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Dascombe

James Dascombe - The Navigator

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Ensign James Dascombe during training on Boralus circa 4 months prior to the second war

James Dascombe

Race: Human (Undead)

Age: 32 (at time of death) current age uncertain.

Class: Sailor (Rogue)

Allegiance: Kul'Tiras

Languages: Common

 

 

The Boy Sailor

Growing up as a boy in Boralus was tough, doubly so for living out in the slums beyond the market place. Although not officially referred to as slums (for fear of upsetting the guard) it none the less was on the basis of cess floating through the streets on the gutters practically overflowing, flies became commonplace and deaths were meager and commonplace in a time of relative peace which saw Kul'Tiras as a mighty trading port across all of the human kingdoms. Anyone who wished to make coin -ALWAYS- found themselves here selling goods and exotic spices from afar.

Admittedly at the age of ten, the young boy James Dascombe had no intention of growing up to be a sailor in the vast navy of Kul'Tiras, what was there to go to war with? The occassional floatilla of pirates or bandits who had managed to scavange a tiny trading cog outfitted with cannons presented nothing more than a gnat to be swatted by the might of the Kul'Tiran navy. At this point in time he could have ended up like many of the street urchins cutting purses on the docks of Boralus but fate would have something else in store for him.

At the age of 11, everything changed when rumors spread like wildfire of a threat that had entered the land near the kingdom of Stormwind.

Several years would pass with back-and-forth battles across the continent of Azeroth as well as the kingdom of Stormwind being burned to the ground in one such conflict, the city of Boralus became awash with refugees that disembarked at Kul'Tiras rather than make the full journey to Lordaeron. It was at this time that the lad James had grown into a slim yet fit figure of a man and had successfully passed his exams to enter the navy of Kul'Tiras as an ensign taking up the usage of a rifle and his trusty cutlass to the vast Orcish Hordes. 

 

The Second War

The second war proved to be a strong life-lesson to the young sailor who began to experience the harsh life of a man in the Kul'Tiran navy. Backbreaking laborious work on the deck for sometimes months on end whilst his vessel, the HMS Boralus, simply stayed afloat in friendly waters waiting for orders to assist overrun fleets, during this time he heard rumors of the Horde winning the fight on the waves with the assistance of large dragons they had come to enslave.

His first major conflict off the coast of Khaz'Modan consisted of chasing a single dragon believed to have been in a firefight with the Third Fleet. It wasn't until the beast was chased away by cannonfire and archers on deck that he saw them: The Wave Mistress and the Intrepid, both burning in that hellish flame of dragonfire that burned even upon the surface of the water, offering no respite to the many men who had sought to dive into the water to try and survive. Even the elven destroyer the 'Flying Ospray' was run aground, the Elven sailors with thousands of years experience were no match for the fire-breathing monsters of the sky.

Months would pass with sporadic skirmishes upon the ocean chasing down Orcish juggernaughts and Troll Waveriders that the HMS Boralus came across, the crew became weary and tired... although no word of mutiny escaped their lips, the crew began to question their seemingly everlasting presence upon the sea having not left shore for what felt like eternity.

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Rumors from passing merchant ships spoke of Daelin Proudmoore himself annihilating a Horde armada outside Zul'Dare following the Battle of Hillsbrad only to find himself cornered by the winged beasts of the Red Dragonflight once more which blew apart several of the Alliance vessels, forced to retreat the admiral then plotted retribution.

The HMS Boralus at this point found itself with a depleated crew having died of scurvy, wounds in battle or simply the pressures of the voyage drove many to irredeemable madness, the victim of one such bout of insanity was the ship's navigator whom, the captain saw fit to replace with the now-seasoned James Dascombe. Upon rendezvousing with the admiral's fleet, the newly appointed navigator begged and pleaded with the captain for them to accompany the admiral's fleet to wreak havoc upon the Horde's remaining vessels and to wipe out their drakes in retaliation for what he witnessed happen to the Third Fleet.

 

Crestfall

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The battle of Crestfall would become ingrained within the psyche of the entire Kul'Tiran nation as the moment where it's fleet truely shined.

With the help of the gryphons of the Wildhammer clan of Dwarves, the two sides of the Alliance and Horde clashed in rough sea waters where dragonrider met gryphonrider and juggernaught met frigates and battleships. Rumor has it on that day that the sea was as red as the Horde's flag, indeed a great many banners floated on the foam of the tides as did large chunks of flotsam and debris in addition to corpses galore.

