First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player:
I'm generally nonchalant and oblivious to minor issues, lazy. I roleplay as a hobby and don't take it further than that, really. I can be an active community member depending on the playerbase itself, and the amount of time I accustom myself to it. I'm not very opinionated and keep my opinions to whomever asks for them, directly or otherwise. I'm overall approachable, and open with the few that I find of valid view.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I'm half-Romanian half-Egyptian. Born in Romania, raised in Egypt until I was about 4-5 years old, and brought back to Romania where I'm most likely going to carry on with my life. My first spoken language was English, being sent to an Irish nursery in Egypt, then came Arabic and finally Romanian. I can only speak English and Romanian fluently, though.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I don't remember.
How did you find us? Did anything in particular draw you to the server?:
Words from friends, previous mentions. The lack of anything better.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
Constrained, about 5-6 people, preferably friends. I can cope with crowds, but it's mostly me entering a more evaluating state, at most I'd interact with a player or two.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race, Blood Elves. Class, tight between mages and contenders.
Blood Elves are a broken race that despite their state lead the highest most talented populace of spellcasters on an entire plane. I enjoy playing either a coy, sharp rogue, or a power hungry brilliant mage.
What are your expectations of this server?:
High playerbase.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
The fourth forum rule for the use of 'Barrens-worthy'. The rest of your rules are exaggerated and unnecessary.
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
Here's a fragment of one of my old applications on a different server, a Blood Elven Spellbreaker. It describes the turmoil of the elves during and after the Third War.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
A template and APPROVAL required for an introduction is tedious and discouraging. As I mentioned, no better place just yet.
I'm generally nonchalant and oblivious to minor issues, lazy. I roleplay as a hobby and don't take it further than that, really. I can be an active community member depending on the playerbase itself, and the amount of time I accustom myself to it. I'm not very opinionated and keep my opinions to whomever asks for them, directly or otherwise. I'm overall approachable, and open with the few that I find of valid view.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I'm half-Romanian half-Egyptian. Born in Romania, raised in Egypt until I was about 4-5 years old, and brought back to Romania where I'm most likely going to carry on with my life. My first spoken language was English, being sent to an Irish nursery in Egypt, then came Arabic and finally Romanian. I can only speak English and Romanian fluently, though.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I don't remember.
How did you find us? Did anything in particular draw you to the server?:
Words from friends, previous mentions. The lack of anything better.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
Constrained, about 5-6 people, preferably friends. I can cope with crowds, but it's mostly me entering a more evaluating state, at most I'd interact with a player or two.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race, Blood Elves. Class, tight between mages and contenders.
Blood Elves are a broken race that despite their state lead the highest most talented populace of spellcasters on an entire plane. I enjoy playing either a coy, sharp rogue, or a power hungry brilliant mage.
What are your expectations of this server?:
High playerbase.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
The fourth forum rule for the use of 'Barrens-worthy'. The rest of your rules are exaggerated and unnecessary.
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
Here's a fragment of one of my old applications on a different server, a Blood Elven Spellbreaker. It describes the turmoil of the elves during and after the Third War.
The arrival of the Spellbreaker squad was much late. Arthas' scourge had already sundered the Sunwell with ease, as the endless horde lurked all throughout the seemingly conquered island. Aenndor had stood in the middle of the woods to fight along some of his fellow kinsmen against the vicious flesh-thirsty ghouls. He'd swing his warhamer forcefully, letting out a valiant battle shriek. The hammer would land with crushing might, smashing in a ghoul's cranium, letting the rotten body-fluids pour all over the soil. The restless dead would continously push against the few elves without mercy. One of them would soon find his end by the hands of several sharp-clawed ghouls who piled up on him like famished vermins, ripping chunks of meat out one after another. He didn't have time. Not to mourn, look or even think of his dying brother in battle. As soon as he'd take down one, yet another would spring up in a hideous motion. His hammer would've been swung the opposite way, letting the vile ghoul blow past him as he'd step onto the cadaver before him, breathing heavily in his adrenaline rush as he saught the necromancer raising the seemingly endless wave. A larger wight would rush up at the group with it's massive body, managing to plow yet another elven warrior into the ground then mercilessly mauling with his clenched fists until the undead's foe would no longer even jerk around after each strike. The wight would roar out, mindlessly contiunuing his rampage. A group of four ghouls could be seen approaching with feral leaps, propelling themselves through the air as shrieks would echoe throughout the woods. The setting of the Sun was nigh, yet seemingly no end to the slaughter on Quel'danas island. Aenndor's search for the necromancer responsible was directly forsaken at the approaching wight. With a short prayer to the Holy Light, even as a spell caster, he sought any deity he ever knew to guide his warhammer. He would ram his shield in a near hurling motion towards an approaching ghoul, and smash his hammer down onto another of the group of four. His stance was left completely defenseless against the other two screaming undead. As Aenndor would smash himself into the charging quartet, the first ghoul would be flung backwards by the stopping power of his shield, cracking its skull, and the brain could be seen slowly oozing out as it was blendered from the blow. The second one could not manage to hold under the warhammer's might, its spine cracking and its side being reshaped as it was thrown to the ground. Yet regardless of the uselessness of the lower limbs, it would persistantly try to crawl to the elf. The two other would be slow to react, digging their feet into ground, leaving small paths of dug up grass behind them as they'd turn around a couple of meters away from the warrior, turning around as they'd squat down into a pouncing position, hissing out.
