Gerhardt

Information

Player: Ozewse

Character Full Name: Gerhardt Benjamin Avertine

Character In-Game Name: Gerhardt

Nickname(s): Liquorice, Licorice

Association(s): Pyrewood Village (Ex-Resident), The Ebon Blade (Member)

Race: Worgen

Class: Death Knight

Age: 30

Sex: Male

Hair: Navy

Eyes: Runic Blue

Weight: 250lbs (Underweight)

Height: 7'2"

Skills and Abilities

Aversion Therapy: Years of being tortured by shadowmancers, dark sorcerers and the Scourge has left him with a very keen sense for magic. Any nearby spellcasting should alert his senses.

Anti-Magic Shield: Much like the usual anti-magic field of your average Death-Knight, only concentrated to a bubble around Gerhardt or an ally. This nullifies -all- spellcasting entering -or- exiting the shield.

Appearance

Simple, Gilnean iron armor scavenged from outside the ruins of Gilneas after the Battle of Light's Hope. He would be hard pressed to remove it for any reason.

Other: Rather thin for his height, claws impractically long. As a Worgen of Ur created under Arugal, he is unable to return to his human form.

Personality

Gerhardt, from the moment he left the Lich King's service, has been the perhaps most pitiful excuse for a Death Knight in all of history. Between his unrequited, instinctual fear of arcane magics that penetrates even the lucidity of undeath, his limited skill with a weapon, and his frail form, he is far from menacing, and in fact quite laughable. He seems aware of this fact, and he doesn't speak often unless spoken to. He is not unfriendly to many save the Forsaken, and -has- had plenty of time to observe and relearn the concept of personality.

Alignment: Neutral Good

History

Gerhardt Benjamin Avertine was born in Ambermill Village in Silverpine, approximately thirty years ago. His mother, a kind woman and devoted housewife, and his father, a hard working farmer, made up his simple nuclear family. All throughout his childhood, the boy had a zealous curiosity in all things magical, and would actively seek out those practitioners in his village to plague them with incessant questions and curiosity.

As he reached the age of seventeen, word that scouts from the academy of Dalaran would be visiting the village to seek out potential recruits. It was found that the boy was in fact a sorcerer of some potential by then, thanks to much pleading and a contract with the village witch to tend her garden in return for some basic tutoring in arcane theory and a mishap with a wand.

When these 'scouts' arrived, they were not at all what Gerhardt had expected. They wore grey robes trimmed in silverthread, and claimed to be servants of Baron Silverlaine acting in stead of the Dalaran Scouts that were to gather those thought to have potential skill in magic. Gerhardt didn't question them, blinded by his excitement at the prospect of going to Dalaran. His parents however, wary of the idea, forbade him from going. He did, heedless of his parents wishes, go with the agents in rebellion.

Agents of Arugal, he later learned, were used to abduct test subjects from the neighboring villages, particularly his own, on that particular night. He would not be going to Dalaran.

Kept for at least a year in a holding cell, wondering what would become of him bestowed him with a rather intense paranoia, to add to his already ever-present fear of the dark. He measured the days by new addition to his unlit prison, waiting for the new voices to join in the words shared between barred doors at what he considered night. He did not participate in these conversations, the madness that overtook his fellow inmates terrified him at times. He would cover his ears, sitting in the corner of his cell to avoid those crazed murmurs, but time and time again he would wake to their cold words, until one auspicious night he awoke to the sound of rattling near his door.

A torch lit the face of a familiar guard, the same one which thrust his meal under the door each 'day'. Bertrand, he remembered, was not so cruel as the other guards. The other guards, hateful and cruel, would run through the halls at night, banging on the doors of the cells to startle the other prisoners. He did not bother to rise when the door opened, however, assuming he had just come as he always had to change Gerhardt's amenities. Instead, Bertrand offered his hand out to a meager, malnourished, broken Gerhardt.

As per protocol, he was shackled before he was brought up out of the dungeon, then blindfolded and made to breath in a curious fume which quickly rendered him unconscious. He did not resist the process, and in fact had hoped he would wake before he was placed back into his cell. Perhaps he would catch a glimpse of daylight.

