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Player: Lendri

Character In-Game Name: Lazarus

Character Full Name: Lazarus Majire

Nickname: Magister Majire

Associations: Ex-student of Aula Arcanium, Dreadmarch (Loosely)

Race: Forsaken

Class: Mage

Skills and Abilities: Specializes in the branch of Necrotic magic pertaining to Undead Control. He can cast Raise dead, control undead, heal undead, summon/store undead, and corpse explosion.

Age: (25 when he died,) 35 now.

Sex: Male

Hair: Pale blue

Eyes: Glowing white ghostlights

Weight: 90 lbs.

Height: 5'10


In low-light conditions, he appears to be a sickly man in robes. Upon further inspection or in areas of brightness it is clear to see he is a Forsaken. His usual attire consists of Mage robes, small shoulderpads, a hood, gloves, and slippers. His fingertips are skeletal as the rest of his hands. His jawlines have rotting splotches and his jawbone shows underneath.


Lazarus is a quiet man, though gentle. His charm carries along his surprisingly smooth voice. It is easy to persuade others. He attempts to help when he is able and holds others in high regards. There is never a feeling of doubt when one is in his company. When around his own kind he spares the same feelings as he does with the living. He treats others equally. On a morbid note, when he wishes to acquire something from someone, he will protect that person until whatever he needs becomes his. He then disposes of them promptly.

Alignment: Evil


There was always something amiss about the single child born to the Majire name. His childhood was stranger than others in many ways. It was peculiar to see how he discarded the toys that he was given by his loving parents, or his inability to speak until his adolescent years. It was quite possible that perhaps he didn't wish to speak. Whatever the case, Lazarus was certainly unique.

The small boy's tale begins with his abnormal interest in complex journals. Though he could not comprehend the larger words as they were not familiar to him and made no sense, he enjoyed glancing over the pages of his father's various writings. They told of his difficulties and expedition throughout magehood and what it took for him to get where he was today. A decent amount of entries depicted his struggles and how he surpassed them. Though Lazarus could not understand his father's books, the word 'magic' kept appealing to him. It was the first word he told unto his parents.

"Magic," Lazarus murmured, eyes narrowed as he peered upon the fiddle between his palms. The finely crafted wooden instrument had four strings spanning over a metal bridge, flowing above the surface along the black fingerboard. This belonged to his father, and he allowed his young protege to have possession of it. The instrument was passed down from many ancestors before him and held a strong sentimental value within the family. Lazarus would wax the fiddle with a cloth dabbed in solution every week after his practices.

Young ages are endorsed to join the magical academy of Stormwind. Starting studies earlier exhibits more promise for aspiring scholars. Lazarus' father was a mage himself and so was his wife. They had met during their schooling and connected on a spiritual and intimate level. Now with their son following the same path, it was agreed upon to enroll him at the age of nine.

Learning was second nature to Lazarus as the years passed. His curiosity for his father's personal journals exposed him to words that he eventually learned the meaning of when understanding how to read and write. His father was wealthy enough to afford a personal tutor for him while he was outside of school to teach him more complex grammar. Though attentive, Lazarus prefered not to speak so much during his classes and avoided answering too many questions.

An odd behavior developed for the Majire prodigy as his cool composure drew him farther away from relationships with his tutor and mentors at the magical academy. His mother and father did not see him often as his studies and personal teacher took up most of his time. When a child comes home from a few days away, they are suppose to be excited to see their parents. Lazarus was detached. There were no warm welcomings when he arrived home in the evenings. He would walk to his room and quietly shut the door.

Studies came to a slow as Lazarus enters his teenage years. His concentration was waning, often locking himself away in solitude for hours at a time. At odd hours of the night, soft music flowed from the child's room and filled the stairwells with rebounding melancholy melodies. His social inaptness caused a stir within the family. It was his mother's push that made the decision for him to see a therapist about his unusual behavior. With several visits over a year, Lazarus finally began to unhinge himself.

