Ml7sNnX.gif]
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#4
Quote:Class: Necromancer (Warlock OOC for necromancer-y spell effects)

I believe the policy was that necromancers have to be mages OOC. And because I want to torment myself I'll go through the whole profile.

Quote:The third child of the family was a failed magistrix, a girl who cheated her way through school and through life. She lived at home until the age of seven-hundred before she finally acquired a well-paying job, as the previous job-holder mysteriously "disappeared." A few months later, Astus overheard her talking with an accomplice, a man she had help her in the deed. She murdered the man in her previous position, and Astus reported it to the guards the next morning. They came to arrest her on Astus's fifteenth birthday; the guards broke down the door and surrounded her. Her charges were said, and her rights given. She began to sweat, screaming furious obscenities at the men. She demanded to know how they found out, and Astus said that he overheard her talking about it. She shot him an insane glare, eyes wild and hateful. Just as they were about to clip anti-magic cuffs to her wrists, she raised her hands with a clap she was gone. Her location is still unknown, and Astus was afraid that she had gone insane and would come back to kill him. This never, of course, happened, but it was a very real terror to most of the family for a time.
The fourth child was a man of no talent or special quality, but an average man who would make a fair living. Gansun Flamestrider became a chef, having acquired a job at a fine restaurant within town. He and Astus were great friends, and whenever Astus was stressed Gansun was usually there for support, which caused him to indirectly influence Astus to have a difficulty in dealing with high amounts of stress, or extremely high-tension situations pertaining to difficult choices without help, lest he panic and make a bad choice.

You did not space these paragraphs! Heretic!

Quote:The fifth child another son, he was only one hundred and fifty years older than Astus. He joined the military with the promise of slaughtering trolls, and he was killed in a raid by the Amani,; his body was eaten whole by some kind of dark shaman, and his bones forged into weapons and voodoo totems.

I don't know why I am seeing both a comma and a semicolon in a row but I think you only need just one of those. :B

Quote:He tends to avoid soldiers due to their zealous patriotism. It irks him.

A bit of present tense got in there! (though I think this is alright since it's more placing in an opinion rather than a narrative of the timeline)

Quote:Quite some time later, Astus received a letter from his mother. It was written on fine, conjured parchment, as all letters from his home, though the font was less than spectacular. Normally his mother took the time to write each individual letter as a piece of art—calligraphy was a pastime of hers. These letters, however, were hastily scrawled, and the tone of the introductory paragraphs left him feeling a vague impression of worry.
He’d crumpled the letter in his hands. Esmir, his sister, was slain? And it was not in battle? His mother had suspicions that a man in her squadron was responsible. He felt his pulse rise, and his face felt hot. The blue of his eyes lit up further with magic. With an impassioned and ireful shout, he hurled the letter against the wall. The ball of paper shot across the room with arcane pushing it, halfway lighting aflame. The now fireball slammed into a fine painting of a girl—given to him by a student. The piece caught aflame easily, and as Astus’s rage boiled the fire sparked and spread along the wall. It leapt from object to object, effectively ruining his room.

I also do not see spacing for these two paragraphs.

