02-01-2006, 04:00 PM
((This is a profile of Jabadue's alt.))
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charles Harris, but for some unknown reason to me,
everyone calls me "Neat." Perhaps, they are jealous of the fine tailoring of my robes, or
the fact that I believe in proper grooming. After all, being dead is no excuse for slovenliness.
It is true that I enjoy the finer things in life, or should I say death: wine, women
(dead or alive), food (also, dead or alive), and fine clothes. You could say that I am an epicure,
since I am devoted to sensual pleasure and luxurious living, but I have not always been this way.
I grew up in the village of Darrowshire in Lordaeron. My passion was for herbalism, the study of
plants and their effects. I spent hours roaming the fields around our town, making sketches of the
flowers and plants that I saw, and collecting samples. As I grew to a man, I desired to use my
knowledge of plants to assuage the suffering of others. Thus, after studying alchemy and healing
arts in the capital city, I returned to Darrowshire as the town physician and alchemist.
I cared for my charges to the best of my ability, delivering babies, comforting the sick and aged,
bandaging the bumps and scrapes in a small farming community. I attended the wedding of our
local militia leader, Joseph Redpath, and delivered his daughters, Jessica and Pamela. My best
friend was his brother, Carlin. Ah, now that was pleasure, Warm summer days, cool lemonade
in the shade, the grasshoppers flitting over the grassy fields, and the laughter of little
Pamela playing. Oh, but what happened to us all, that is horrible, just horrible.
Understand, our corner of the world was not important. We were not in the main stream of things,
but nevertheless, I remember when word of the plague began to reach us. Strangers and whole
families fleeing down the main road with tales of the dead walking. Joseph called a town
meeting. He said that we had to keep the refugees away, as they carried the sickness, and
that we should make preparations to hold them out by force. Thus, the militia drilled and
trained. I, as a medical man, prepared a field station and trained some of the older
folk in the town as assistants, and set up strict sanitary procedures for everyone.
Yes, and we turned the refugees away. At first, it
was just a trickle. Later, the militia had to man barricades to keep them out. I can
still see them shuffling off down the dusty road to meet their fate, their pitiful
belongings wrapped in cloth and skins. Of course, we felt bad, but we remained disease
free. We remained free of the war. We could see the clouds of dust in the distance
as armies passed and fought. I wanted to help, so I grabbed my medical kit and mounted
a horse and rode toward the dust clouds. I took a back way out of town so no one
would see me.
It was night when I got to the battlefield. The fighting was over, and the ground
was scorched and burned. Bodies of all races covered the field. Mangled undead
were there too. All the faces of the dead were like little
moons, staring back at the full disk in the sky. I walked around, hoping to find
someone alive, but they all were dead. Then, they started to stir and moan, and
I knew I was seeing the abomination first hand. I ran, not looking back.
Soon after that, the first walking corpses came to Darrowshire. Joseph had trained
the militia well. They turned them back. Then, more came, Terrible shambling creatures.
Flesh sloughing off them, or completely missing from their bones. Their rotting stench
hung over the town. The ate our dead and wounded. The fight was sharp. The militia
prevailed, but I did not think they could hold off another assault. I treated the
wounded as best I could, but their wounds did not respond to treatment. They all
died, and my assistants and I carried their bodies outside the town barricades.
They were not there in the morning.
Then, the paladins under Davil Crokford came. Our hopes rose. They were so noble
in their shining plate and devout prayers. I had treated Davil as a boy for the
normal scrapes and bruises. He was one of our own, born and raised in Darrowshire,
and we were so proud. He was our hope come to life.
But our hopes did not last. Soon thereafter,
we awoke to find the hills filled with an undead army. We tried not to think
of the familiar faces we saw there. In their midst atop a giant skeletal horse,
a terrible ghoul lord, Horgus the Ravager, in robes of shimmering black cast
his staff over the town, and the dead attacked.
