Deramor

Information

Player: Ronin

Character Full Name: Deramor “Baneblade” Verusoth

Character In-Game Name: Deramor

Nickname(s): Dera, Bane

Association(s): Knight of the Ebon Blade, Alliance

Race: Human

Class: Death Knight

Age: 44

Sex: Male

Hair: Originally Raven Black, it's recently taken on a blue-ish hue

Eyes: Runic Blue

Weight: 203 lbs (seemingly all muscle)

Height: About 6', maybe 6'1”

Alignment: Lawful Evil (Will likely eventually turn to Chaotic Evil, due to Runeblade/Saronite armor whisperings)

Appearance

He's rarely, if ever, out of his Saronite (yes, SARONITE) armor. There are occasions when he might don something else, but only for the most important of them. His blade, Drakeblood, is never far from hand.

Personality

As a man, Deramor puts the best face forward that he can manage. Noble upbringing helping to sow the seeds of etiquette firmly within him, he is polite, charming, and controlled to most he interacts with. However, as a Death Knight, he constantly feels the desire to reap chaos and mayhem, mentally watching all around him burn and die, a sick desire to make it reality raging within him. He has no respect for life, the feeling present even before his ‘change', and now uses that as a shield to block the depression of his corrupt existence. He buries the lack of joy he feels, managing to fool himself into believing the petty satisfaction he gets from this or that is true to him.

He hunts the Lich King with his brethren for two reasons. The first is minor, and it's anger at being used as a mere tool, thought to have been tossed aside after the King was done with him and his kind. The second is to help direct his heinous desires; to aim his love of carnage at something “socially acceptable”, rather than risk unleashing it where he might get in trouble.

His greatest driving force is, without a doubt, his eternal search for power unlimited. It is one of the few, if only, things that help stave off the insanity that itches at the back of his mind constantly.

(It should be noted that, should his Runeblade and armor get the better of him, as they inevitably will, his personality will be much more akin to a savage brute, tossing aside all former ideals from his past life. He'll enjoy killing and slaughter to such a point that controlling himself between “meals” will be neigh impossible. He'll likely flee society [out of self preservation, not do to wanting –not- to give into his desires; he will enjoy killing like any sociopath], and be hunted or some such. This will probably only take place if it's proven, 100% and without a doubt, that his view of “true power” will always be out of his reach.)

History

Deramor Verusoth was born to a noble family in the areas surrounding Capitol City now known as the Plaguelands, already having two siblings at the time, with two more to come after. He was a mild mannered child, taking to his parent's desired teachings well. He learned all the rules of proper etiquette, but more importantly was sword training. For Deramor's older siblings were both female, and so, as the oldest male, it was to be his job to either take over the house when his father passed on, or go to war, should there be one. Preferably both.

Deramor's skills with the blade were fair enough, though not as good as his family would have liked. He didn't appear to have the dedication that mastering it would require. However, such thoughts would be left for another time, as war was soon to come, in the form of Orcs crossing into Azeroth.

The boy wasn't old enough to join into the beginning of the war, but was preparing quickly as the years began to stretch. When the second hit, he was prepared, and as his father demanded, he went to battle. It was difficult on him at first, and seeing firsthand the might of the Demon-powered Horde, he began to realize what separated the common man from the riff-raff. It wasn't money, or prestige, as his father would have had him believe. It was raw power, and those that had it reigned supreme.

At first, Deramor feared that true power was out of reach for a human, or at least one like he, who had no magical potential to speak of. He feared that the Orc's might was unstoppable, and that he would never be granted the chance to experience that sort of might himself. But, alas, the Orcs were eventually beaten back, and various “titans” fell, ending with the Internment camps.

A proud, Knightly soldier, Deramor had achieved the basic level of merit in the Alliance's army that any war veteran received (higher than a simple enlisted soldier, but the lowest rank of officer). Unfortunately (for his parents), his sub-par skills with the sword kept him from reaching any level of true importance, no matter how he supposedly struggled. However, Deramor's goal had become something completely different from military rank, and thus it didn't matter to him.

When the third war came, he studied every aspect of it. He was amazed by the power of the Scourge, more so when he actually met them on the field of battle, barely surviving with his life. He came to realize that the wanton waste of life, while not productive, didn't particularly impact him emotionally, and he was more awed by the skill and flawless execution the Scourge pressed with, to the point that they made able the Demons to cross over and destroy Capitol City.

He escaped with his life, though he was painfully mangled in the attack, and spent the majority of the rest of the war recuperating in the southern lands. Never did he forget the might of the Scourge, however, and especially the bold strength that Arthas, betrayer of the Light, wielded so easily.

With the ending of the third war, people began to rebuild. Deramor had lost track of his family a short while before, and at this point, figured them dead. It was regretful, as he would have liked to make proud his aged father, if only for the sake of accomplishment, but no great loss. It was with that realization, though, that Deramor started to grasp his lack of general sanity, or at least that there was something –wrong- with him. If the evident death of his entire family impacted him so weakly, then what did he have to sacrifice that –would- matter?

