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Name: Gratha Race: Orc Age: 28 Class: Shaman Affiliation: Dragonmaw Clan, Grom'goshar Although stunted in stature, Gratha possesses the semblance of a capable fighter with sturdy shoulders and a vigorous posture. Her thick black mane is decorated with a plethora of minuscule braids, and various clan-related trinkets. A pair of glowing amber eyes bring warmth to her grey features, that most often bear marks of battle in various forms. An outlandish tempest filled the air with unbearable pressure in the Twilight Highlands. A lone Shaman scaled down the mountains with what seemed like crawling pace, eyes directed to the slithering path ahead. The havoc that was slowing her down was wrought by those loyal to the Old Gods, and were now tearing land and skies apart. Howling of the wind and the unspoken threats of the blackened forest below deafened the Dragonmaw from everything else. It was the mistake she made, trusting to her hearing over other senses, and in a heartbeat she was off the cliff, followed by a trail of flames by her winged challenger. * I was falling, falling from a great height. Nothing would stop me and there was roaring black air all around me as I was plunging through it. I heard myself call out for the elements, a desperate shriek in the thick of the living storm. I woke with a violent lurch and laid winded against a cluster of rocks, torn fabric and sand was caught to my rough features. I had no memory of what happened. I scrabbled in my brain, but it was blank - an empty cavern, no echoes. Nothing. I tried to think of the last day I clearly remembered, but it was like looking into an impenetrable mist, with indistinct shapes looming. I possess the ability to call the elements to my aid, but as I laid here, I could feel nothing familiar surrounding me. Perhaps I had wronged the elements, demanded their aid to bring me here alive. The seawater was burning at my damaged body, prompting me to stop reminiscing and to focus on my survival, and to soothe the agitated elements. * Stranded, the scrawny Shaman began to make her way further away from the shore. Having never communicated with an ally other than a Dragonmaw, she had no faith in finding anything but hostility from where she now was. With that belligerent mindset, she ventured on. OOC: If anyone has found errors, please tell, my english is not the most fluent. Other feedback is also most welcome.

Gruk Charrbone Race: Orc Age: 76 (Venerable) Class: Pyremaster (Shaman) Alleigance: The Horde / Independent Languages: Orcish (Fluent), Ignan Kalimag (Fluent), Other dialects of Kalimag (adequate), Common (close to Fluent) A Land Called Home Charrbone was one of those Orcs that chose neither the path of the warrior and not nessecarrily that of the mystic. The clan he was part of, a minor one faded into obscurity and all but deceased, was one which made up the larger shadowmoon clan in Shadowmoon Valley on Draenor, one known for its shaman and mystics. Although he studied the mystic arts he was not destined to work with all four of the elements that made up the natural world, he was destined to become attuned to the elemental forces of fire as a Pyremaster. The pyremaster undertook a rather unique yet important role in Orcish society... whilst many would choose their own way of entering their afterlife, many would opt for the act of cremation so that the spirit free of flesh can conquer the elements in the next life, the pyremaster facilitated that transformation from corpse into spirit through a complex series of rituals which became less a formality over the years and became far more communal, a ceremony where the relatives of the deceased and their entire clan would drink, dance and sing songs of their deeds of valor and their accomplishments. Although an adult and a wise pyremaster by the time of the blood curse, his vision and clarity was not enough to prevent him from falling to the same affliction that befell the rest of the Orcish clans who, in their bloodfeud, put the Draenei race to the sword. During this time his skill with the flame were used to incinerate entire Draenei villages and settlements, sometimes even using his abilities for gruesome executions where Draenei vindicators were held in cages in arenas only to be set ablaze with blazegrease. Years of this would continue, a sensation not unlike being trapped inside one's own body, his actions not his own and that of the fel coarsing through his veins. Orcs vs Humans Following the decimation of the Draenei population of Draenor, the Orcs turned their gaze to new worlds to conquer in the name of their demonic masters who had enslaved them. Gruk followed some of the later clans through the portal to learn the ways of this new world they sought to invade and despite the years of push-and-pull conflict they would find themselves bound in iron servitude and enslavement to their new human masters, trading the fel-blood for the pinkskin. Age had begun to unleash it's own curse on the now aging Charrbone who began to wrinkle and slow as the passage of time battered him physically. During the internment period, a great many of the Orcish population withered away with many perishing and even more losing their identity and becoming shattered husks of the proud race once called 'Orcs'. It was in one of these internment camps that Gruk found himself becoming what was the equivalent of a human chaplin, he would tend not just the physical wounds of the Orcs but their spiritual ones, speaking great stories of their kind and of great hunts in Draenor and of their great shamanic heritage. After the uprisings in the camps, which resulted in the Orcs gaining their freedom, Gruk made his way across the sea to the land of Kalimdor seeing himself less a part of this newly formed 'Horde' and simply one who tends to the spiritual needs of the Orcish people. Upon their arrival in Durotar he became something of a hermit, he did not follow the Horde in the vision of its new warchief