As a final act towards the crawling corpse, he would press his sabaton against its head with all his might into going through the rotten flesh and already damaged bone structure as to crush its brain. Regardless of the scaberous appearance of such, he would turn towards the two readying ghouls as he brings his shield forwards, mumbling quietly in preparation. The sabaton would be pressed against the skull of the ghoul as suddenly it cracked under the pressure of the boot, sinking into the mashed bloody mass it now was. The ghouls would fling themselves through the air, one of them leaping over the man, failing to calculate any momentum and being impatient due it's hunger to kill. The second ghoul would slam itself into the shield, the sheer impact being enough to kill it, yet Aenndor would be shoved backwards as it'd die. The permanently lifeless ghoul now lying behind the elf's shield, the eyes popped out of the eyesockets, dangling as the neck's twisted in a painful unnatural position, head cracked open. The second one would dig it's claws into the soil to stop himself again, dragging off for a good distance of a meter or two, being relatively far off from the spellbreaker. Yet only for a necromancer make a presence a bit away, flocked by skeletal warriors with rusty broadswords. He would stare towards the ghoul's head as it was stuck into his shield, having the most horrified facial expression he's had his entire life. The mere sight of it spiked fear even into his lionhearted personality. He would violently swing his shield away to let the head roll off, disregarding the fleeing ghoul as he focused onto the necromancers. Breathing heavily, he regained his composure, and began stepping forwards before springing into a charge, his battle casting allowing him to try and cast a spell as to disrupt the skeletal soldiers' existance, as he tried swinging his mace towards the head of a necromancer. "Perish! Burn eternally!!" he would shout in a tone of utter hatred. The necromancers would not expect to encounter such a foe, their backup was crumbling all around them. One would take a step back, hesitating to strike as the other chanted, his hand encompassed with a dark magic as he attempted to shoot out a shadowy bolt of energy to stop the elf in his tracks. The rest of Aenndor's brothers in arms would soon be found in large pool of blood, their faces torn off. They could be seen stirring, slowly rising as they all groaned. No longer were they someones' brothers, fathers, husbands and friends. They were now but mere tools of death, puppets in the Lich King's grasp. The spellbreaker would simply raise his shield to fully absorb the shadow bolt which would disintegrate, letting the damage that was supposed to occur on him instead redirect to the necromancer himself. He would break into the necromancer he was aiming for, and stomp on his torso as to pull his hammer out. Without thought, he'd immediately aim his hammer for the remaining necromancer's chest as to shatter his ribs.
