Name: Darren Frostwhisper
Languages: Common, Dwarven, Gnomish
Faction: The Kirin Tor, the Alliance (partially, generally accompanies Alliance mercenaries and the like)
Personality: Darren normally is a positive person, who is a quick thinker. He is shy, although when engaged in a conversation can have a lot to say. Though he is young and still a bit immature, he is very wise and a powerful mage. He always thinks before he acts and speaks, and is not one to leave a question unanswered. If he wants answers, he'll get them - no matter what it takes.
Likes: Mind games, activities that challenge is mentality, puzzles, studying, dwarven lore and archeology.
Dislikes: Things that have to do with unnatural and abusive uses of magic (ect. necromancy, demons, so on, so on) and he holds a powerful hatred towards the Horde
Appearance: Darren stands around 6.4", with short, wavy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and soft features (sort of unusual). He is always wearing bright silver and purple Dalaran battle-mage garb, and if he is travelling in colder weather, prefers thick wool-lined leather gloves, a heavy woollen cloak that has a hood lined with fur. He wears a plain sword, and is well trained with it. His physical build is lanky, though he has quite a bit of muscle.
Strengths/Weaknesses: Darren's strengths are obviously in his spell-casting areas; he is a powerful mage, and has spent almost seven years in Dalaran, honing his spell-casting abilities. His preferred and most powerful school of magic is frost, though he is equally adept at arcane and fire as well. Unlike most magi, however, he wears a sword and in his seven years in Dalaran, has also learned to fight extremely well with it as well, giving him a boost in a fight if it comes down to physical melee.
His weaknesses are in that he normally enjoys showing off his abilities, meaning he will cast more powerful spells early on, leaving him tired and exhausted in a short period of time. Though these spells are destructive and usually mean dire consequences for his enemies, if they survive - which they sometimes do - he is left shaky and hard-pressed to hold out for longer. He also has little experience in wards or shields, but can create effective armours when they are required. Finally, in the heat of battle, he often times forgets to check for enemy spell-casters, so to know if his enemies are being shielded against his own spells or not.
Darren was born about eighteen years after the opening of the Dark Portal. The first seven years of his childhood were droll and silent; being born to the family of a farmer, his wife and their eldest son, a boy of six at the time of Darren's birth, there was little excitement - little to do, but persevere and farm, and make a living off of their produce. Paying little attention to the outside world, Darren, though he resented it and yearned for a greater living, committed himself to working alongside his family as feverishly as they did. Their farm was a little ways off from Stratholme, in remote seclusion and watched over by the tall mountains that bordered the human lands from elvish ones.
One day, word had reached Stratholme of an undead plague that had begun to spread throughout Lordaeron. Curious, Darren went out exploring with his older brother whom, by then, was fourteen years of age, and had been training with his father to become a soldier of Lordaeron. They went quite far from their farm, against the word of the boys' father, and explored the quiet forests of their homeland . . . but that day, Darren felt a strong, almost dark shadow hanging over the world.
With only one horse, the boys rode together. Eventuall they reached a road that would have taken them to Capital City. As realization dawned on the boys at how far they had truly gone, they rode hard in the direction of their home. Soon, the thick, clogging scent of smoke reached their nostrils, and the boys doubled their pace, afraid of what they might find. Their fears spoke true: as they reached their farm, the blaze that had consumed it and their family still roared fiercely. The cattle, the farm animals, their parents . . . all had been eaten by the raging inferno.
Enraged and grief-stricken, Darren's brother, Jonathan, dismounted and swiftly drew his sword - a gift from their father that he carried with him at all times - and charged ahead, leaving Darren alone. Impulsive and unwilling to allow his brother to run off, Darren quickly followed on foot. As he lost himself in the smoke, Darren was ambushed by a huge, insidious creature, whose skin was green, his eyes glowed crimson, and he sported numerous piercings. Darren immediately recognized such a beast from his studies before; an orc, one of many of a race of beings that came from another world named Draenor. They had built the Dark Portal, and they had invaded Azeroth - with the help of the Magus Medivh, of course - and had started a war against Azeroth's great races. King Teranas Menethil and his neighbouring kings had formed the Alliance to lead a campaign against the orcish Horde, and had succeeded in staying their dark hand from enveloping their world. However, it was not unknown that there were pockets of renegade orcs - whether they served the Horde or not, it was unseen - that roamed the land, terrorizing and pillaging as they saw fit until stopped.
Darren, of course, had not trained in swordsmanship like his brother had. He had taken more to the studying of the hundreds of books his mother had collected and stashed away inside their farm - books that now, alongside the rest of the lot of land, burned brightly, and ferociously. From those books, and from his mother, who had been a novice spellcaster in her younger years, Darren had learned the basics of using magic, however his abilities were extremely limited. Knowing this, and knowing the fact that his tall, lanky form would stand little chance against the orc, his only choice was to flee.