Quote:He awoke to the carriage’s jolting stop, and labored grunting. He peered from the caravan to see that it was near night, and in his low-light vision he could see they were nowhere near Silvermoon City. The road had long since turned to overgrowth, lush brush and large, curling oaks. The driver slid out of the carriage, and instead of what should have been a light-fall, Astus heard the clink of armor. “Damn.” He cursed under his breath, knowing full-well the carriage he had taken would not be going to Silvermoon. Trolls, dozens of them. It was always a bad idea to hire a trade carriage, but it was so much cheaper and Astus didn’t expect his carriage to be intercepted. The wheels were stuck in mud, probably wet from a recent rain. The elf pressed himself against the back of the carriage, and as he looked down he noted—in the darkness— the driver tied and gagged. Except, the gag was over his mouth and nose, and he’d suffocated. The trolls growled and hit the caravan, attempting to pull it loose. It wasn’t happening. The beasts said something to each other, and began entering the van to unload the goods; Astus meanwhile crouched in the corner with his blue eyes narrowed to slits. He prayed they wouldn’t notice him, and his prayers were rejected.
One of the creatures looked directly at him and barked something, moving swiftly outside to put down its items. He didn’t have much time, and he knew it. His lips began moving swiftly, and arcane began to fill his body in a euphoric glow. He pumped arcane through each cell, nearly to the point where his nerves began to burn. He filled his mind with rage, disgust, and loathing for the trolls. Searing, scalding emotions poured from his hands, shooting about the caravan like distant stars erupting. The flamestrike rose and shot outwards, bending around him to keep him safe from the heat. Troll squeals were heard and he soon was alone in the darkness. It was silent, barring his breathing, and after a moment he sat back in the wrecked cart, the embers of which had died suddenly with the loss of their arcane fuel. Smoke rose, and though he had no idea of where he was he knew he needed to leave before the smoke alerted other warbands. It was unfortunate, then, that he was not alone. As he stood, a stone slammed into his skull and he fell down, unconscious.

Or these two.

Quote:His master had begun to plan his final initiation to the Scourge and the Cult of the Damned (the drinking of the soul-damning potion), however such an event was interrupted by a sudden, extremely important task.

The potion that steals the member's will is part of the RPG is now considered non-canon. I do not think you necessarily need to remove this reference, but it is no longer a required thing to exist in his backstory.

Quote:He grew further obsessed with necromancy, working alongside Feslworn and the scum of Azeroth to progress in his art.
“Feslworn” should be “felsworn.”

My only other note is, if you can, apply color to the part of the history that is changed, especially with the Cataclysm changes. I am uncertain if he can go into a magical stasis or not, and survive some of the things he was subjected to. Coloring that part of the profile will let other forum helpers and GMs easily spot out what's different.

Hope that helps C:
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#5
(05-05-2013, 08:50 PM)Wuvvums Wrote:
Quote:Class: Necromancer (Warlock OOC for necromancer-y spell effects)

I believe the policy was that necromancers have to be mages OOC. And because I want to torment myself I'll go through the whole profile.

That was what I had prior thought, but I had a conversation with Kretol about it once and he said that one could be a warlock OOCly to be a necromancer as well. Whether or not this just applied to orcs (since the first necromancers were Orc warlocks, and we didn't have a mage class on them yet, and I was asking about making an orc necromancer) I don't know, so maybe clarification is needed there.

Quote:The third child of the family was a failed magistrix, a girl who cheated her way through school and through life. She lived at home until the age of seven-hundred before she finally acquired a well-paying job, as the previous job-holder mysteriously "disappeared." A few months later, Astus overheard her talking with an accomplice, a man she had help her in the deed. She murdered the man in her previous position, and Astus reported it to the guards the next morning. They came to arrest her on Astus's fifteenth birthday; the guards broke down the door and surrounded her. Her charges were said, and her rights given. She began to sweat, screaming furious obscenities at the men. She demanded to know how they found out, and Astus said that he overheard her talking about it. She shot him an insane glare, eyes wild and hateful. Just as they were about to clip anti-magic cuffs to her wrists, she raised her hands with a clap she was gone. Her location is still unknown, and Astus was afraid that she had gone insane and would come back to kill him. This never, of course, happened, but it was a very real terror to most of the family for a time.
The fourth child was a man of no talent or special quality, but an average man who would make a fair living. Gansun Flamestrider became a chef, having acquired a job at a fine restaurant within town. He and Astus were great friends, and whenever Astus was stressed Gansun was usually there for support, which caused him to indirectly influence Astus to have a difficulty in dealing with high amounts of stress, or extremely high-tension situations pertaining to difficult choices without help, lest he panic and make a bad choice.

Quote:You did not space these paragraphs! Heretic!

Eek! I'll fix it.

Quote:The fifth child another son, he was only one hundred and fifty years older than Astus. He joined the military with the promise of slaughtering trolls, and he was killed in a raid by the Amani,; his body was eaten whole by some kind of dark shaman, and his bones forged into weapons and voodoo totems.