The first necromancer struck would now be lying on the ground, a gaping hole gushing with dark blood and guts which would be spilling all over the grass, giving it a dark hue. The second necromaner would helplessly only raise his hands above himself in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the furious wrath of the elf. The next moment his hands would be completely plowed through by the hammer would would make a sickening soft crack sounds as it was on it's way to his upper torso, tearing a massive hole in the necromancer's ribcage up from the trachea. Suddenly a larger gargoyle would swoop down, trying to pick Aenndor up and go airborne for a couple of seconds, then attempting to aim him into the wooden roof of a house. Aenndor would directly turn his head towards his battlebrothers, the sight of their brutal death and reanimation would fiercly be embedded into his mind. The sight of the raising group would now be forever engraved into his head as the most traumatic thing he would find thus far. Distracted by the utter terror of this sight, the gargantuan Gargoyle would swoop him right off his feet, this is where his armor would've came in handy if it wasn't lightweighted. He would be hurled into the house, falling clean through the weak wooden roof and leisurely into a king sized bed. No matter, blood would be gushing out of his mouth and he would be paralyzed temporarily from the shock. After a few moments, hearing violent sounds downstairs, he musters the strength to stand up and begin to stabilize himself by magical means. Upon glancing to his left, he'd see a pale figure of a dead female, the glow in here eyes long dim, only her lifeless gaze locked upon Aenndor, a dagger thrusted into her heart yet no signs of struggle, she had taken her own life to escape the curse to walk Azeroth forevermore as a puppet. The rumbling downstairs would hastly start making it's way up the magnificently decorated magical stairs only to reveal that all the noise was coming from a living one. The man would pant heavily, a welded elven katana in his hand. He'd be wearing a guard's armor. The man would throw his helmet off, revealing the wild look in his eyes and the sickly pale skin. He'd suddenly start rambling and stutteting complete nonsense in thalassian as his arm started to shake as the grip around the blade's tightened. Aenndor was completely shocked by the sight of the woman laying down. Only as he stood up did he notice her. He looked into her unblinking eyes, whimpering weakly as he looks throughout the room in a hurry. As soon as he notices the man, he'd loosen the grip on his warhammer, breathing heavily and looking between the two of them. It was obvious, her husband had came in a hurry to tend to his family. There came the rumble again, this time it was no living creature. Scaberous groans and shrieks would echo throughout the halls as they approached the bedroom. Aenndor was half dead already, barely standing up. In panic, he would simply rush for the guard to try breaking his skull with a swing powered by the remains of his strength. He would then start dragging him as a living shield towards the swarm of incoming ghouls, simply tossing his fresh corpse at them for distraction while he rashly made his way out, whimpering all the while in complete terror.
The guard's body would tumble downstairs in the manner of a ragdoll, crashing into the undead like a bowling ball. The ravenous ghouls would feast upon his body on the spot where they regained their balance, gnawing on armor and flesh alike as Aenndor would make his way outside, only to find the surroundings in flaming ruins, occasional flocks of gargoyles would shadow out the Sun. An undead knight champion of sorts would approach Aenndor with heavy steps. The man had to be built like a siege engine in his life. He rose the large sword at Aenndor like a challenge, seemingly he had some scraps of his intelligence left. The spellbreaker would immediately begin tearing at the sight of the falling sun blocked by the gargoyles and flame smoke. He had never seen his very land, Quel'Thalas, blessed by the elves' eternal springtime, to look like such an arid wasteland. He would look to the knight-champion, beginning to breathe heavily as his eyes turn blunt, his facial expression riddled with tears and tiredness but also utter hatred. He would reach for his satchel, and pull a couple of vials which he simply slams open and chugs into his mouth. He knew potions would force his muscles and body, he knew that he had limited time to act before their effect wears out. This fight needed to happen, however, as his fury would blind him from rational judgement. He would tighten his grip around his hammer, and take a deep breath before letting out the most rage-filled battlecry a High Elf would muster, running over towards the undead champion with a mighty swing to its shoulderpad. The hammer would slam into the shoulderplate, steel bending under it's weight. The champion's shoulder only darting back, his big frame remaining undisturbed as he'd try to send his large gauntlet into the elf's side, trying to send him away only to follow him with his steel, trying to lunge it through him, pin him into the ground as he roared out in return, his head completely free of flesh the hollow eyes staring at Aenndor without blinking. Aenndor would be swung to the side by the mighty champion's gauntlet, falling on the ground. The blade was stuck into his armor, as the spellbreaker simply looked up into the skeletal head's blue glowing eyes, his energy completely sucked out of him, left without any will to fight, any pride to keep, any revenge to bring. He simply chants a few words, his physical strength already drowned, though his mana just enough for a single more spell. After the chanting, the champion would simply decompose into a pile of ash, as the elf crawls pitifully after taking the sword out of his plate, heading for a nearby toolshed. He'd force the door open and bring himself inside, laying down on the cold ground and resting his feet against the wall, his back against the door. He passed out completely a neat line of blood flowing out of his already bloodied face. Blood, dirt, wooden bits and sweat were riddled all across his armor and face. Still, he was at ease everything was going to be better once he woke up.
