Avon

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Information

  • Player: Mezrin
  • Character Full Name: Avon Sweral
  • Character In-Game Name: Avon
  • Association(s): None
  • Class: Enchanter (Mage)
  • Age: 49
  • Sex: Male
  • Hair: Long silvery gray hair, and a full grown beard. He's got the mutton chops, too.
  • Eyes: Brown.
  • Weight: 191 lbs.
  • Height: 6'1"
  • Alignment: Neutral Good
  • Skills and Abilities: Avon is an extremely talented enchanter and decent at smacking things with his stick, but isn't very good at anything else.

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Avon is always wearing a robe, and usually has a walking stick with him.

Other: Every robe he wears has a single green thread sewn in the waist, almost unnoticeable.

Personality

Avon is a lively man, who always tries to stay in a cheery mood and is usually one to make small talk with whoever's sitting near by. He is occasionally altruistic, should the mood strike him, but normally does nobody any favors. He has always suffered from wanderlust, constantly going exploring and travelling, making pilgrimages all over Azeroth despite his frail stature and old age. Avon likes to consider himself open-minded, but when in a debate becomes very stubborn.

History

Avon was born in 17 BDP in the city of Stormwind, raised by his father, an enchanter by trade. His mother was a mage in the employ of the city, and was often sent on various tasks, so he almost never saw her and so he didn't respect her as a parent. His father had learned a few things in the art of the arcane from his wife, and passed what little knowledge he had to Avon. Most of the money his mother sent home went to paying for Avon to attend a school. Whenever he wasn't there, however, he was either acting as his father's apprentice or travelling with him to find materials. Since the enchanting profession can require more obscure components, Avon travelled much, enough to the point where he considered his father's horse more of a home than he did Stormwind. At the age of fifteen, Avon began to enchant under the careful supervision of his father.

Over the next two years, Avon slowly bettered himself in his father's trade, finding himself to actually be weaker to magic than others who'd studied the arcane. The strongest thing he could cast himself was a meek fireball. Rather, he was skilled only in enchanting, only able to make up for his lack of arcane skill by carrying around various trinkets imbued with the magic he couldn't personally harness. At the age of seventeen, however, Stormwind was attacked by the Orcs. He and his father were returning to Stormwind after a long trip to Stranglethorn Vale, and arrived during the second day of the siege. They left everything they had in Stormwind and fled North, to Lordaeron, where they might find shelter from the encroaching orc armies.

The journey North was a harsh one. The route was long, as they had to pass through the Redridge Mountains, the Burning Steppes, the Searing Gorge, and eventually North through the Dwarven lands to reach the kingdom. While in the Wetlands, Avon's father fell gravely ill. Despite his best efforts, Avon could not find him aid or figure out how to manipulate magic to save his dad. He passed away, and was buried in one of the few dry patches of land Avon could find. His grave was marked with some odd pieces of wood strewn together, with his name, "Maros Sweral" carved into it. He enchanted the grave with shields and wards so that it would withstand the wildlife and weather. Avon, now alone, continued North. After months of travel, Avon arrived. The city was packed with other refugees, and so Avon was stuck on the streets like so many others. He decided he needed money, for food and hopefully a room in an inn, and so he looked through his pack, looking for things he could enchant or sell. Avon knew he couldn't measure up to some of the other, more wealthier enchanters, and knew he'd need to find an edge over them. He started to focus less on selling his wares, and more on gathering rumors. He heard mostly uninteresting things, but occasionally heard snippets of information, whether it be about an enchantress dying and her books being up for grabs if you could steal them from her house, or an old man retiring and selling his secrets.

For the next few months, Avon continued gathering rumors during the day, and acting on them at night. He'd try to sneak into the homes of a few skilled enchanters and steal their books, more often getting caught then not. He'd also save up to buy the skills needed off of the weary. It was a very slow process, but as the days passed, he was able to put together a small library. The enchanters who used these skills were powerful, sure, but if they had put it all together as Avon had, they could of been so much more. He put the power to good use, his profit sky rocketing as his work quality rose. He made a name for himself among a few of those who had money and often lost their weapons. After a few years, as grizzled veterans came back to the city with grand tales of their heroic adventures against the vile orcs and the amazing things they explored, Avon realized how uncomfortable he felt in the city. He packed his things and travelled South, exploring every corner of the Eastern Kingdoms he could, stopping in towns for a week at time to sell his services and buy supplies. Not much has changed since then for Avon Sweral.