09-17-2006, 11:32 AM
For the Glory of Our Lady in Darkness, Fr. Hecaton Chires
Father Hecaton Chires, Ordained Priest of The Dark Lady Sylvanus Windrunner, Foremost Among Equals of the Forsaken Undead. Honored as Scout for service as Chaplain to the Forces of the Horde in the Battles of Arathi Basin and Warsong Gulch.
At the time of this notation, bearer of the 46th Tier of Growth in the Seminary of Our Lady in Darkness, well-versed in the Art of the Reparation of Flesh, foremost in the Divination of the Potence of Shadow to the exclusion of any other specialization for the time being.
The Priest was reborn of the ravages of the Plague of Azeroth into the fold of the Forsaken Undead after being stolen from a life of service to the Light under the name "Centus MacManus." Shortly following his second birth he took it upon himself as a personal responsibility to desecrate his flesh in order to eliminate any visible traces of his breathing days- specifically, he tore his mandible off and burned his eyes out. His self-imposed mutilations have not prevented him from serving the cause of The Dark Lady in the least: He sees through subtle and insidious command of the minds of those around him, and quite possibly through the manifold eyes of the shadows themselves. His destroyed face serves to inspire terror in those who look upon it.
The fanaticism of the Priest is often unsettling in those who don't understand it. He regards the lesser races of the Horde as allies of necessity only, but has no problem recognizing their power and achievements in full (even when others of the Forsaken Undead do not). He regards non-Forsaken by their usefulness at the present moment and the mid-to-long run. His brutal honesty in that regard affords him a funny sort of honor that have endeared him to some of the more hardened among the Orcs and Tauren.
The Priest does not travel consistently with a single coterie of others, and has thusly developed skills that fit a self-reliant life. Tailoring his own apparel has become a meditative action, and he has become very talented at, almost in spite of himself. Nearly his entire wardrobe was created by his own hands. Food is irrelevant, but bandages are easily spun from the excess material that is no longer useful.
The Priest was, at one point, third of the triumvirate of leaders of the Order of the Acolytes of Hatefire until an accident knocked him into torpor for a very long period of time, slowly diminishing his power. His ties with the Order have been severed since then.
He began watching the Tribe of Ironsong as an idle curiosity after a chance meeting with the Troll Priestess Shillatae at a border outpost of the Plaguelands. He was given an offer to join at that point, but declined due to the existing arrangement with the Order of the Acolytes of Hatefire. With the Order seemingly spread to the wind he has spent the days after his awakening hunting down members wearing the Priestess' colors in order to broker an audience with her and take up the offer. The dead forget nothing.
A tragic limitation the Priest faces is a somewhat shaky grasp of Orcish. Often he finds himself using incorrect words or phrases that either come across as needlessly threatening or simply incomprehensible. For delicate matters of diplomacy he is not above using a more competent translator to relay what he says in Gutterspeak into the common tongue for the Horde.
The fulfillment of the Dark Lady Sylvanus' plan to unleash the new plague on the world is prime in the Priest's heart, and he makes sure all of the members of his flock display the proper amount of enthusiasm. He simply does not see a new plague as an act of destruction or evil: But rather, as a purifying agent for a world sorely in need of order. If his allies are truly as strong as they profess to be, they will rise to join him in the collective strength of undeath. The weak will be culled.
We've been given this grand and beautiful tool for good and earnest roleplay, and frankly, seeing it culminate even on the smallest level is fulfilling enough to make all the sifting through the disrespectful apostate magically worth it.
The voice of the people is the voice of the divine, and the people have spoken. Who am I to argue? The World of Warcraft has needed a guild like this one for a long time, and I would be very grateful for the chance to be a part of it.
Father Hecaton Chires, Ordained Priest of The Dark Lady Sylvanus Windrunner, Foremost Among Equals of the Forsaken Undead. Honored as Scout for service as Chaplain to the Forces of the Horde in the Battles of Arathi Basin and Warsong Gulch.
At the time of this notation, bearer of the 46th Tier of Growth in the Seminary of Our Lady in Darkness, well-versed in the Art of the Reparation of Flesh, foremost in the Divination of the Potence of Shadow to the exclusion of any other specialization for the time being.
The Priest was reborn of the ravages of the Plague of Azeroth into the fold of the Forsaken Undead after being stolen from a life of service to the Light under the name "Centus MacManus." Shortly following his second birth he took it upon himself as a personal responsibility to desecrate his flesh in order to eliminate any visible traces of his breathing days- specifically, he tore his mandible off and burned his eyes out. His self-imposed mutilations have not prevented him from serving the cause of The Dark Lady in the least: He sees through subtle and insidious command of the minds of those around him, and quite possibly through the manifold eyes of the shadows themselves. His destroyed face serves to inspire terror in those who look upon it.
The fanaticism of the Priest is often unsettling in those who don't understand it. He regards the lesser races of the Horde as allies of necessity only, but has no problem recognizing their power and achievements in full (even when others of the Forsaken Undead do not). He regards non-Forsaken by their usefulness at the present moment and the mid-to-long run. His brutal honesty in that regard affords him a funny sort of honor that have endeared him to some of the more hardened among the Orcs and Tauren.
The Priest does not travel consistently with a single coterie of others, and has thusly developed skills that fit a self-reliant life. Tailoring his own apparel has become a meditative action, and he has become very talented at, almost in spite of himself. Nearly his entire wardrobe was created by his own hands. Food is irrelevant, but bandages are easily spun from the excess material that is no longer useful.
The Priest was, at one point, third of the triumvirate of leaders of the Order of the Acolytes of Hatefire until an accident knocked him into torpor for a very long period of time, slowly diminishing his power. His ties with the Order have been severed since then.
He began watching the Tribe of Ironsong as an idle curiosity after a chance meeting with the Troll Priestess Shillatae at a border outpost of the Plaguelands. He was given an offer to join at that point, but declined due to the existing arrangement with the Order of the Acolytes of Hatefire. With the Order seemingly spread to the wind he has spent the days after his awakening hunting down members wearing the Priestess' colors in order to broker an audience with her and take up the offer. The dead forget nothing.
A tragic limitation the Priest faces is a somewhat shaky grasp of Orcish. Often he finds himself using incorrect words or phrases that either come across as needlessly threatening or simply incomprehensible. For delicate matters of diplomacy he is not above using a more competent translator to relay what he says in Gutterspeak into the common tongue for the Horde.
The fulfillment of the Dark Lady Sylvanus' plan to unleash the new plague on the world is prime in the Priest's heart, and he makes sure all of the members of his flock display the proper amount of enthusiasm. He simply does not see a new plague as an act of destruction or evil: But rather, as a purifying agent for a world sorely in need of order. If his allies are truly as strong as they profess to be, they will rise to join him in the collective strength of undeath. The weak will be culled.
We've been given this grand and beautiful tool for good and earnest roleplay, and frankly, seeing it culminate even on the smallest level is fulfilling enough to make all the sifting through the disrespectful apostate magically worth it.
The voice of the people is the voice of the divine, and the people have spoken. Who am I to argue? The World of Warcraft has needed a guild like this one for a long time, and I would be very grateful for the chance to be a part of it.