Hektor

Information

Player: Spark

Character Full Name: Hektor Salin Argurion

In-Game Name: Hektor

Nickname(s): The Lost One

Association(s): House of Hellfire

Race: Human

Class: Warrior

Age: 45

Sex: Male

Hair: Bald

Weight: 130kg

Height: 190cm

Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Appearance

He will be pretty much all the time in heavy plate mail. Although the armor once black and plain, it is now stained with blood and adorned with skulls, runes and twisted spikes. His plate helmet of the same fashion with large black curved horns. His shield is also of the same design and his blade long and jagged, with barbs and spikes and blood red runes skittering along it. If not in his plate he will most likely be wearing robes with long hoods, or masks.

Other: Underneath the armour Hektor's body is covered in tattoos, all of varying cultures, some are clearly human where others look elven and elegant and some tribal and simple. They stretch and curve around his muscular figure and entwine together giving a sense of strange beauty which is horribly marred by the dozens of scars lay upon him and the faint lines that are slowly becoming wrinkles.

Personality

Hektor, to put it simply, is blood crazed. He sees no need for emotions and his aims and needs are simply. Blood and power. He will stop at nothing to obtain these two things of which he thrives off. Mercy is a flaw in his eyes, he delights in torture and pain of others, before brutally murdering them of course. Strangely, he seems to enjoy his own pain, although he still feels it as pain, he is often seen grinning and licking his ever bloody lips as he is hacked at by his opponents. When in combat, he is a near unstoppable maniac. Hacking, head butting, slashing, ramming...Anything he can do to inflict pain upon his enemies. The more blood that is spilt, whether it be his opponents or even his own, will increase his frenzy which can sometimes lead to him hurting allies or severely injuring himself.

However, when not in combat, his apparent insanity seems to completely withdraw. Although there are often a few hints that he's a bit mad and may try to eat your heart at any moment, he seems to have a cool head and his actions are thought through...Until a drop of blood hits the ground and his weapon is in his hand. These moments of Hektor not fighting are few, and getting rarer the older he gets.

History

Hektor was born and raised in Westfall on a small farm. His parents were not wealthy but neither were they poor so he lived a good childhood with his older brother Gryshom. When he was 14 and his brother 16, his brother went off to train as a soldier. Hektor stayed on the farm with his parents until he was 17, when he moved to the Stormwind where he got a job as a cleaner in an inn.

Hektor had been saving all the money that he earned helping on the farm as a boy and working in the inn so that he could travel around Azeroth. When he was 20 he left his job and bought passage to Ironforge and then through to Menethil Harbour where he lived for months, helping on the docks and in the ships.

Nearly a year later he had enough to finance his journey to Kalimdor, he travelled with many different people over the next year, Elves, Goblins, Humans, Orcs even Tauren, and he started to learn the cultures of all the new races he was encountering.

He mainly stayed in Ratchet, but went to the Stonetalon Mountains for a month or so. He would help traders and merchants, and travel with them. By the time he was 25 he decided to go home. He had not seen his family for 5 years now. It took him a further 4 months to get back to Westfall. When he got there, his parents seemed to have aged a decade, his father's hair grey, wrinkles upon their faces, and few coins in their purse. Gryshom had been helping with the finance, but now he had left to fight the Orcs, and little gold was coming in. Hektor knew he needed to get another job with a higher pay than before, but he was not skilled in any profession that could bring in wealth. Over his 5 years travel though, he had had to learn to fight. He had taken part in a few battles, minor though they were, mostly the defence of ships from pirates. Or the helping of merchants' as bandits attacked. He had been taught to use a wide variety of weapons by many different people and was becoming fairly skilled in their use.

And so he signed up to become a soldier, like his brother. He fought in minor campaigns against the Horde and strong was his resolution to do good. He served the Alliance for many years, he married when he was 30 and lived in Lordearon where his brother now served as a guard, also happily married with two children. But then the Scourge came. Hektor was away in Stormwind at the time, and everything he loved was destroyed. He was completely lost in his grief and went back to the farm of his childhood, where his parents were still managing with the financial help of him and his brother. They were also despairing at the loss of their son, but managed to keep it together to help their only remaining son. After a year of grief, Hektor rejoined the fight against the scourge and sailed to Northrend where he fought ferociously, but he was starting to get old and was injured badly on his leg within a month of arriving. He felt as though he had failed and returned to Westfall once more, a still a broken man.

Upon arrival at his parents farm some horseman rode past him wearing masks and wielding swords, he noticed a wisp of smoke over the hill and ran to the farm only to find it burnt to the ground, the body of dad bloody and broken. He found a simple grave behind the farmhouse with his mother's name upon it and a date; she had died a week earlier. He buried his father next to her and knelt beside their graves, weeping. He cried for hours, over everything, the loss of everyone he cared about.

Finally, he stood up, the sun was setting and the horizon was red. He bowed his head once more then saddled a horse and sharpened his swords. An immeasurable rage now filled his body and mind. He followed the tracks of the horseman he had seen earlier. He tracked them into the dead of night by torchlight until he arrived at a small hamlet. The horses stabled outside were the same as the ones he had seen earlier. He silently broke into each house one by one, and killed everyone inside. The men, the women, the children. All of the dead. He then burnt down the houses and killed the horses.

Hektor Salin Argurion, the warrior, the servant of the Light, the knight, the soldier. Never left the first house he entered. Upon leaving the dead bodies to rot. He began to walk north. Every day, he would traverse over rougher terrain as he was forced off the paths by patrolling guards, with a poster and a picture of him upon it. He was forced to kill those who would hand him in or stop him. For every life he took, and every drop of blood that landed upon him, insanity crept that little closer to him.

His journey north took him years, by the time he got there he was near death, living off anything he could plunder from the people of the land. There he met a forsaken blacksmith, who he made create him new armour, as black as void itself. A new shield was also crafted from cursed wood and black metal. He found his blade at the bottom of the lake before Stratholme. It was dull and blunt, yet not rusted; he tended it back to health, sharpening it every day, cleaning it, replacing the grip. Once his armour, shield and sword had been completed, and hoisted upon himself, he slew the blacksmith where he stood.

Upon his journey back south he fought and killed. He murdered, stole, sacrificed and tortured, growing ever more crazed. He shaved his head, covered his entire body in tattoos. Worked for warlocks, fell-sworn, demons and necromancers alike, furthering his power. He arrived in Duskwood finally, and roared at the sky. Swearing to himself, to the world, to the darkness, to the demons in his head. He would have blood. He would have power. And in his shadow, there will be naught but death.