The young boy leaned forth in his padded Victorian chair, the plush red leather beneath him squeaking in response. "It's unusual for someone of this age to think about such morbid occasions, isn't it?" His fingers interlaced with one another, covering over the two thin lines that made his lips. An older man with wrinkles beneath his eyes and smile creases on his cheeks shook his head, the gray beard crinkling as his hand raised to scratch it. "No, no, Lazarus. It is perfectly normal to be curious about life and death as you are in this age. Try not to let the imagery of it get you down. The topic is indeed morose, and can make a person feel more depressed than they should. You will not have to worry about this for many, many years." Lazarus stood from his seat and gave a simple nod. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This was rare for the boy. "Thank you."

Lazarus' love for music never faded even during his rougher years. In his spare time away from the academy, he would travel with his mother to Hillsbrad on a business trip. During this time he would idle in Southshore and play his fiddle beneath the shade of an oak tree just outside of the town. He would watch the younger ones play outside of their schoolhouses. He would see mothers cradling their little ones in their arms. The spark of new life intrigued Lazarus, the thought playing around in his mind.

It was a quiet day within Southshore during his visit. His mother would due back in an hours time. The sun above was setting beneath the rolling hills and mountains that surrounded Hillsbrad and cut it off from Alterac. There wasn't anything special about the twinkling stars beginning to peak through the hazy skies that approaching dusk, but a soft disturbance carried along the wind. It was of a female sobbing, probably no more than the age of eight. He had stood and positioned himself behind the tree, the shade obscuring his figure as another one ran from the nearby schoolhouse.

His predictions were indeed right. It was a small girl who was crying, rubbing her eyes as she found consolance beneath the tree he was standing under, too. Her golden locks flowed over her shoulders and down her back, some tendrils sticking to the wetness of her tear-stained cheeks. As she continued to heave he slowly emerged from behind the trunk of the large tree without her knowing his presence.

A soft melody flowed from the fiddle and instantly made her perk up and look to him. She was confused, upset. Her watery eyes caught up in his gentle ones. "Why are you crying?" He ended on a soft note for her to respond. "I-I.." She couldn't speak, sniffling and rubbing away more fallen tears. "It's okay. Did you lose something?" She shook her head. "Did you scrape your knee?" "N-No.." "Were you taunted?" She nodded at this. "They.. they were mean. All of them. They just.. th-they laughed." Lazarus sat beside the girl at this point, playing an appropriate, light tune to ease her mind. "Worry not. The words of others are meaningless, and only you should form an opinion about yourself. There is no need to be upset whether or not others accept you for you. And there is no need to cry over it, either. For whatever you are, you should be happy with it. Don't ever let others make you feel otherwise." The girl smiled and nodded. She was crying no more. Lazarus offered his hand, and together, they rested beneath the tree to watch the twinkling stars that night until his mother arrived. The little one bid him farewell, and made him promise that they would see each other again.

Graduation day is always something to be proud of. His adolescent years were no more. Lazarus passed his academy training and with a high grade, to boot. There was nothing that his mother wasn't unsatisfied with. His father couldn't complain either. They were happy to see him going off to start his adult classes within the magic institute in Stormwind. There was a choice to visit the beautiful city of Dalaran, but Lazarus was content with the familiarity of his own mystical city.

A circulating and reoccurring thought never ceases to interest Lazarus as he progresses with his Arcane training. He had chose it as his specialty and wanted only to bestow upon himself the knowledge and power that it brought. Arcane was the most prominent and useful mage school that had many possibilities and routes one could take. There was no interest in fire, nor ice. But there was a peculiar interest that neither offered, and the one that he thought about increasingly everyday. Arcane could do so many things, after all. It could be able to sate his curiosity for the darkest desire he had.

"It's a common question, I'm sure--" Lazarus began, though his father interjected by abruptly standing from his desk. "And it's -unfortunate- that I can't answer it for -you.-" A growl in his tone towards his son. "Why can you not answer it? Are you scared of the possibility that it may be obtained?" "The power over life and death is something that Arcane visionaries frown upon, Lazarus. It -is- possible. It is dangerous and impure. Light knows how many have fallen to it's sick ways. And I want nothing to do it with, or have anything to say about it. Now we will speak no further about this. If you want to talk about something more sane, you come to me. Otherwise do not interrupt my writing." But that is all Lazarus wanted to hear. He turned and left the room, unbenownst to his father of the misplaced crooked grin upon his lips.

