Iverali

Player: Ozewse

Character Full Name: Iverynalian Eranu'belore

Character In-Game Name: Iverali

Nickname(s): Iverali, Iver, Iv, I

Association(s): Desolace and its respective sentient beings.

Race: Blood Elf

Class: Priest Variant

Skills and Abilities:

Wastewalker: Through his travels and tribulations with starvation and draught, Iverali can withstand weeks of minimal food or water.

Shadowmancy: His use of Shadow is unrefined and raw. Each spell he casts requires little or no incantation, making him immune to most physical silencing techniques. His grasp on mind control is limited to basic commands that must be voiced aloud. Any horrors or phantoms he generates are shadowfiends and are treated thusly (weakness to holy magic, intangibility).

Age:1842

Sex: Male

Hair: Long, platinum grey, long bangs. No facial hair.

Eyes: Persian green

Weight: 134 pounds / 56.24kg

Height: 6'9"

Usual Garments/Armor:

Navy blue robes consisting solely of shadoweave and silverthread. The collar is high and brocaded with miniature silver roses, arranged to look as if falling though the air, shedding petals in their descent into the yet deeper navy at his shoulders.

He possesses several rings, broaches, and bracelets, all made of silver and opal. Rarely does he wear them. Perhaps they were made for someone else...

He is gaunt faced, slim shouldered, and abnormally tall- perhaps a bit under seven feet in height. His body is thin, ribs nearly visible. His fingers are almost freakishly long and tipped with manicured, pointed, claws. His skin is extremely pallid, he appears to be cast of a bleached clay.

He does not wear shoes.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral with a slight evil sway.

Personality:

"Iverali Eranu'belore is first and foremost a compassionate man. A cold-blooded, murderous, maniacal, wicked, -evil-, compassionate man."

His views are the guidelines for his existence in his eyes, and he will argue them to death. (Sometimes literally.) He is a priest, and he is bound to his self-prescribed "raison d'être," which he defines as "Priests like myself are here to aid both the living and the dead. Sometimes priests must aid the living -become- the dead. That is where I stand."

Through his practice, he has suffered a great loss of feeling, he has hardened himself to retain three that he finds "sacred". Love, grief, and fear.

He often has dreams and delusions about people's deaths as a side effect of his shadow use, he regards them as prophecy, however, they are often wrong and have no true clairvoyant power. Yes, he still uses fel.

"Not many people as ignorant as I am live as long as I have."

"I've seen my death, [Sir/Madam], and you are not a part of it."

History:

Once every few hundred years in the Eranu'belore house, a child is born with a prodigal affinity for shadow-based magic. (Likely due to some sociopath hereditary disease.) Iverali being only the second one, his immediate family had few, if any, suspicions that he would fall to the same fate as his wicked aunt Selserrah. Nay, he never tortured field mice in glens and knolls, nor did he once find himself murdering all of his previous spouses, at the same time. No, he was not at all like Selserrah. He was calm, not particularly cheerful but with a faint spark for slightly dark humor. He would often fade to the background when the time came to name names or select a leader, even in his youngest years. Attention did not make him uncomfortable, but he avoided it when it tried to grasp him, a trait that he carries from then to this day.

It was nearly the end of his adolescence when he discovered his spark, his knack. Philosophy. He would sit nearest the eldest elves he could find and gather all the wisdom they would bestow upon him. It was not long beyond his turn to adulthood that he chose the path of Discipline, the path of the just and the stalwart. A straight and narrow road that defines the gray area between what is considered good and evil.

The elder's stories perked a particular interest in death; he began to taunt it where he could, trying to learn the secrets of what happens when one stops moving for good. He wandered far from city, past the warp and woof of elven roads, southwards past the developing tribes of humans and past the bloodthirsty trolls. He found his way to a cold and lifeless land that reeked of corruption. This would be the stage for his study. This would be the place where he studied death, where he would become an apprentice to it, for nearly a millennium. Death was no longer his study, it was his obsession, and obsession rivaled only by his addiction.

His addiction was almost crippling the day the Sunwell was corrupted and destroyed, and for one week thereafter, he sat in the open air of the chilled heath, his mind blackened by shadow, his body incorporeal and intangible. He was essentially in stasis by the time a small group of Bloodelven pariahs stumbled upon him and brought to him the wonders of Fel and its satiating flavor.

The edges of sanity began to lift and contort in the elf's mind, as he sought to master that which cannot be mastered, the ultimate, the end. He found himself communing with demons for any scrap of information he could pull from the dying corpses of trolls who wandered to far south. What was once a pure white light that came from the man's fingers was then grey, and soon after, inky black. He recognized the hue of his craft and accepted it, graciously. Death was no longer his study, it was his obsession, and obsession rivaled only by his addiction.