Malachai

Information

Player: Rowgen

Character Full Name: Malachai

Character In-Game Name: Malachai

Nickname(s) : Mal, "the Ebon Crusader"

Association(s): The Ebon Blade, the Forsaken, the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow, the Cult of the Black Harvest

Race: Forsaken

Class: Death Knight

Age: 35

Sex: Male

Hair: Black

Eyes: Blue

Weight: 254 lbs

Height: 6'5"

Appearance

Malachai is a bear of a man, standing taller and burlier than most of his fellow Forsaken. His face is a pale, gaunt mask with a pair of cold, icy blue eyes and shaggy, black hair. His body shows little evidence of rot and few wounds, but his skin is pale as snow, thin as paper and lined with dark veins of congealed blood. Luckily, most of these features are covered by the heavy Saronite armor he wears.

The armor itself is dark, colored with the purple of the Ebon Blade, while a matching cloak and a surcoat bearing the sigil of the Ebon Blade accompanies it, leaving no doubt about his allegiance. Even if the dark figure is foreboding enough, Malachai wears a horned Saronite greathelm nonetheless. While it's primarily intended to provide protection, the helm is shaped much like the helm of the Ebon Blade Highlord and the Lich King. His armament is two wicked, serrated runeblades adorned with sinister runes and ornaments.

Personality

Malachai is stoic and apathetic, usually keeping his cool through most situations. When provoked, though, he shows a completely different side of himself. A passionate supporter of the Forsaken’s cause and the Dark Lady, Malachai is a paragon amongst Forsaken. He is dedicated and determined, rarely shying away from any means to further his own agenda – and by extension that of the Forsaken. He justifies his actions with a typical “the-end-justifies-the-means”-approach to moral and ethical questions, if he at all bothers to justify it. In reality, he plainly doesn’t care.

In later years he has adopted the teachings of the Forgotten Shadow, though he views it more as a cause to fight for than a faith. He cares little for virtues and tenets, focusing more on the superiority and power of the individual; the road to dominance over their foes and respect amongst their peers. This is rooted in the belief that the Undead are superior beings to the Living. He believes that only through introducing all free-thinking Undead to the thoughts of the Black Harvest and rallying them under the Dark Lady’s banner can they achieve dominance over the Living and forge a new future for themselves.

History

When he was still alive Malachai was a completely different creature than the man he grew to become. He lived in the great city of Andorhal and grew up amongst the farmers, carpenters and merchants, quickly learning his place amongst them. As a young boy he started taking odd jobs and running errands to earn a few coins to live by, and soon enough he found relatively stable work as a blacksmith's assistant. His duties included notifying customers that their orders were finished and cleaning and tidying up around the smithy. But the young boy yearned for more, and he soon found the courage to ask the blacksmith if he wanted an apprentice. Furrowed brows and a simple 'I'll think about it' was his answer.

As the boy grew to become a young man over the years, he also grew to become a strong man and he took to regularly asking the blacksmith the same question: 'When am I old enough?' The blacksmith would always tell him to wait another year, and when that year had passed, he would tell him to wait another. The young man grew increasingly weary with denial, until he one year decided to leave the dreams altogether and grudgingly accept the coin he was already earning. He had hoped for years that he would be accepted, and with each denial he'd been certain that if he only grew stronger and older, the blacksmith would take him. But no, he would not, even though the boy was soon a man grown, and stronger than most of the other lads his age.

One fateful year the Horde broke free from their shackles in the internment camps, and rose in force against their human captors. The news spread like wildfire, and it didn't take long before the young man heard. He chose to act. Spending most of the money he'd saved up from his years in the blacksmith's service, he purchased a simple sword and a mismatched, makeshift armor of boiled leather and a mail vest to protect his torso. It was not of the highest quality, but at least he was better armed than a farmer with a pitchfork. When he had acquired his armament, he lined up to enlist.

His chance to prove himself had to wait, though. In fact, it took him two years before he saw any "action", and by that time, it wasn't Orcs he faced. It was plague. Rumors had it that a foul disease was spreading throughout Lordaeron, but the young man was sure that it would run its course soon. Only it didn't, and as the plague spread, more rumors spoke of undead creatures rising from their graves, dark cultists and sorcerers... And when the undead came, he ran. Along with plenty of others he fled to Hearthglen, only to hear that a massive undead army was marching on the city. Fearful and cornered he decided that if Hearthglen didn't hold then there was nowhere to run. He decided to stand and fight, and was handed a far more fashionable set of armor to accompany it.

While the men prepared for battle a host from the south approached the city, and the young man prayed it was not the undead. Somehow his prayers were answered, as it was not undead who came but men of Lordaeron led by Prince Arthas himself and Lady Jaina Proudmoore... And Lord Uther was coming. Surrounded by legends, the man took heart. No undead could match such power, he was certain of that. But Uther's arrival was late, and many men fell. Some to disease, some to bleeding wounds and some were crushed by the crushing tides of the undead. Yet the man fought on, though he tired and grew weak. By the time Lord Uther came, the men were on the brink of destruction with only pockets of resistance struggling to stay afloat in a sea of corpses... Still and moving ones alike.