Quote:I don't know why I am seeing both a comma and a semicolon in a row but I think you only need just one of those. :B
Oi! So many silly mistakes. I was editing this yesterday on the bus and noted so many mistakes I kept facepalming.

Quote:He tends to avoid soldiers due to their zealous patriotism. It irks him.

Quote:A bit of present tense got in there! (though I think this is alright since it's more placing in an opinion rather than a narrative of the timeline)

Yup!

Quote:Quite some time later, Astus received a letter from his mother. It was written on fine, conjured parchment, as all letters from his home, though the font was less than spectacular. Normally his mother took the time to write each individual letter as a piece of art—calligraphy was a pastime of hers. These letters, however, were hastily scrawled, and the tone of the introductory paragraphs left him feeling a vague impression of worry.
He’d crumpled the letter in his hands. Esmir, his sister, was slain? And it was not in battle? His mother had suspicions that a man in her squadron was responsible. He felt his pulse rise, and his face felt hot. The blue of his eyes lit up further with magic. With an impassioned and ireful shout, he hurled the letter against the wall. The ball of paper shot across the room with arcane pushing it, halfway lighting aflame. The now fireball slammed into a fine painting of a girl—given to him by a student. The piece caught aflame easily, and as Astus’s rage boiled the fire sparked and spread along the wall. It leapt from object to object, effectively ruining his room.

Quote:I also do not see spacing for these two paragraphs.
[/quote]

I am a failure!

Quote:He awoke to the carriage’s jolting stop, and labored grunting. He peered from the caravan to see that it was near night, and in his low-light vision he could see they were nowhere near Silvermoon City. The road had long since turned to overgrowth, lush brush and large, curling oaks. The driver slid out of the carriage, and instead of what should have been a light-fall, Astus heard the clink of armor. “Damn.” He cursed under his breath, knowing full-well the carriage he had taken would not be going to Silvermoon. Trolls, dozens of them. It was always a bad idea to hire a trade carriage, but it was so much cheaper and Astus didn’t expect his carriage to be intercepted. The wheels were stuck in mud, probably wet from a recent rain. The elf pressed himself against the back of the carriage, and as he looked down he noted—in the darkness— the driver tied and gagged. Except, the gag was over his mouth and nose, and he’d suffocated. The trolls growled and hit the caravan, attempting to pull it loose. It wasn’t happening. The beasts said something to each other, and began entering the van to unload the goods; Astus meanwhile crouched in the corner with his blue eyes narrowed to slits. He prayed they wouldn’t notice him, and his prayers were rejected.
One of the creatures looked directly at him and barked something, moving swiftly outside to put down its items. He didn’t have much time, and he knew it. His lips began moving swiftly, and arcane began to fill his body in a euphoric glow. He pumped arcane through each cell, nearly to the point where his nerves began to burn. He filled his mind with rage, disgust, and loathing for the trolls. Searing, scalding emotions poured from his hands, shooting about the caravan like distant stars erupting. The flamestrike rose and shot outwards, bending around him to keep him safe from the heat. Troll squeals were heard and he soon was alone in the darkness. It was silent, barring his breathing, and after a moment he sat back in the wrecked cart, the embers of which had died suddenly with the loss of their arcane fuel. Smoke rose, and though he had no idea of where he was he knew he needed to leave before the smoke alerted other warbands. It was unfortunate, then, that he was not alone. As he stood, a stone slammed into his skull and he fell down, unconscious.

Quote:Or these two.
[/quote]

Fel! I thought I got all of these but I guess not.

Quote:His master had begun to plan his final initiation to the Scourge and the Cult of the Damned (the drinking of the soul-damning potion), however such an event was interrupted by a sudden, extremely important task.

Quote:The potion that steals the member's will is part of the RPG is now considered non-canon. I do not think you necessarily need to remove this reference, but it is no longer a required thing to exist in his backstory.

Oh. Is it alright if I leave it, then? It would just be easier on me.