In the years follow, he would find out. A day came when he and the patrol he was with marched through the Plaguelands, playing courier to one of the small pockets of soldiers stationed there. They were beset upon by Scourge in an ambush, and had no chance at victory. Deramor's skill with the blade had improved vastly, as his drive for power had inspired him to some point, but the odds were no good. Fear tore through him. His dreams, desires, and his work, would all be for nothing. He would die no greater than a common pig, with nothing to leave behind.

As he desperately battled, he noticed, over the verge, the leader of this rotting band watching. A lich. Suddenly, the shade of hope flickered in his mind, and as he shoved back nearby foes, he threw down his weapon, falling to his knees and raising his arms up. “Don't strike me down! I devote my life to the Scourge! I devote my very –soul- to the Lich King!” He cried, watching the mindless wretches close in hungrily. They halted, however, snarling and salivating over him, and the chill lich's voice rang out. “Is that so, Human? Well, we do have such a project that might make use of… ‘Willing', subjects.” The thing laughed, then, and Deramor felt himself taken up by the rotting dead, as well as his fallen comrades.

Dragged for hours, through all manner of muck and grime and rot, Deramor lost track of time. Terrible smells, the likes of which no mortal could stand, assaulted him, making his head swim with dizziness. Finally, he was tossed atop a pile of bodies, his comrades the newest additions before him. He hesitantly looked about, terror ripping through him. Had he made the right choice? Was there any going back? The answers were likely ‘no', but it was too late for that. An alter was prepared, and Deramor was again gripped, dragged to it, and chained down. Blindfolded, he can't, to this day, truly say what happened. At first, physical pain. Unworldly pain, in fact. But it only grew worse as it sank inwards, deeper into him, to his core. He could feel a sort of –retching-, a tearing of his spirit as it was violated with dark magics, until he finally began to hear the voice. His voice. The Lich King.

Fear paralyzed the nobleman's son, until the most mind-shatteringly painful thing happened yet. His soul was torn from his body, and his will was sapped away. Then, all went calm. He must have passed in and out of consciousness multiple times, for he does not know where he was taken, or how. The first clear memories he has are of the Ebon Hold, and of his beginning trials as a new sort of Knight.

What transpired after has been told and re-told time and time again. The slaughter of innocents, the senseless murder that the Scourge was known for. While some of the Death Knights, most undead at this point, fought against their calling, at least to some extent, Deramor embraced it fully. The more he fought, the more he indulged the Lich King's will, the more powerful he felt, or thought he felt. Watching civilians and Scarlet Soldiers fall to his blade, screaming and writhing in agony, finally granted him a taste of the power he had so long sought after.

When it came time to assault Light's Hope Chapel, Deramor reveled in the idea. A glorious victory was sure to be had, as was had over the Scarlet scum. He charged into battle, blade ready, as blood-crazed as any of his ‘kind'. He fought with the best of his abilities, finally proving to be what was always wanted of him. A high ranking soldier of a mighty army, and an excellent swordsman.

The betrayal of Arthas, by using them as fodder for whatever reason, strung Deramor. He realized that this great power he had obtained was virtually nothing when compared to the Lich King's own, as well as this ‘Tirion Fordring's', and his Ashbringer. Deramor's rage, however, was quickly extinguished as the battle proved to be in the Light's favor, and the Lich King retreated, wounded and forced to release their souls.

He had gladly taken to slaughtering innocents, wiping them out as a child snuffs that of an insect. And further, throughout the years, he had disregarded all life, completely. This soul, which was granted to him once more… He didn't deserve it. He had sullied it long before giving it to the Scourge. He was a monster, and knew it fully.

Despair over his wasted life forced Deramor's mind to snap. He grew, within weeks, to obsess over fixing himself, and his losses. “Kill the Lich King, save lives. I can repair my soul… I can save myself!” He thought. He began to search, looking for something, anything, to give him some measure of strength. It didn't take long, in the war-torn and bashed lands of the world, for him to come across his first true companion. ‘Drakeblood', it said its name was. A Runeblade, Deramor realized. He had never heard that they spoke, let alone that they held any measure of control over their wielder. He eagerly took it up, grinning to himself. His first steps to restoring himself had been taken. A weapon of great power pulsed in his hands, and with it, he would prove his might.

Over time, his vision narrowed. He began to seek power, as he had his entire life, again. At first, it was power to save the innocent, as he always should have, and himself along the way. Then, power just to save his own soul. Finally, power just for the sake of it. It was an easy glove to slip back into, a familiar and warm thing, this obsession, and while he might have fought it at first, it took him in the end. Eventually, he traveled to Northrend, taking up great and powerful armor that Drakeblood swore would make him nearly invincible. ‘Saronite', the metal was called.

These days, power is the only thing on Deramor's mind, his body a hollow shell of a man. His soul, already twisted by the ritual that turned him to a Death Knight, proved to be easily manipulated by the sword and armor, making him essentially their puppet, though he would prove to be primarily controlled by the sword, which possessed a higher “intelligence”, in a way. Hunger for power battles desire for death and carnage, with an inevitable end sure to destroy any troublesome remnants of a nobleman's son.