Sticking alongside Admiral Proudmoore's flagship, the HMS Boralus had its entire crew recieve awards for recognition as one of the few Kul'Tiran frigates in history to successfully, by sheer chance and will alone, to take out an Orcish dragonrider. Thanks to the first mate and navigator Dascombe's efforts, the Boralus made use of the large tides to get the correct elevation on a dragonrider strafing the waves for a ship to incinerate whereupon the creature was blasted out of the air and sunk beneath the waves.

Although the Alliance came out victorious, it was considered a phyrric victory by the Admiral who lost his son to dragonfire, the final remnants of the third flee sank to the bottom of the Great Sea to meet the same fate as it's companions off the coast of Khaz'Modan.

 

A tenuous peace?

Now a decorated veteran of the famous Battle of Crestfall, James Dascombe returned to Kul'Tiras to train to properly become a naval navigator. It was during this time that he saw the aftermath of the war: scarred and maimed veterans across the streets of Boralus, horrific burns from dragonfire, limbs cut off from infectious confines of ships, malnutrition from some of the swabbies.

A sense of national pride swept over him after Crestfall, though in that tide lingered the poisonous malice of his hatred towards his enemy. He had friends upon the Third Fleet and though he could not identify their corpses in the waters off Khaz'Modan due to the mutilation he knew at least some of them would have been there, he could only imagine the pain they went through in their final moments.

Although peace of sorts came to Kul'Tiras and the other kingdoms whilst the Orcs rotted in their camps, he would awake each night in cold sweats with fevered panic. Some times it would be gasping for air from the cold depths of the ocean desperate for the warmth of a fire. Sometimes it would be a horrific burning sensation of what he imagined to be dragonfire, yearning for the release offered by the cold waters that hoped would put out the flames.

Now at thirty one years of age, he would start to create maps and navigational routes of the most popular trade routes throughout the land to assist in peacetime efforts.

 

Though eventually, as all things do, peace came to an abrupt end.

 

The Third War

The peace lasted long enough though the rumors of Orcish rebellions rose higher and higher until entire warbands were launching full scale attacks on the other internment camps throughout the Eastern Kingdoms. Fortunately though they would not come to seek vengence upon those who had imprisoned them, instead they would over the coming years steal enough vessels to make their way west seemingly off into distant foreign lands yet unheard of.

Time would seemingly pass quickly as human and Elven kingdoms in their entirety fell. Lordaeron blighted with plague, Dalaran wiped out overnight, Silvermoon annihilated, all the while Gilneas stayed behind its wall and Kul'Tiras had the fortune of having the sea as its shield. Though with the fall of Dalaran came the exodus of a great many human settlers to the west by the hand of Lady Jaina Proudmoore.

During this time the now-seasoned navigator James Dascombe embarked upon his old vessel the HMS Boralus to set forth on an expedition launched by Admiral Proudmoore himself to go rescue his daughter from the lands of the savages.

Months would pass until they made landfall in this new land, word had reached them of this sickening 'alliance' between both Lady Proudmoore and this gladiator-turned-warchief known as 'Thrall', the only action that was to be taken was to rescue the admiral's daughter from the savages who had manipulated the daughter of the admiral.

Blood, gore, and sand. That is what he remembered. Sometimes days would be spent on raiding parties attacking Orcish outposts in the deserts with sweat dripping off his brow and onto the barrel of his rifle. As a man accustomed to naval warfare he was out of his element here, fighting on -their- turf. He saw many of his kin slaughtered, their green tabards and red blood spilling out onto the dusty yellow roads of this strange and foreign land.

Eventually the enemy would gain the upper hand, no thanks to the admiral's daughter providing them with assistance, the armies of the Admiral would find themselves pulling further and further back to Theramore which they had claimed from Jaina's forces only to find themselves backed into a corner.

 

The Son of the Sea

The last thing the navigator saw with his mortal eyes was the sight of cannonfire blasting apart the blockade around Theramore, the ships were blown apart by juggernaughts constructed by a goblin shipwright across the bay. He murmered to himself, knowing full well that the Horde would have not found that shipwright without the aid of Lady Proudmoore herself, but why betray her own people who had come to save her? He glared, his brow furrowed and he screamed in absolute rage as the HMS Boralus was consumed by cannonfire and blasted to the bottom of Dustwallow bay. There the navigator's tale should have ended, consumed by rage and hatred as he fell... but he didn't... not quite...