Quote:He grew further obsessed with necromancy, working alongside Feslworn and the scum of Azeroth to progress in his art.
Quote:“Feslworn” should be “felsworn.”

My only other note is, if you can, apply color to the part of the history that is changed, especially with the Cataclysm changes. I am uncertain if he can go into a magical stasis or not, and survive some of the things he was subjected to. Coloring that part of the profile will let other forum helpers and GMs easily spot out what's different.

Hope that helps C:
[/quote]

As for the red, will be done!
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#6
Quote:That was what I had prior thought, but I had a conversation with Kretol about it once and he said that one could be a warlock OOCly to be a necromancer as well. Whether or not this just applied to orcs (since the first necromancers were Orc warlocks, and we didn't have a mage class on them yet, and I was asking about making an orc necromancer) I don't know, so maybe clarification is needed there.

'Warlock' Necromancers were allowed for Orcs. Other races must use Mages. /swoops in
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#7
Darn! And I was so excited for all the necromancery spell effects warlocks have. (Mostly soul harvest, but whut-evah.)

/swoops to the editing section.

Edits made!

/swoops to the post reply button
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#8
Aphe brings back Astus? It really is Cataclysm!

I'm pleased with this <3 Very very very much so!
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I am tech support

[4:16:27 PM] Cristovao di Silvio ( @CappnRob): theres the bar. then theres the bottom of the barrel, then theres you sachi
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#9
I do not see the magical stasis/coma to be a plausible thing for a character to go through. However, the attempted ritual and failing is alright.
Reply
#10
(05-06-2013, 11:03 AM)Reigen Wrote:
Quote:That was what I had prior thought, but I had a conversation with Kretol about it once and he said that one could be a warlock OOCly to be a necromancer as well. Whether or not this just applied to orcs (since the first necromancers were Orc warlocks, and we didn't have a mage class on them yet, and I was asking about making an orc necromancer) I don't know, so maybe clarification is needed there.

'Warlock' Necromancers were allowed for Orcs. Other races must use Mages. /swoops in

...Hm. With orcs now having mages as a class, will they also have to use the mage class for necromancy, despite history?
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#11
(05-07-2013, 07:24 AM)c0rzilla Wrote:
(05-06-2013, 11:03 AM)Reigen Wrote:
Quote:That was what I had prior thought, but I had a conversation with Kretol about it once and he said that one could be a warlock OOCly to be a necromancer as well. Whether or not this just applied to orcs (since the first necromancers were Orc warlocks, and we didn't have a mage class on them yet, and I was asking about making an orc necromancer) I don't know, so maybe clarification is needed there.

'Warlock' Necromancers were allowed for Orcs. Other races must use Mages. /swoops in

...Hm. With orcs now having mages as a class, will they also have to use the mage class for necromancy, despite history?

Honestly, it would probably make more sense. I only wanted to use warlock because it gives some pretty epic shadowy-necromancer effects, but it's alright. Imagination is pretty awesome. I guess if we streamline it, then it's okay.

(05-07-2013, 07:12 AM)Wuvvums Wrote: I do not see the magical stasis/coma to be a plausible thing for a character to go through. However, the attempted ritual and failing is alright.

Might I ask why? I can probably change it with a bit of thought on an alternative, but because I'm busy right now and I need to run soon (tech week of all times to try and come back to CotH!) I'll just leave this here to ask/acknowledge I've seen your comment.
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#12
Magical stasis can possibly be abused. You could have something like an ancient human, troll, or other races that could witness ancient events, and later be alive for it.

You mention in the stasis that Astus has forgone death and aging and I would rather not have a magical method for someone to avert aging. He could possibly be in an actual coma and wake up for Cataclysm, possibly, but someone would have to care for him I believe.

I am sorry if the explanation may not seem like much. Sometimes there are some thoughts that are hard to put words to, but magical stasis feels like something that would not be in place for normal characters. (I am not sure if a lore figure would have gone through with something like that in WoW's lore)
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#13
Updated.
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#14
Approved!
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#15
Wikified!
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