Thrall but instead chose the life of a recluse in the mountains in order to better come to understand his connection with the elements that he lost whilst under the demonic blood haze. As he lived in the mountains of Durotar he dispensed wisdom to the next generation of shamans as they sought to acquire the blessings of the elementals of flame. The Burning Crusade When the call to Outland was announced, Gruk packed up his meager belongings and set out on the long and ardeous road to the Dark Portal along with young and fresh faced heroes of the Horde. Deep down he knew what he was going to find on the other side of that portal but the horror wasn't lessened by the stories he had heard. Making his way to Shadowmoon Valley with the armies of the Horde he eventually came across the shattered remnants of his tribe's old settlement, only the faintest remains still marred the area with telltale signs of old tent positionings and family groupings from the position of carved stones, the tents having long since rotted or burned away even this close to where the coast once was and now only fragments of the valley's rocky floor broke off and floated into the nether where the sea should have been. Close to the centre of the settlement he spotted old Kalimag markings on the floor and despite his age he managed to dig down finding a cache of ceramic flasks nestled in an old wicker basket. Recognizing it immediately as the fabled concoction known as 'Blazegrease' which is tribe brewed for the blademasters of the Burning Blade clan, he proceeded to make headway back to Kalimdor upon realizing that all that remained in Outland were sad memories and thoughts of shame from the blood curse. Upon returning to Kalimdor, he left his life of being a hermit behind and became a close advisor to one of the Warsong Clan's riders, an Orc by the name of Dragor Bloodfury. During this time he managed to recreate the recipie for Blazegrease and from this a new generation of blademasters was formed under the banner of the Warsong! Little is written of the Gruk and Dragor's ventures, all that is known to others it that the two spent the year taking the fight to the Horde's enemies in Ashenvale and protecting the Warsong Clan's interests in the land of Kalimdor. Though despite the war banners from Outland being stowed away in this tenuous peace, they were summoned forth once more. Stranded It has been a year since Gruk set sail for Northrend. Unlike his comrades who set sail upon the larger juggernaughts and Orcish warships, Gruk simply sought passage upon a small merchant vessel with barely any crew upon it for the sake of contemplation and peace so that he may meditate for the fight to come. Though little did he know it he would never make it to Northrend, for across the great sea a horrific storm came from seemingly nowhere and threw the ship around as though it were a toy. The superstitious crew thought it the wrath of Neptulon himself visited upon them in the form of a monstrous kraken, Gruk however thought better and came to the realization that his strong affinity with the elements of the flame probably did not bode well with those of the Abyssal Maw and the lieutenants of the Duke Hydraxis. The last thing he remembered was taking one final gasp of air as the split wreckage of the ship sunk beneath the waves, blackness filled his mind until he woke up upon a sandy shore, a rather irate beach crawler prodding him curiously with its claw before scuttering off sideways when realizing Gruk was awake. Dusting the sand off his tattered robes he made his way inland on this jungle-covered island. Despite (or perhaps because of) his age he did everything in his power to survive against the wind, rain and tormenting heat of this new environment, fashioning a crude shelter and living off what animals didn't manage to outrun his feeble frame. On several occassions he even fashioned himself a raft or a crude vessel and attempted to leave the isles in the hopes of making his way back to Kalimdor or finding some rest in death on the ocean waves... but each time he found himself sailing towards the islands rather than away from them... all manner of incantations seemed hopeless in aiding his escape from this prison without walls. For a whole year he would find himself secluded in the most isolated and hidden parts of the jungle, keeping himself far away from unwanted guests and returning to his long-forgotten life as a hermit, all the while meditating and worryingly finding himself severed from the elements, unable to hear their calls... that is until one day he woke to find his head filled with shrieks and screams in what was quite audibly Kalimag... they came from all around him in the campfire, the pond by his camp, the air around him and the earth beneath him. Something very bad had upset the elementals in this world, so much so that it was noticible even in this land seemingly magically severed from the rest of the world. But that wasn't the least of his problems. Over the next several days he would notice a great many new survivors washing up on the beaches, appearing in freak portal accidents and all manner of strange happenings. Something very strange is going on... and Gruk reckons the elements may provide the answers. Appearance Age is the first thing that comes to mind when this Orc is spotted, he has a large amount of wrinkles and sags around his face suggesting an age many may not have ever seen in an Orc before considering their warrior-orientated culture. When the body looks aged, his clothes look doubly so. It is suggested that when he washed up on the isle his original robes of his position as a Pyremaster were lost to the waves and so he wears tattered rags and weaves from wherever he can find them making him look like a vagabond and an outcast. When visible his arms appear to have various markings on them, some as permanant tattoos and others as temporary markings, all of them have the same thing in common in that they are all a form of Kalimag writing.

