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Dascombe

Hobo - The Hobo

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Hobo

Race: Goblin

Ag---

 

Woah woah hold up bud, what are you doing?

 

No no no, stop that stupid 'format' nonsense, you want a biography? Sit down and let Hobo here tell ya the story!

 

Alright... so a long long time ago way back when... 'war of the ancients'? No too far back you moron, lets go back to just when this 'Burning Crusade' thing happened... I already said -NO- to the 'war of the ancients'... oh for pity's sake: When the portal re-opened, got it? Back when if you were a Goblin like me you had a few options: strike it lucky and get rich as a trade baron, create some marvellous feat of engineering, or end up slaving away in the Kajamite mines along with the Trolls.

 

Or you could win it big in the arenas!

 

Guess which one ol' Hobo went with? Oh I was glorious, cutting down droves of my enemies, two versus two, three versus three, or even the lucrative five-versus-five arena matches! Arena fights were brill as you fought not just humans but Orcs too! Completely impartial as long as you cut down -everyone-! Of course this was back in the ways when being a warrior was good money, you waded in with strength galore and armour capable of granting you critical strikes that ended up with some beautiful decapitations across the arena floor. Years of doing meager quests for strangers paid off as I became stronger and stronger over the years!

 

Yes yes, i'm getting to that bit, hold on

 

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I'm what you call 'old school', whilst all these chumps were off and about killing whatever big bad evil guy there was to be killed I was off slaughtering their buddies across the land, I was doing these 'arena' things before they were known as 'arenas'! Little hot spots from the Crossroads in Kalimdor to Tarren Mill in the Eastern Kingdoms, i'd be there in the middle killing anything that so much as had a heartbeat (or not in the case of the Forsaken, who am I to judge?)

 

All that began to chance when this 'cataclysm' thing occurred. You see I was one of the ones on Kezan when some big black scaley thing flew overhead and blew up Mount Kajaro... I was in the middle of an arena fight as well for one of the big bosses on the isle! Well as pyroclastic flows blew past, me and my combatant continued fighting even as the magma surged down... it was at this point I sorta realized that if I didn't run now I wouldn't be able to fight anymore on account of being a mushy pile of hollowed out ash, that sort of this -really- puts a crimp on your PVP career.

 

So I ran, got on the boat where I had to hand over all my arena prize money, problem is though that the boat got caught up in between some crossfire between Alliance and Horde ships, I got blown away from the blast and thought i'd drowned like many other of the refugees. Well that's where you're wrong buddy! But by the time I woke up and found out what was really going on I kinda wish I had died in that cannon blast:

 

I ended up washed on the shore with -all- of my arena armour stripped off me... fortunately whoever robbed me had been courteous to leave me with two rather crude bandages and a pair of shorts to my name... but something about this island was strange, where once I could have ran up and down this entire beach on this jungle-island slaughtering everything for miles without so much as a scratch to my physical health, it now took me almost fifteen minutes to kill a crab which had managed to put me in a medically critical state. Somehow I had magically lost -all- knowledge of my fighting technique which had made me world-famous and worst of all: No-one knew who the hell I was!

 

'Hobo' is what the other refugees called me, on account of my constantly begging for cash to feed myself. I hadn't grown up with the knowledge on how to hunt: all I did was kill people and I got paid to do it in an entertaining way in a small arena, -that- is what kept  me fed and clothed!

 

Some of the more talkative locals who don't just stand there and stare into space simply answered my questions with 'Doldrums'... I mean what kind of response is that? I magically find i'm suffering from some sort of severe muscular atrophy where I can -just- muster the strength to fight off a seagull when before I was annihilating heroes who had fought the Lich King himself and all they can say is 'Its the Doldrums'?

I may not be a wizard but there is no way that an entire chain of islands can project some sort of weird magical mumbo jumbo to suddenly make me, an all-time arena champion into a measly whelp who would likely die to a fresh adventurer out from Northshire Abbey... if that were the case why weren't mages using this magic on me in the arenas?

 

Whatever, fact of the matter is i'm down on my luck, down on cash, down on any manner of strength or fighting capacity and more or less nearly naked.

 

But ol' Hobo here has a plan... and as soon as I find who nicked my vengeful gladiator armour i'm going to rest their legs over a pier whilst lying face down and proceed to drop the largest boulder I can find on their calves.

 

 

Appearan---

Woah woah, stop right there. 'Drop dead gorgeous', 'charming', 'chin chiseled from granite', that's all you need to put in here.

 

...

 

Not foolin' you am I? Oh who am I kidding. Since landing on this crappy island i've become some sort of measly pen-pusher losing any muscle definition I had previously... not only that but there was some strange bout of disease not too long ago in Egtown which meant I look thinner than an Elven women looking to get on the cover of 'Rogue' magazine.

The tattoos? Something back from my days fist-fighting in gangs on the mean streets of Kezan, kept ahold of them because well... tattos are hard to get rid of right? It's not like they just fit in an equipment slot like armour...

 

Fair bit of face fuzz, cuts and bruises here and there... what do you expect from a refugee?

 

Oh and my arm has recently been cut off  by an Orc claiming to he the physical manifestation of war itself... small things like that get overlooked.

 

 

 

Edited by Dascombe
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