Cetheres

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Information

Player: Zunaj

Character Full Name: Born as Robett Victerian, claimed the name "Cetheres" after rising as an undead

Character In-Game Name: Cetheres

Nickname(s): None in particular

Association(s): The Royal Apothecary Society, the Forsaken, the Sin'sholai

Race: Forsaken

Class: IC: Apothecary, OOC: Priest

Age: Uncertain, but likely somewhere in his 40's

Sex: Male

Hair: Black, graying, and long, hanging beyond his shoulders, and often covering most of his face.

Eyes: Originally green, now glowing with an eerie yellow

Weight: About 50 kg, or 110 lbs.

Height: 1.70 m, or 5'5 ft, when standing straight. Which he rarely does.

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Appearance

Black or otherwise dark robes. When traveling, he wears a dark tunic and dark pants and boots. He wears thick leather gloves, and keeps his face covered with a black mask, perhaps to hide the horrible burn marks on his face.

Other: His jaw area, and his right cheek seem to have been burned. With the lack of skin regeneration, it's hard to tell if the wound is old, or recent. With the mask, and his long dark hair, it might sometimes be difficult to see these wounds at all.

Personality

Cetheres can best be descibed as an unpleasant person. He cares little for the feelings or well-being of others, and treats those he meets with arrogance and disrespect. The exceptions for this are his colleagues in the Royal Apothecary Society, his superiors, and others he may benefit from treating properly.

Although he sees most people in the world as inferior to himself, he does not underestimate their usefulness. While mercenaries and other brutes may be half-witted and cowardly(in his eyes), they have their uses, performing tasks he is unable to do, or does not see fit to do himself. Such as dying.

While talking to others, Cetheres speaks with a tone of arrogance and dry sarcasm. He talks a lot, and quickly, rarely waiting for a response unless needed.

One of his greatest weaknesses is his temper. Cetheres is easily provoked, particularly by failure or stupidity. The patience that many Forsaken pride themselves with is nowhere to be found within him, particularly not when dealing with people.

Cetheres believes Lady Sylvanas and the Forsaken will prevail in the end, and thus he remains loyal and dedicated to their cause.

History

Innocence

A few years before the first war

Robett Victerian was a normal child. That is, normal for a child belonging to a rich family in Dalaran. His family had all been successful wielders of magic, ever since the Arathorian days, and so it was expected of him to master the arcane arts, even at a young age. And aided his family's influence, he had been offered apprenticeship to a skilled, aging mage, Jonos Cetheres.

"The stone is still falling too fast, Robett. You need to finish the spell earlier, before it builds up speed." The elder mage was leaning over young Robett, as he was practicing his slow spell on a falling rock. The rock was descending fast; not quite as fast as it would naturally, but not slow enough to make a difference. Robett lowered his head and muttered in frustration as the rock hit the grass in Cetheres' garden with a soft 'thump'. "I am sorry, master. If I try a few more times, I might..." The old man interrupted him. "No, child. It is dark. Return to your father. On the morrow, you will practice more. And on the next day. Until you're as old as I.". With that, Robett departed, heading for his family, a content smile on his face.

Grief

After the Horde raid on Dalaran during the second war

Robett was kneeling in the ruins. His red and silver robes were covered in dirt, and torn in several places. His long black hair was gathered in braids, and a short black beard covered his chin. Lying in front of him was an old man, with long white hair, and a beard to match it. His robes were bright azure, although stained with dirt and blood. The man was breathing slowly, and coughing painfully, as if wounded. "Master Cetheres... You must be strong. The healers will get to you soon. Just hold on." Robett urged him, shaking his shoulders to keep him awake. Cetheres looked at him, his eyes half-closed. "Child... No. Excuse my habits..." He coughed. "Young man. My wounds are too grave for any healer to repair... Especially at my age. No..." He attempted a smile. "I've had a long life, anyway... No need to postpone my death further." Robett looked down at his master. He understood what the old man had said... He was badly wounded, and older than most. still, though, it was hard to simply let him pass away... He opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. Seemingly noticing this, Cetheres smiles, and took a worn leather tome from his robe. "This, Robett... Is my own spellbook. This is where I write down spells to complicated to remember. This is where I note what works, and what does not. All the knowledge I have gained throughout the years is in here." He handed over the book. Robett took it, with trembling hands. The front read "Property of Master Cetheres" in beautiful, golden letters. "It's yours now. You are no longer my apprentice. It's time for you to learn by yourself... And one day, maybe have an apprentice of your own." And with those words, Jonos Cetheres drew his last breath, lying still in the rubbles.