The faint sound of the shoddy door rumbling would be his wake-up call accompanied by occasional louder growls and bloodthirsty snarls, the ghouls would be like a famished pack of wild bloodhounds. The smell of rotting flesh would fill the room around Aenndor, burning his nostrils. The room would be dark yet he could find a torch. The Sun has been long set, pitch black outside. Aenndor was awaken by the intoxicating smell, screaming in fright of the real life he just managed to exit for nothing more than an hour or two. He would press his feet against the wall to force the door closed, beginning to feel claustrophobic as he feels around. As soon as he'd find the torch he'd light it with a flick of magic, setting it ontop of a stand as he began taking deep breaths, regaining his composure. This, however, wasn't the way he should have regained it. In his mind, death was now imminent. He was worn out like no other battle before, he was wounded, he had near to no mana. This was it. He drops both his shield and hammer down, reaching for his combat knife as he'd bring it close to his neck then retracts it for a good angle at a stab. He would
look down to the knife, starting to tremble as he'd slam his own head against the already moving door, snapping himself out of his suicidal thoughts as he'd immediately slash through his palm, smearing blood against the doorway. He seemed to recall the ghouls' cannibalistic nature. He'd open the door only very slightly to test his theory. And he was right. The ghoul right outside would lean its head into the open door to begin licking at the blood intently. This gave Aenndor an opportunity, as he swung his knife for a swift stab straight into its skull. The unaware ghoul would have the steel of Aenndor's combat embedded into it's flayed head, it would fall down shrieking. The rest would rather find the flesh of a fallen comrade the main priority, leaping onto the corpse, ripping it apart, giving the warrior a good amount of time to flee. Yet only for yet another wight to stop him in his tracks, armed with a large spiked club. It would roar out suddenly starting to rush towards the elf with heavy stomps which would tremble the earth. The club would be dragged along, leaving a mark on the cobblestone surface of the road.
Aenndor would simply remain stunned at the sight of the Wight. Perhaps he should have done it, after all. Suicide. He rose the combat knife a little before realizing it was too small to do any damage whatsoever. His eyes begin tearing again, before, the wight is blasted down by a powerful fireball that sets it on fire, and effectively rids the creature of its undeath. A band of magisters step up to help the lone Spellbreaker, retreating with them towards a refugee camp. There, he had found Quel'Thalas was lost to the elves. Kingless and without guidance from the magi themselves, an era of terror was awaiting them.
As a final act towards the crawling corpse, he would press his sabaton against its head with all his might into going through the rotten flesh and already damaged bone structure as to crush its brain. Regardless of the scaberous appearance of such, he would turn towards the two readying ghouls as he brings his shield forwards, mumbling quietly in preparation. The sabaton would be pressed against the skull of the ghoul as suddenly it cracked under the pressure of the boot, sinking into the mashed bloody mass it now was. The ghouls would fling themselves through the air, one of them leaping over the man, failing to calculate any momentum and being impatient due it's hunger to kill. The second ghoul would slam itself into the shield, the sheer impact being enough to kill it, yet Aenndor would be shoved backwards as it'd die. The permanently lifeless ghoul now lying behind the elf's shield, the eyes popped out of the eyesockets, dangling as the neck's twisted in a painful unnatural position, head cracked open. The second one would dig it's claws into the soil to stop himself again, dragging off for a good distance of a meter or two, being relatively far off from the spellbreaker. Yet only for a necromancer make a presence a bit away, flocked by skeletal warriors with rusty broadswords. He would stare towards the ghoul's head as it was stuck into his shield, having the most horrified facial expression he's had his entire life. The mere sight of it spiked fear even into his lionhearted personality. He would violently swing his shield away to let the head roll off, disregarding the fleeing ghoul as he focused onto the necromancers. Breathing heavily, he regained his composure, and began stepping forwards before springing into a charge, his battle casting allowing him to try and cast a spell as to disrupt the skeletal soldiers' existance, as he tried swinging his mace towards the head of a necromancer. "Perish! Burn eternally!!" he would shout in a tone of utter hatred. The necromancers would not expect to encounter such a foe, their backup was crumbling all around them. One would take a step back, hesitating to strike as the other chanted, his hand encompassed with a dark magic as he attempted to shoot out a shadowy bolt of energy to stop the elf in his tracks. The rest of Aenndor's brothers in arms would soon be found in large pool of blood, their faces torn off. They could be seen stirring, slowly rising as they all groaned. No longer were they someones' brothers, fathers, husbands and friends. They were now but mere tools of death, puppets in the Lich King's grasp. The spellbreaker would simply raise his shield to fully absorb the shadow bolt which would disintegrate, letting the damage that was supposed to occur on him instead redirect to the necromancer himself. He would break into the necromancer he was aiming for, and stomp on his torso as to pull his hammer out. Without thought, he'd immediately aim his hammer for the remaining necromancer's chest as to shatter his ribs.