Davil was the rock upon which the dead attack broke. His mace
never stopped. His armor was smeared with the blood of his comrades and the
vile green ooze of the dead. Then, Horgus himself entered the battle.
Davil moved through the fighting throng to meet him. The lich cast fel magic
and pounded Davil's shield with his staff. The paladin struck back with
both shield and mace. Over the battle din, you could hear him chanting
prayers to the light. Davil raise himself up and swung the mace overhead.
It came crashing down on the ghoul's skull, shattering it like glass.
Our host started to cheer, but stopped when Davil sunk to a knee, and then,
fell. He was brought to me. I looked into his young, beautiful, and bloodied face,
and knew I could do nothing. He died in my arms.
We still held our own, but then, I heard a terrible scream.
I now know that at that moment, Marduk the Black ripped the soul from our captain.
Next thing, I know our own militia are upon us, swarming over the paladins.
I ran to the town hall, where the old and young were sheltered. Our own men
burst in, and with empty eyes started to slaughter the innocents around me.
I saw sweet, young Pamela's throat cut, and then, I knew no more.
I have no memory from my time with the Scourge. I presume I fought with
the corrupted Redpath until he was destroyed at Gahrron's Withering.
Then, next thing I knew was that I awoke as myself in the ruins of
Andorhal. I was drawn to the ruined city of Lordaeron, and found others
like myself. I heard of my lady Sylvanas, and how she had saved us.
I pledged myself to her service and started the study of the arcane arts,
though I still have my medical, herbal, and alchemy skills.
I would become a powerful mage and turn that power against those who
had destroyed Darrowshire. I continue my training and quest to this day.
And being undead has its advantages. As a matter of fact, I rather prefer it.
I can eat and drink all that I want, and suffer no ill effects. Have you
ever seen an overweight undead? I can engage my senses to the fullest,
gorging them. Some say it is not the same when you are dead. That the
senses are dead like the rest of the body, but I remember what the croissants
and pinot noir tasted like. I can taste them. I can feel them.
So I prefer not to dwell on the past. I live in the moment. I do my best
to enjoy undeath.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charles Harris, but for some unknown reason to me,
everyone calls me "Neat." Perhaps, they are jealous of the fine tailoring of my robes, or
the fact that I believe in proper grooming. After all, being dead is no excuse for slovenliness.
It is true that I enjoy the finer things in life, or should I say death: wine, women
(dead or alive), food (also, dead or alive), and fine clothes. You could say that I am an epicure,
since I am devoted to sensual pleasure and luxurious living, but I have not always been this way.
I grew up in the village of Darrowshire in Lordaeron. My passion was for herbalism, the study of
plants and their effects. I spent hours roaming the fields around our town, making sketches of the
flowers and plants that I saw, and collecting samples. As I grew to a man, I desired to use my
knowledge of plants to assuage the suffering of others. Thus, after studying alchemy and healing
arts in the capital city, I returned to Darrowshire as the town physician and alchemist.
I cared for my charges to the best of my ability, delivering babies, comforting the sick and aged,
bandaging the bumps and scrapes in a small farming community. I attended the wedding of our
local militia leader, Joseph Redpath, and delivered his daughters, Jessica and Pamela. My best
friend was his brother, Carlin. Ah, now that was pleasure, Warm summer days, cool lemonade
in the shade, the grasshoppers flitting over the grassy fields, and the laughter of little
Pamela playing. Oh, but what happened to us all, that is horrible, just horrible.
Understand, our corner of the world was not important. We were not in the main stream of things,
but nevertheless, I remember when word of the plague began to reach us. Strangers and whole
families fleeing down the main road with tales of the dead walking. Joseph called a town
meeting. He said that we had to keep the refugees away, as they carried the sickness, and
that we should make preparations to hold them out by force. Thus, the militia drilled and
trained. I, as a medical man, prepared a field station and trained some of the older
folk in the town as assistants, and set up strict sanitary procedures for everyone.