Death

After the summoning of Archimonde, During the third war

Robett Victerian was standing in the ruins of a library, throwing fire spells around himself. Aiming with his staff, he held the undead invaders out of the remains of the library, where several refugees were hiding, depending on him to protect them. He pointed his staff right and left, aiming at ghouls, zombies and whatever else the scourge were sending. Where were the reinforcements? He could not keep this up forever... Soon, he would tire... And they would reach him. Holding the spellbook of Cetheres in one hand, he cast a large wave of fire, incinerating a small pack of ghouls. They screamed, and burned, only to be replaced by another pack.

All of a sudden, he heard a loud crack from above. He turned to gaze at the source of the sound, and his eyes widened in shock. One of the massive stone towers of the city had been obliterated, and was falling. Peering around, he saw that the tower did not fall alone; All of the massive constructions were crumbling, as if it was a mere sand castle, crushed by a child. With a loud crash, the tower landed in the library, crushing it in a cloud of smoke and rubble. He gaped. The citizens inside were no doubt crushed by now... And then suddenly realized where he was. He had forgotten about the undead! He turned...

...Only to stand face to face with a zombie. Before he could cast anything, the zombie's hands were around his throat... Tightening, with a grip colder than any frost spell. He pulled hopelessly at the cold, dead hands, with no effect. Then the world darkened... And he could no longer stay awake. His pain faded, and the icy cold sensation of the zombie's hands was gone. He felt nothing... Then the world went black.

New life

After Sylvanas' victory over the dreadlords Balnazzar, Detheroc and Varimathras

He opened his eyes. Before him stood a zombie, dressed in dark robes, with a twisted, vile smile on his face. The zombie opened his wicked mouth, and spoke. "You are awake. How fortunate. Very well. Allow me to explain." The zombie spoke with a clean, fine voice, although it had a strange echo to it, making it seem... Unnatural. "I am Shadrick. I am undead. And so are you." He looked down on himself, and true enough... His skin was pale, and dead, and bones were visible through rotten holes in his flesh. He felt no pain, no fear, nothing. Only slightly disoriented. "You might be confused. By the looks of you, you fell in Dalaran. You're lucky your body's still in one piece then. The whole city was ruined." Shadrick went on, but he didn't listen. "Wait... What? Am I undead? I thought they were mindless-" Shadrick interrupted him. "No... Allow me to enlighten you." And he told him. Told him about Sylvanas, about the Lich King losing his grip on them. Told him about the dreadlords. Told him about everything. "Oh... Another thing. What is your name?" Shadrick asked, peering at him. "Vic..." He paused. No. He was not Robett Victerian... Robett had been a spoiled child, and a lickspittle. He needed a new name... A powerful one. He gazed down at his robe, and pulled out the leather book inside. Reading the cover, he looked up at Shadrick, grinning. "My name is Cetheres."

Servitude

During the years following his awakening, Cetheres continued to serve Lady Sylvanas, and became a member of the Royal Apothecary Society. There, he worked under Master Apothecary Faranell of the Research & Development branch of the society. During Varimathras' rebellion, he remained loyal to Sylvanas, and he carries the burn marks on his face as a trophy, to remind him how he defeated his own research partner, who joined forces with Putress, by soaking him in a volatile liquid that he himself had invented, and igniting him. Today, Cetheres still serves the Dark Lady, developing and improving whatever various plagues, poisons and potions the Forsaken and the Sin'sholai might have use for, confident that he is on the winning side.