Hemrick O. Alistus Gentleman, Wizard, Chirurgeon, Visionary 'He who makes a monster of himself removes himself from the pain of being human.' ~Doctor Samuel Johnson The Early Years. I began my path in life with the same vigour and curiosity that I have ever since cultivated. As a young boy at Sir Wesley's Boarding School for Young Gentlemen I quickly took a keen interest to the scientific and arcane arts, much to the detriment of my future there. I was studious and disciplined yet I often found myself in trouble both with my peers and our teachers. My projects, ambitious and revolutionary (albeit I freely admit now, quite immature and naive) lacked the martial applications sought by our mentors. In fact to my chagrin and later sorrow once my Father found out, they were horrified at my attempt to gift a rodent the power of flight. My kitchen privileges were rescinded and my ad-hoc laboratory demolished. Despite this early setback I was undeterred and decided to pursue my visions in secret. I laboured at night in the library, studying charts and books the content of which would only serve to perplex you, dear reader. But it is safe to say that I gave myself a thorough education despite the best efforts of my tutors. My graduation gave me the freedom to seek out the tutors I should have been granted, I found myself in the esteemed company of the masters of the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences. My father grudgingly, mostly at the behest of my dear mother, provided funds for my entry into the Wizard’s Guild and a premium membership at the academy library making available to me stores of knowledge no common man have ever laid eyes on. I gorged myself on what the old tomes and scripts offered and jealously guarded them from the predations of careless apprentices and old fools with little tact or propriety. My measures were often criticised by the librarians and they threatened time and again to remove my membership, it astounds me to this day that these supposed guardians of knowledge would allow an apprentice of no bearing or heritage to simply waltz in and leave with any book they wished tucked under their uncultured arms. While the Academy provided me with my first opportunity to pursue the great project I had set before me I soon received an invitation I could not refuse. The esteemed Sorcerer's League of Dalaran offered me a position within their ranks that allowed me to study under some of the most prestigious masters of our time. My mother told me, beaming with pride, that had my father still lived he, despite his reservations regarding the arcane and what he deemed similar silly nonsense, he would have approved of my advancement within the academic world. Of course, it was a few years after my arrival in Dalaran that my work truly began. Only after the wars, the plagues and the horrors of reconciling my position as a supposed ally of brutes and savages with the incredible breakthrough achieved by my greatest enemy and rival. My memoirs will detail the trials and tribulations of those times and how I came to be the giant of progress that I am today. And how I escaped these light-forsaken islands and returned to civilisation. Personality. Aristocratically Arrogant. Presumptuously Punctilious. Contemptuously Pretentious. Unscrupulously Inquisitive. Physical characteristics Nose. Hemrick’s facial features is dominated by the Aquiline peak at the centre, a beautiful, sculpted nose hinting at the intelligence, firm moral fibre and enlightenment of the wearer. He molded it himself, melting what remained of his cash to create the silver prosthetic that plugged the hole gnawed open by some rodent or ghoul during his short stint as a dead man. Hemrick has a habit of wiping his nose off with his handkerchief, making sure to polish it regularly. Left Foot. Born with a debilitating handicap, Hemrick struggled with a club foot for years. In recent times however he has taken it upon himself to improve on his situation. Currently he wears a gentleman scholar he met and shot dead in Silverpine, the purple-robed man provided all the materials needed for a very handsome new foot. Looking oddly fresh, compared to the flabby, grey flesh covering the rest of Hemrick the piece does not seem to be preserved by the necrotic energies within him meaning it is only a matter of time until it needs to be replaced. Belongings. Chirurgeon’s Kit A thick leather case which when unfolded reveals a set of scalpels, a small saw, an assortment of glass vials meticulously labelled, needles and thread, what looks like a hand-operated drill and a sinister, falciform knife with black handle and silvery blade. Haversack. A shoulder slung satchel which holds most of Hemrick’s belongings, within four books take up most space; ‘The Mysteries of the Worm’, ‘The Laws of Decay’, ‘Anatomical Illustrations’ and an untitled tome tightly bound with a leather strap. Besides the books there a writing implements, dice and cards, two boxes of ammunition shells, a compass, a scroll case, a sextant and astrolabe, a small spyglass, a thurible packed tightly with a pouch of herbs, a small case of cigars finely emblazoned with what looks like the silhouette of a Tauren and amazingly it seems like there's room enough for more. Magelock Pistol. An atypical pistol with mesmerising runes engraved both on the wooden handle and on the silvery barrel. Rather than a revolving magazine or being breech loaded the pistol sports a short spring-loaded belt which feeds ammunition into the barrel on the side of the gun. It is designed to fire specialised rounds and propels them through a small crystal which is activated when the trigger is pulled. Hemrick generally carries the pistol hidden within his coat but he is quick to draw it if danger present itself. Two cases of nine rounds each, each bullet being hollow and filled with murky, liquefied shadow which is released on impact and immediately infuse the target. Excellent way to quickly dispose of a threat. The rounds are quite hard to produce but can customised to contain a variety of chemicals or arcana-charged liquids or crystals.