The journey to Tirisfal was boring and uneventful. Lazarus had attended along with afew other colleagues on a trip to Lordaeron's lands in a scholarly study. A portal was the passageway offered, as one of them had visited the Capital City before and promptly made a quick way to get back. Now with a smidget of arcane the once tiring expedition was a flash. Upon arriving, the mages visited the City's libraries and walked around as a tour group. There was always something new to learn.

During their week stay, they were pleasantly surprised with the return of Arthas and the following parade. Lazarus sat in the courtyard with a book, not partaking in any festivities. He didn't see the prince return with everyone in the way. He couldn't particularly care less, either. He wasn't the king. Though a series of unfortunate events occurred when the prince made his arrival back in the city ending with his father murdered and him taking over with an ambush of scourge. Everyone in the city was in disarray and panic, innocents getting in the way of slaughter.

Lazarus retreated to the courtyard's corridors beneath the stone stairwells. Above was the panic and screams and shouts from sentries manned at the castle walls and gates. There was a trail of neon green ichor scratch marks along the walls, the flickering torches making the blood glint forbodingly. The mage had to escape, but these corridors, as he discovered upon reaching the end of them only led to the water beneath the bridge below and to the sewers. His head turned to see shadows of approaching scourge along the wall. In a desperate attempt to conceal himself before they found him, he closed his eyes and whispered an incantation. Slowly, his body vanished before sight.

The unnatural glowing eyes of the scourge peered down the hallway as Lazarus pressed his back up against the wall. The torch flickering nearby blew out with a gust of wind that coursed through the tunnel. His mages robes rippled in the current but his hand immediately went to silence them. A pair of eyes landed on the very spot he stood. The scourge's hand gripped around the hilt of his sword tightly. Lazarus wouldn't dare move. He held his breath while the two of their eyes met. As it began to turn, his breath escaped slowly out through his lips in a sigh of relief. Until a sword tip abruptly swung around right into his chest. Blood splurged out from the wound and coated the front of his mage robes, the liquid being visible over an invisible silhouette.

Lazarus' figure flickered back into view as the undead twisted the sword in his chest and pulled out. He fell to his knees, his palm on the floor and the other gripping his bleeding wound. He coughed crimson blood over the rough stones, eyes closing as his body collapsed. The shallow movements of his torso stilled a moment later.

~ ~ ~

Under the bastard prince's command, all those who had been relentlessly slaughtered were risen back into his reign. The husk of a man in blue mage robes was one of them, long teal hair clinging to his bloodied face from the pool of ichor on the ground. A bestial snarl ensued as he hobbled his way towards the top of the Capital City to wreak havoc.

Nothing lasts forever. Soon after Arthas had his fun, the Banshee Queen Sylvanas Windrunner of Quel'thalas broke free of her supposed eternal damnation, willpower alone giving her the strength to free herself and many others. Lazarus regained his sanity along with a large portion of mindless undead. He found himself wandering the hills of Tirisfal somewhere outside of Lordaeron's ruins. The events that had occurred during his scourge-time are unknown. But what he does remember is glimpses of his previous life just before his untimely death.

The few years that followed his newly granted unlife had been him getting back on track and exploring these new lands and this new race from which was risen from the ground. He admired Arthas' technique and how he masterfully raised so many and was able to command them all. His curiosity concerning Necromancy returned. He learned to manipulate the Arcane for his dark bidding, enabling the use of bringing corpses back to life despite being human or animal.

During his adventures he had acquired powerful allies and a student that was interested in the same thing he was. Power. This perilous dream kept him going through all sorts of dangerous journeys, obtaining more knowledge from ruins spanning all of Azeroth. Now with his ambitions high, he plans on delving even more into the dark studies of Necrology in attempts to become something far more greater.