The first necromancer struck would now be lying on the ground, a gaping hole gushing with dark blood and guts which would be spilling all over the grass, giving it a dark hue. The second necromaner would helplessly only raise his hands above himself in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the furious wrath of the elf. The next moment his hands would be completely plowed through by the hammer would would make a sickening soft crack sounds as it was on it's way to his upper torso, tearing a massive hole in the necromancer's ribcage up from the trachea. Suddenly a larger gargoyle would swoop down, trying to pick Aenndor up and go airborne for a couple of seconds, then attempting to aim him into the wooden roof of a house. Aenndor would directly turn his head towards his battlebrothers, the sight of their brutal death and reanimation would fiercly be embedded into his mind. The sight of the raising group would now be forever engraved into his head as the most traumatic thing he would find thus far. Distracted by the utter terror of this sight, the gargantuan Gargoyle would swoop him right off his feet, this is where his armor would've came in handy if it wasn't lightweighted. He would be hurled into the house, falling clean through the weak wooden roof and leisurely into a king sized bed. No matter, blood would be gushing out of his mouth and he would be paralyzed temporarily from the shock. After a few moments, hearing violent sounds downstairs, he musters the strength to stand up and begin to stabilize himself by magical means. Upon glancing to his left, he'd see a pale figure of a dead female, the glow in here eyes long dim, only her lifeless gaze locked upon Aenndor, a dagger thrusted into her heart yet no signs of struggle, she had taken her own life to escape the curse to walk Azeroth forevermore as a puppet. The rumbling downstairs would hastly start making it's way up the magnificently decorated magical stairs only to reveal that all the noise was coming from a living one. The man would pant heavily, a welded elven katana in his hand. He'd be wearing a guard's armor. The man would throw his helmet off, revealing the wild look in his eyes and the sickly pale skin. He'd suddenly start rambling and stutteting complete nonsense in thalassian as his arm started to shake as the grip around the blade's tightened. Aenndor was completely shocked by the sight of the woman laying down. Only as he stood up did he notice her. He looked into her unblinking eyes, whimpering weakly as he looks throughout the room in a hurry. As soon as he notices the man, he'd loosen the grip on his warhammer, breathing heavily and looking between the two of them. It was obvious, her husband had came in a hurry to tend to his family. There came the rumble again, this time it was no living creature. Scaberous groans and shrieks would echo throughout the halls as they approached the bedroom. Aenndor was half dead already, barely standing up. In panic, he would simply rush for the guard to try breaking his skull with a swing powered by the remains of his strength. He would then start dragging him as a living shield towards the swarm of incoming ghouls, simply tossing his fresh corpse at them for distraction while he rashly made his way out, whimpering all the while in complete terror.
