Jarving

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Information

Player: Ronin

Character Full Name: Jarving Evectus Razorsteel Grindgear the Third (Father and Grand Father named Jarving, middle name Evectus, self-appointed name Razorsteel, and ancestral name Grindgear)

Character In-Game Name: Jarving

Nickname(s): Jarv, Jarvy, Jarbles (The last when he's with his drunkard buds!)

Association(s): Bums Annonymous, Rats of Stormwind

Race: Gnome, last he checked

Class: Bum by profession, Drunkard by luxury. (Warrior)

Age: 137

Sex: *Strokes his Beard, winking* What do you think?

Hair: Everywhere! (Brown colored)

Eyes: Bright Brown, a bit beady, and harboring crow's feet from squinting at that irritating sun!

Weight: Paunchy 113 Pounds

Height: 3'6"

Alignment: Neutral Good (When Drunken, leans more towards a Chaotic nature, though he's still a "good guy")

Appearance

He can usually be found wearing a lovely fur coat, fur arm warmers, and leg warmers, along with a pair of bum shorts. Wait, fur coat? Th... That's his hair?! Eww! Luckily, he's also sometimes known to wear a shirt, and it sort'a helps... Sort'a...

Other: He's dirty and smelly all the time, and if angered, will shamelessly flick fleas at the perpetrator, if it is mamilian in nature.

Personality

A gruff little guy, his gleaming eyes, nestled between all his head and facial hair, appear to be the only things that can betray his inner emotions, since everything else is covered up. He tends to be the happy sort, always glad to find a new drinking buddy (usually someone with a heavy purse). When drunk, he gets considerably more rowdy, though he always keeps a cheery outlook on the situation, even if he's goin' at it with thugs. The only times he's really found in a particularly bad mood is when he's first woken up (who isn't, though?), and when he's suffering a hang-over.

History

Quite the little oddball, for various reasons. The first years of his life were marginally uneventful, spent with an Engineer for a mother that was never home, and a father that genuinely cared more for his boy than the next great Gnomish invention. Young Jarving had been caught more than once watching the Gnomish Special Forces training, marveling at their swordsmanship. His dear old dad never really cared for his son taking to weaponry and tactics rather than copper wires and cogs, but he wasn't the type to deny the youngin his dreams. So it was that when Jarving became a man at roughly forty, he was sent off to Ironforge, to truly train in battle strategies with the Dwarves (A misshap with an explosive years prior made him unable to train with others of his kind in Gnomeregan, unless he proved himself to their much "rougher" cousins).

Jarving didn't care. His years spent with the Dwarves taught him quite a bit, and so he returned to his people, this time studying more specific tactics. He had a knack for it, he felt, and enjoyed coming up with battle plans to tough stimulatory situations. Yet, no amount of planning could ever prepare him for the horrors that were waiting just around the corner. . Years later, the third war exploded upon Azeroth, demons coming to invade. But Javing cared for none of it. The invading Troggs were his priority. He raked his brain with the other soldiers, trying everything they could think of to stop the invasion. He was still low on the rung, so most ideas that he came up with were tossed aside by those in charge, considering him "too green" to be helpful. It hurt him, but he buried those feelings, focusing instead on slaying as many of the beasts as he could. Yet, when the order came to release the vents, and set up the radioactive bomb, he could hardly come to grips with the idea.

Keeping tunnels clear for Gnomish citizens to flee to what he thought was safety was all he had left. The Platoon he was assigned to grew weak quickly, the toxins ravaging their bodies. Jarving became sick himself, and had to be evacuated with others. Days passed while the poisons wreaked havok on the city, and as they dissipated, he was mroe or less ready for action. Trying to venture back into the depths, he and his comrades found, to their dismay, many of their brethren transformed by the radiation. He was forced to cut down many of the raving mad lepers before he and his people fully pulled out of the techno-city, and the sight of their bodies ruined his love for martial combat.

Jarving spent little time mourning with his people in Ironforge. He couldn't handle all the weeping, even though they had all lost so much. It would seem that both of his parents died during the intoxication, and he only hoped they really had passed on, and had not become lepers themselves. He even ventured towards the once great marvel to see, but couldn't get close. He spent months trying to, but in the end, gave up. He was only one Gnome, after all.

For the next few years, he joined with a band of adventuring Dwarves, intent to find treasure in the great wide world. They never found anything but beasties and baddies, and with every sentient being he killed, Jarving was forced to remember the look on the faces of his mutated people as he killed him. Unable to handle the stress, he left the group, and made his way to Stormwind, slowly sinking into a state of depressed uselessness as a drunkard, and soon after, a homeless bum.

And so we come to today, where the furry little fellow can often be found wandering here and there, the wisdom of a well aged man usually drowned under bottles of lovely, lovely port. He's often mistaken as a stinky, hairy, stupid vagabond, which is fine by him. No one expects anything out of his sort, leaving more time for ale!