Flammos

Information

Player: flammos200

Character Full Name: Flammos (His last name of Rethor was discarded as per his history)

Character In-Game Name: Flammos

Nickname(s): Flam, Flammie, Old man.

Association(s): Dalaran, the Kirin Tor, the Alliance, any viable source of arcane power.

Race: Human

Class: Mage

Age: 62

Sex: Male

Hair: A grayed out, rather ridiculous ponytail for his age.

Eyes: Electric blue.

Weight: 70 Kgs

Height: 1,92 m

Alignment: True Neutral

Appearance

He can often be seen in mage robes, often heavy-looking ones. He also has a penchant for flame-shaped decor, and darker, rather than brighter colours. He will, however, change his wardrobe as moods hit him.

Other: He is physically weak. He will often use his staff as a walking stick. His physical frailty is compensated by his prowess in the Arcane, however.

Personality

Flammos is driven by a love of power. Arcane power, if possible. He has a hunger for knowledge insatiable still, even at his age. He can and would go to great lengths to supplement his magic, even if it means mere trinkets used as batteries for arcane energy, a slightly more conductive staff, or a new set of robes weaved with spellthread.

His lust for power is often masked by his outward grandfather-ish appearance, mild mannered demeanor, and the fact that he is very soft-spoken. He is eccentric to say the least. He thinks his age and vocation accord him the right to be strange, however. He shows compassion to most anything he perceives as being younger than him, even if said person is actually older than him, only appearing young in looks. Elves often fall into this category, and they are a race with which he shows a heightened amount of fascination, whether Sin'dorei or Kaldorei. He respects magic in all forms and anything magical in nature, though, to offset this, despite the fact that he has had to rely on technology at times, he is thoroughly annoyed by it. While on the topic of magic, he can sometimes be seen as abusive of it. He considers this slight over-use of magic necessary and just, as his frail body compensates for it. He is proud of his wielding of the arcane art.

On the other races, he sees Draenei as a great source of knowledge, but is slightly disappointed at their moral one-sidedness, being a bit too good and trusting. His views on Dwarves and Gnomes are very similar, both being technologically reliant. He would, however, trust a Dwarf over a Gnome any day. On the note of trust, he is fairly slow to do so. The horde is another story altogether. Orcs are barbaric, but useful. Trolls are primal, but there are a few magi among them, and, as such, could be a source of yet-unknown incantations, even to the old wizard. Forsaken are a race he has had surprisingly good dealings with, in the past, mainly because he has had luck in meeting the right ones.

All in all, he can and will help whoever he has to, so long as there's some new source of power in it for him, even if it's a favor he might not even collect on, or a piece of obscure knowledge or text, as he follows the old adage that ‘Knowledge is power'.

History

Flammos Rethor was born in the magocracy of Dalaran, to a pair of arcane users whose time was spent increasingly less with each other or him, and more and more with books on magic. Such a childhood dictated Flammos' mindset later on, but at the time, most of his interaction with his parents was a more or less forced decision to take up the arcane arts, and become a mage. He was a fast learner, true, but what his teachers gave him was a short leash, dosing the knowledge available to him, fearing that his curiosity and love of the arcane would lead him to as isolated a life as his parents' own ventures. By the end of it, he was tempered and respectful of the currents of arcane around him, a sort of hidden fear for what magic can do instilled in him.

Decades passed, his study furthered, ‘till one day he was stricken with an idea. He was to create a silent spell, something not requiring an incantation. Thought-to-form, will-to-magic. It was brilliant, in his eyes, it was perfect. Voiced concerns from his peers led to his research on the matter of manipulating the flows of magic by thought and intent alone led to its conduction in utter secrecy. In a small room somewhere out of the way in the sewers of Dalaran, the wizard, somewhere in his mid forties as the city was being rebuilt after the Second War, devised a half-hour long ritual that would allow him to perform such a silent form of magic, by creating a link between his mind and body, and the Ley Lines and the Nether from which mages draw their power. This, he thought, would make him a conduit for magic, and give him the ability to shape it by will alone.

Months of preparation passed, and he finally came to it. Deep in his lair, he began his ritual. The room itself was to be a representation of the world, across the floor, strewn representations of the various criss-crossings of Azeroth's ley lines, whilst the ceiling depicted the Nether in all its churning glory. At the center of it all, on a small rise, he stood, and runes sprang to life at his words, the walls plastered in their glowing forms. The amount of magical energy required for this, he knew, was going to be immense, but the rewards, if he would reap them, would be just as great. The runes on the walls flung tendrils of arcane energy, connectning the Nether, the Ley-lines, and the Wizard at the center of it all in a spiderweb of brilliance as his words resounded in the now light-filled room. The tendrils sought their mark as his voice shaped them, embedding the most of their power into his head and spine, and letting it spill throughout his body from there-on, turning him into the conduit that he so sought... Or so it seemed.

Something disturbed the delicate structure of magic, and the backlash hit him hard. Instead of draining him of energy, it drained his physical form, weakening him considerably, almost forcibly aging him. He had been unconscious for three days straight when his colleagues found him, in an already poor state, dehydrated and malnourished. He was then nursed back to health, but he never could grow back any physical form. He seemed to be stuck with this weakness of his mortal tether.

He would later discover that this was offset by his newfound prowess in the arcane. Apparently, the spell had not failed completely. The simplest of magical workings, he found, could be done without a need of incantations, and, in the span of little over a decade, this ‘trick' of his gained more and more use, the further he practiced it.

His progress was halted, however, when the Scourge marched upon Dalaran, and he was forced to fight for the city's defense. He barely escaped with his life, fleeing South, to Southshore, where, what he had seen, the slaughter of his former colleagues, took its toll on his mindset. He discarded his last name, claiming that ‘Wizard Rethor' died in the siege, and vowing to gain as much arcane power as humanly possible, that, whenever he should associate himself with others, he would be able to defend them properly, despite his physical frailty. The old mage spent the Third War as a refugee, then travelling further South, to Ironforge, and taking the Deeprun Tram to Stormwind, where he settled in the Tower, under his remaining name of Flammos. As soon as he caught wind of Dalaran's rebuilding and moving to Northrend, he left Stormwind, setting out to visit the Violet City once more.

On his way, he met many a strange character. From surprisingly friendly orcs, to a Draenei Paladin with a penchant for enchanted blades, to a Blood Elf that saved his life, and many others, and did no short amount of deeds, relieving an elf of excess arcane energy at the Aula Arcanum's complex on Fenris Isle, deadening a Death Knight's nerves further, and acquiring his trusty steed, the stallion which he named ‘Mister Norris', for an obscure reason known only to him.

Nowadays, Flammos wanders still the ways of Azeroth and even Outland, searching for any source of magical power he can get his hands on, or just doing things that still pique the old man's curiosity.