The guard's body would tumble downstairs in the manner of a ragdoll, crashing into the undead like a bowling ball. The ravenous ghouls would feast upon his body on the spot where they regained their balance, gnawing on armor and flesh alike as Aenndor would make his way outside, only to find the surroundings in flaming ruins, occasional flocks of gargoyles would shadow out the Sun. An undead knight champion of sorts would approach Aenndor with heavy steps. The man had to be built like a siege engine in his life. He rose the large sword at Aenndor like a challenge, seemingly he had some scraps of his intelligence left. The spellbreaker would immediately begin tearing at the sight of the falling sun blocked by the gargoyles and flame smoke. He had never seen his very land, Quel'Thalas, blessed by the elves' eternal springtime, to look like such an arid wasteland. He would look to the knight-champion, beginning to breathe heavily as his eyes turn blunt, his facial expression riddled with tears and tiredness but also utter hatred. He would reach for his satchel, and pull a couple of vials which he simply slams open and chugs into his mouth. He knew potions would force his muscles and body, he knew that he had limited time to act before their effect wears out. This fight needed to happen, however, as his fury would blind him from rational judgement. He would tighten his grip around his hammer, and take a deep breath before letting out the most rage-filled battlecry a High Elf would muster, running over towards the undead champion with a mighty swing to its shoulderpad. The hammer would slam into the shoulderplate, steel bending under it's weight. The champion's shoulder only darting back, his big frame remaining undisturbed as he'd try to send his large gauntlet into the elf's side, trying to send him away only to follow him with his steel, trying to lunge it through him, pin him into the ground as he roared out in return, his head completely free of flesh the hollow eyes staring at Aenndor without blinking. Aenndor would be swung to the side by the mighty champion's gauntlet, falling on the ground. The blade was stuck into his armor, as the spellbreaker simply looked up into the skeletal head's blue glowing eyes, his energy completely sucked out of him, left without any will to fight, any pride to keep, any revenge to bring. He simply chants a few words, his physical strength already drowned, though his mana just enough for a single more spell. After the chanting, the champion would simply decompose into a pile of ash, as the elf crawls pitifully after taking the sword out of his plate, heading for a nearby toolshed. He'd force the door open and bring himself inside, laying down on the cold ground and resting his feet against the wall, his back against the door. He passed out completely a neat line of blood flowing out of his already bloodied face. Blood, dirt, wooden bits and sweat were riddled all across his armor and face. Still, he was at ease everything was going to be better once he woke up.
The faint sound of the shoddy door rumbling would be his wake-up call accompanied by occasional louder growls and bloodthirsty snarls, the ghouls would be like a famished pack of wild bloodhounds. The smell of rotting flesh would fill the room around Aenndor, burning his nostrils. The room would be dark yet he could find a torch. The Sun has been long set, pitch black outside. Aenndor was awaken by the intoxicating smell, screaming in fright of the real life he just managed to exit for nothing more than an hour or two. He would press his feet against the wall to force the door closed, beginning to feel claustrophobic as he feels around. As soon as he'd find the torch he'd light it with a flick of magic, setting it ontop of a stand as he began taking deep breaths, regaining his composure. This, however, wasn't the way he should have regained it. In his mind, death was now imminent. He was worn out like no other battle before, he was wounded, he had near to no mana. This was it. He drops both his shield and hammer down, reaching for his combat knife as he'd bring it close to his neck then retracts it for a good angle at a stab. He would
look down to the knife, starting to tremble as he'd slam his own head against the already moving door, snapping himself out of his suicidal thoughts as he'd immediately slash through his palm, smearing blood against the doorway. He seemed to recall the ghouls' cannibalistic nature. He'd open the door only very slightly to test his theory. And he was right. The ghoul right outside would lean its head into the open door to begin licking at the blood intently. This gave Aenndor an opportunity, as he swung his knife for a swift stab straight into its skull. The unaware ghoul would have the steel of Aenndor's combat embedded into it's flayed head, it would fall down shrieking. The rest would rather find the flesh of a fallen comrade the main priority, leaping onto the corpse, ripping it apart, giving the warrior a good amount of time to flee. Yet only for yet another wight to stop him in his tracks, armed with a large spiked club. It would roar out suddenly starting to rush towards the elf with heavy stomps which would tremble the earth. The club would be dragged along, leaving a mark on the cobblestone surface of the road.
Aenndor would simply remain stunned at the sight of the Wight. Perhaps he should have done it, after all. Suicide. He rose the combat knife a little before realizing it was too small to do any damage whatsoever. His eyes begin tearing again, before, the wight is blasted down by a powerful fireball that sets it on fire, and effectively rids the creature of its undeath. A band of magisters step up to help the lone Spellbreaker, retreating with them towards a refugee camp. There, he had found Quel'Thalas was lost to the elves. Kingless and without guidance from the magi themselves, an era of terror was awaiting them.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
A template and APPROVAL required for an introduction is tedious and discouraging. As I mentioned, no better place just yet.