The cannonfire had managed to blow him clear of the ship, the force alone sent him overboard with several large chunks of the hull penetrating his arms and legs, the salty sea water stung the wounds with sharp intensity as he fell weighed down by a large chunk of the mast and tangled amongst the webbing of the deck.

Time passed, he was uncertain how long, but eventually his eyes opened with a dull yellowy glow. Reaching down to his boots he unsheathed his boot knife and cut himself free of his rope-bound prison and swam up to the surface. He gathered himself up by the outskirts of Theramore and found a small cemetery, the freshly dug graves he knew clearly contained those of his comrades who died on that day whilst those in the distance, even under cover of night, could be seen atop the battlements in their white tabards bearing the gold anchor.

"White for cowardice" he croaked. His throat had grown swollen and contorted as he removed a large splinter of oak. Very little in the way of blood game out but what did was already blackened and oxygen-starved.

He glanced upon one grave which held a number of items on it in rememberance, one of which was a single silver goblet which he used in conjunction with the glow of a cemetary lantern to glance upon his own visage.

He recoiled, but not in disgust... that emotion seemed to had vanished. He simply stared in some sense of morbid curiosity... his full ginger beard had grown black and matted, he cut off most of it with his boot knife there and then as he continued to observe his skin now bloated and a faint blue colour.

He had come to one conclusion and one conclusion only... he had become cursed, cursed to roam the realm as a phantom, a spectre to avenge the deaths of his admiral and his fallen comrades.

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Over the next year he would assemble a band, for he was not the only one 'gifted' with this curse to avenge Daelin Proudmoore, many other brave Kul'Tirans died that day in Theramore and didn't quite pass on to the other side. Gathering whoever he could of this crew of the damned they eventually overtook a Theramorian frigate stationed just off the shores of Tanaris... and that is where the rumors started.

A hellish vessel bearing the colours of Kul'Tiras upon its sails, opening fire upon both Horde and Theramore vessels alike with little to no regard if they were armed or simply traders and merchants, the sea ran red on a particuarly vicious few months as despite their efforts both the Horde and Theramore never managed to catch the phantom vessel and it's undead crew.

 

 

Strange New Lands

Washing up on the shores of Opej he drew his twin blades hanging off his belt and made his way into the jungle. Blending in with his green Kul'Tiran navigator's attire he observed and watched from the distance.

This new land was strange and as foreign to him as Kalimdor first was, all he had upon his person was a bag carrying a pair of bandages and two blood stained tabards: one of an Orcish grunt and another of a Theramore soldier.

He looked into the distace of the shores of Opej and came across a large encampment built upon a sand dune... and there he spotted it. The golden anchor upon green.

But knowing his gruesome visage he sat... waiting...

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Biding his time.

 

 

Traits

Strategist.png Navigator - Able to read the sea like an open book, capable of sailing a vessel with expertise when given the full compliment of crew

Scarred.png Undead - Not amongst the land of the living, yet in a fairly -good- state of preservation compared to others.

Wroth.png Vengeful - Has a seething hatred towards both the Horde and humans of Theramore

Defensive_leader.png True Proudmoore - Regardless of any other differences, gets on -VERY- well with those known to be Daelin Proudmoore loyalists

Cynical.png Sneaky - Raiding ships under cover of night following the third war and no longer requiring to breathe has given him experience in stealth attacks, especially on vessels

 

 

Appearance

Although technically undead, James Dascombe is in a surprisingly good state of preservation.

His injuries consist of a major gash at his throat which has seen some crude attempt at being sewn up, this is the reason for his croaked and sometimes slurred speech.

Other injuries consist of multiple smaller gashes along the arms and legs from what look like large splinters of wood, all of which have been removed and have varying states of medical attention having been applied to them (some of a poor quality, some of a better almost masterwork quality)

All over his body (or rather that which is not covered by clothing) shows signs of bloating and frequent exposure to anerobic conditions which causes the flesh to bloat and swell slightly, his hair has long since lost it's once-ginger hue and turned a muddy brown colour bordering on slightly black... there are telltale signs that he once had a beard from the odd hair upon his chin.

His build is short and quite squat for a human, years of leaning over a table drawing on navigational charts has given him a rather hunched posture.

In terms of clothing he wears what would once have been the very clear uniform of a navigator in the Kul'Tiran navy however this has long since deteriorated away into nothing more than rags.

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