When he woke, finally, he felt as if a horse had trampled him. He groggily shook his head, which felt heavier than he remembered it. His breathing sounded deeper and his arms did not move precisely the way they were meant to. He assumed he had been beaten, but in the dark room in which he was kept now, he could not tell. A few hours of blind groping had told him this room was indeed not his cell, and for that he was grateful. He sat upon the cold stone in what he could only assume was the center of this barren, circular room, and waited. He knew something was coming, he knew there was a reason he was placed in this new room, but he had no idea what it was. He waited and waited for what felt like forever, until eventually his creeping paranoia set in. He could not hear the voices of the other prisoners murmuring. This place was silent. Why was it silent? Was this death? Had he died? No, he was still breathing. The dead didn't breathe.

He tried to cry out, but the sound that came from his mouth scared him silent. It was a squeal, like what a wolf made when it was struck with an arrow. His hands came to clamp over his mouth, but fell over a cold, wet nose instead. One of his fingernails poked him in the eye at the same time, which only brought another yip. Was he hallucinating? Yes, he must be, this was just a side effect of those vapors. It must be. He stood up, shaking his head in a desperate attempt to clear it with his eyes pinched shut. Just then, as he did, the room lit up. He opened his eyes to peer up at the source of the light and saw cloaked figures standing upon a balcony, perhaps fifteen feet from the floor, a balcony which circled the room much like the viewing stage of an arena, with torches which circled the walls above, each lit with a curious purple flame. He could hear chattering, hushed whispers, but he payed to need to what they said. Looking down toward his hands- Wait. Those were not his hands. They moved when he willed them, but his hands were pale, white, and not quite so hairy. And his feet... They were gone as well. Immediately, as with all things that terrified the man, he ignored it. He crossed his arms behind his back and looked up at his captors expectantly.

Now, listening more closely, he could hear their words with incredible definition given their distance. They spoke of things he did not understand completely, but they seemed pleased with him in some way. In fact, he noticed, some of the words even seemed celebratory. Apparently, they were amazed that "yet another one" had maintained it's intelligence? Was he an it now? What had they done to him?

Just then, as that thought struck him, as did something else, square in his back. He blacked out.

When he awoke, he found himself once again, in a place he did not recognize. Another prison. A cage. To his right, another cage. Empty. He looked to his left, and it was then he saw, to his litost, a mirror. He charged to the side of the iron bars, his ... muzzle? Stuck between them as he moved his... claws? To grasp the metal of his enclosure. He screamed in panic... Or was it a howl of rage?

Over the next two years, Gerhardt found himself in a battery of tests, some painful or unpleasant, but he was not in the least treated like the other more unruly "Worgen." He was well behaved, well articulated, and even treated with some degree of respect. A "Son of Arugal", they called him. He considered telling them his father's name was "John," but that did not seem wise. He didn't enjoy the time in Shadowfang Keep, despite not having it quite as bad as most others under Arugal's reign. His begrudging loyalty was more than could be said for most, even if it was a facade.

He waited and waited, taking note of every last corner of the huge keep, until finally his chance to escape came in the form of a huge battalion of what he could only assume were troops from Lordaeron come to save the captives from Arugal's lair. He saw them from a second story window, one which he leapt from immediately thereafter (to the dismay of the guard walking him back down to the lower levels of the keep who had grown lax with the well-behaved Son of Arugal.) Landing keenly without injury, he charged up to the troupe, loping on all fours. The thin, light Worgen was an agile beast, though not agile enough to avoid the arrow that struck him in the chest. In his last moments, he saw the hand that had held the bow which ended his life. It appeared as though the flesh upon it had simply melted away, leaving only bone and sinew behind.

The years thereafter were naught but a blur. He heard only one voice, and had only one purpose. To support the Scourge War Machine. In the time he had been raised and armored appropriately, he was granted great knowledge in the art of creating abominations. He knew how, with the help of his brethren, to bring forth massive hulking beasts of burden, beasts of war, all from the mangled parts of those they slaughtered, and had no choice but to knit and sew. Sew the sinew, knit the bone, seal the skin and draw the runes. His entire thought process was just that, sew, knit, seal and rune.

The fall of Arthas, his year in the Ebon Blade, and his eventual return to Eastern Kingdoms were all cold, emotionless, mechanical. It was not until he happened upon the grave of a certain old Witch in the fields outside Ambermill Village that his memories started to return.