Yes, and we turned the refugees away. At first, it
was just a trickle. Later, the militia had to man barricades to keep them out. I can
still see them shuffling off down the dusty road to meet their fate, their pitiful
belongings wrapped in cloth and skins. Of course, we felt bad, but we remained disease
free. We remained free of the war. We could see the clouds of dust in the distance
as armies passed and fought. I wanted to help, so I grabbed my medical kit and mounted
a horse and rode toward the dust clouds. I took a back way out of town so no one
would see me.
It was night when I got to the battlefield. The fighting was over, and the ground
was scorched and burned. Bodies of all races covered the field. Mangled undead
were there too. All the faces of the dead were like little
moons, staring back at the full disk in the sky. I walked around, hoping to find
someone alive, but they all were dead. Then, they started to stir and moan, and
I knew I was seeing the abomination first hand. I ran, not looking back.
Soon after that, the first walking corpses came to Darrowshire. Joseph had trained
the militia well. They turned them back. Then, more came, Terrible shambling creatures.
Flesh sloughing off them, or completely missing from their bones. Their rotting stench
hung over the town. The ate our dead and wounded. The fight was sharp. The militia
prevailed, but I did not think they could hold off another assault. I treated the
wounded as best I could, but their wounds did not respond to treatment. They all
died, and my assistants and I carried their bodies outside the town barricades.
They were not there in the morning.
Then, the paladins under Davil Crokford came. Our hopes rose. They were so noble
in their shining plate and devout prayers. I had treated Davil as a boy for the
normal scrapes and bruises. He was one of our own, born and raised in Darrowshire,
and we were so proud. He was our hope come to life.
But our hopes did not last. Soon thereafter,
we awoke to find the hills filled with an undead army. We tried not to think
of the familiar faces we saw there. In their midst atop a giant skeletal horse,
a terrible ghoul lord, Horgus the Ravager, in robes of shimmering black cast
his staff over the town, and the dead attacked.
Davil was the rock upon which the dead attack broke. His mace
never stopped. His armor was smeared with the blood of his comrades and the
vile green ooze of the dead. Then, Horgus himself entered the battle.
Davil moved through the fighting throng to meet him. The lich cast fel magic
and pounded Davil's shield with his staff. The paladin struck back with
both shield and mace. Over the battle din, you could hear him chanting
prayers to the light. Davil raise himself up and swung the mace overhead.
It came crashing down on the ghoul's skull, shattering it like glass.
Our host started to cheer, but stopped when Davil sunk to a knee, and then,
fell. He was brought to me. I looked into his young, beautiful, and bloodied face,
and knew I could do nothing. He died in my arms.
We still held our own, but then, I heard a terrible scream.
I now know that at that moment, Marduk the Black ripped the soul from our captain.
Next thing, I know our own militia are upon us, swarming over the paladins.
I ran to the town hall, where the old and young were sheltered. Our own men
burst in, and with empty eyes started to slaughter the innocents around me.
I saw sweet, young Pamela's throat cut, and then, I knew no more.
I have no memory from my time with the Scourge. I presume I fought with
the corrupted Redpath until he was destroyed at Gahrron's Withering.
Then, next thing I knew was that I awoke as myself in the ruins of
Andorhal. I was drawn to the ruined city of Lordaeron, and found others
like myself. I heard of my lady Sylvanas, and how she had saved us.
I pledged myself to her service and started the study of the arcane arts,
though I still have my medical, herbal, and alchemy skills.
I would become a powerful mage and turn that power against those who
had destroyed Darrowshire. I continue my training and quest to this day.
And being undead has its advantages. As a matter of fact, I rather prefer it.
I can eat and drink all that I want, and suffer no ill effects. Have you
ever seen an overweight undead? I can engage my senses to the fullest,
gorging them. Some say it is not the same when you are dead. That the
senses are dead like the rest of the body, but I remember what the croissants
and pinot noir tasted like. I can taste them. I can feel them.
So I prefer not to dwell on the past. I live in the moment. I do my best
to enjoy undeath.