He turned and, taking a deep breath, sprung, heading back towards the direction he thought to find his horse. As soon as he'd began to run, he heard the orc curse behind him and pursue. The monster's heavy footfalls reached his ears even through the thundering beat of his heart, and the blood pounding in his ears. He was swift to become breathless yet did not stop, knowing that if he did so, he would die. He ran and ran, but he was unsucessful in escaping the thick smoke. He finally collapsed, exhausted and delving into fits of coughing due to the smoke he'd inhaled. Behind him he heard the orc slow, then heard a deep chuckle.
"You put up a good chase, human," the orc said, approaching from behind. Darren struggled to rise, but only managed to get to one knee before the orc's hand lashed out, wrapping itself around his throat. Struggling to breath, fingers clawing at the thick green fist, Darren was helplessly lifted aloft as the orc shoved his disgusting face within inches of Darren's.
"Oh, no. Not so fast." The orc tightened his grip. How he knew to communicate in Common, Darren did not know. He fought vainly, desperate to free himself. Stars began to dance before his eyes as the edges of his vision started to go dark. His pounding heart shook him, and the orc grinned fiercely. Darren lifted his dim gaze, looking past the orc's hideous features, and saw the shadow of a tall, powerful figure approach.
Am I dreaming? he thought as he watched the figure draw a weapon - a gleaming sword that seemed to penetrate the thick haze of smoke. The sound of steel scraping against leather drew the orc's attention, and the monster released Darren. He hit the ground, fighting for breath as he heard the orc loose a battlecry, ripping a waraxe from his belt. The figure cried out as well, and Darren instantly recognized the figure's voice even as he struggled to draw a breath: Jonathan.
Darren blinked furiously as his vision slowly returned. The air was still smoky, but he could breathe again, which was something. He raised his eyes just as Jonathan dealt a crippling blow to the orc, severing an artery in his thigh. The orc roared in fury and pain and, even as blood spurted from the wound, swung his axe at an impossible angle, catching Darren's brother in the chest. He saw a spray of blood as Jonathan collapsed backward, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. Darren futilely cried out in sorrow and, with a sudden rush of adrenaline, surged to his feet, half-walking half-running towards the injured orc. He knew his brother was dead; of that there was no doubt. The orc fought to stay on his feet, Jonathan's blood smeared on his face and axe blade. Jonathan's sword lied just out of the orc's reach, and Darren retrieved it as he walked. The orc looked up from his wound and his eyes went wide. With trembling arms Darren lifted the sword; it's blade glinting as sunlight broke through the cloud of smoke and ash. The orc looked shocked for a moment, then resignition took over as he gripped his axe tightly even as his face turned a shade paler due to blood loss.
"Your kind shall be wiped from these lands, orc," Darren spoke, proud his voice did not tremble as his arms did. He brought the blade down, and its keen edge cut through flesh, muscle and bone, severing the orc's head from his body. It thumped and rolled, coming to a stop just at the edge of the circle of light that rained down upon Darren. Suddenly fatigued, Darren let the sword go, and it hit the dirt and grass silently.
Thus began Darren Frostwhisper's life anew. He had waited just a way's away from his burned farm, resting. He was cautious, though, and throughout the night he kept Jonathan's sword beside him. It was a night of great sorrow for the young man; thoughts of his family, their remains and true methods of death still a myster to him, tormented his mind. Thoughts of watching his own brother be cut down by the orc that nearly succeeded in killing him as well. Only when dawn neared did Darren sleep... but only for a little while.
When he awoke, he was more resigned and calm than before. Sadness still threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced it down, bringing forth a new emotion, one he'd never dealt with before - pure hatred. Pure Hatred for the orcish Horde that dared to invade a world that was not their own. Pure hatred for the monstrous beings that found satisfaction and glee in slaughtering inoocent people.
At only eight years of age, about to turn nine, Darren had killed his first orc. The thought teasted him on and off, almost as if it were baiting him into... something. What that was, Darren did not know. His mind still reeled from the fact that he had no home, no family and no where to go. Still unsure of what path he was to take, Darren, throughout the following morning, searched the remains of his farm - the fire had burned out overnight, leaving mostly ashes and the charred remains of his own family - as he steeled himself, finding few valuables. He did, however, rescue a sack jingling with coins as well as his father's old travelling cloak and his brother's sword, with which he'd slain the orc. Quite tall for his age by this point, Darren had no troubles fitting the cloak and the sword, of which the tip just barely touched his shin.
((Still going!)) - 10/01/2013 - 7:42PM