Hearthglen held. Despite the odds, the city remained standing in the battle's aftermath. The young man felt more ruined than the city ever was, though. The undead were his countrymen, he knew. They weren't alien orcs or conjured demons, they were his countrymen. He couldn't bear the thought of killing his own, but he knew they were not what they were in life... And he took comfort in that. Knowing that he was doing them a mercy strengthened his resolve, and he followed the Prince to Stratholme when they moved out. He was determined to finish what he'd started.

If he had any innocence by the time he reached Stratholme, he lost it quickly. They were ordered to kill the citizens. The young man wept as he drove his blade through one peasant after the other, struggling to convince himself that what he was doing was right. It was mercy. It was mercy. He knew they were going to turn into undead anyway, but Light, it wasn't mercy, it was murder! The cries of the damned rang in his ears, and the sound of steel sinking into flesh sent chills down his spine. When the undead began to attack them, he almost welcomed it, for it was a sweet relief from the crimes his prince had made him commit.

Stratholme was a victory, but the city was left in ruins. The man couldn't fathom that he had helped in bringing about its end. He couldn't rest. He felt as much a corpse as all the innocents he had slain. Guilt tore at him and he spent his waking hours praying silently, but his prayers were drowned by accusations and guilt and the sound of steel and screams whenever he tried to be silent. So he decided to pray aloud, but it was no use. His voice broke and sometimes he would fall silent, forgetting his words... And whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw was red. Blood red. He didn't remember when, but at some point he boarded a ship headed for Northrend, for the home of the undead. Their mission was to kill the Dread Lord Mal'Ganis. To finish what they had started.

The arrival on the cold shore was wrought with confusion, at least for the young man's part. He stumbled ashore like some drunkard and did whatever he was told, but hardly anything else. He ate when the men gathered to eat, drank when the men drank and swung his sword when the men swung theirs, but his heart was not in it and neither was his mind. He obeyed and moved and hardly anything beyond that, but when the Scourge came... He ran. He didn't even care to arm himself or dress warmly. He wanted nothing but to get away from all the blood and gore and flesh and the screams of men and steel. He couldn't run for long, though. He slowed down, bit by bit, slow enough, but he didn't go far. He didn't last in the cold. In the end he fell into the snow and let it fall over him. By the end he wasn't afraid anymore, and when he closed his eyes, black welcomed him instead of red. He was safe, all alone. Before he died, he almost felt warm again.

Malachai was born when the young man's corpse somehow found itself back in Lordaeron. To say he was confused would be an understatement, but it didn't leave him lethargic and depressed, contemplating Undeath and life and death. In his first hours of existence Malachai was a despicable creature, hardly more than a mindless ghoul. He was thrashing about in a frenzied bloodthirst, still not quite aware that he was free of the shackles that had held his will for so long. Eventually his rage calmed, and he discovered that he was surrounded by others, much like himself; Skeletons, Ghouls and Abominations. They were all so similar to him, but he didn't know what he was, or where he was. He didn't know who he was, either.

Confused and alone despite the army of corpses around him, he couldn’t think of anything else than following the masses. They stumbled their way through the Tirisfal Glades, until they came to the ruins of Lordaeron… And that is where they found the Dark Lady. To him, she seemed like a shimmer of light in a world far too dark. Looking around, he reckoned most of his fellow corpses felt much the same. Some of them could remember their lives; some of them wish they couldn’t. He didn’t know, didn’t remember. He’d been mute for so long that he’d nearly forgotten how to speak, but the Dark Lady’s voice brought it back to him. Her promises of shaping a world of their own comforted him. It didn’t matter that they didn’t live anymore; they could find their own road and shape themselves, but first they had work to do. They could never be free, as long as the Scourge and the Living hounded them. They had to be dealt with.

The Forsaken were not strong enough to handle both, though. They were barely able to fend off the Scourge, no more eradicate them. Even when every man and woman strong enough to carry a blade was mustered, they were simply not strong enough. Thus, they had to find allies. Their kin in the Alliance would never take them back; it was too late for that. But they were in luck, for they were not quite abandoned. Envoys from Mulgore on behalf of the Tauren arrived, offering to aid them in their quest for curing their miserable condition. A fine deal, many thought. Malachai agreed. As a Deathguard, he knew all too well that the Forsaken needed allies desperately. Not only did they have the Scourge to deal with, but also some wretched mongrels calling themselves the Scarlet Crusade.

For many years, the Forsaken struggled to fend off their foes. Malachai was amongst those sent to strengthen the defenses of the Bulwark, the very frontline of the Forsaken’s war upon the Scourge. Even with the aid of the Argent Dawn, it was hard to hold back the countless waves of undead monstrosities. In one of these many clashes, Malachai was separated from the masses and surrounded by enemies. A few of his fellow Deathguards were near, but they had no chance, and every attempt at holding off the Scourge was in vain; they lasted sparsely two minutes. Yet somehow Malachai cheated death once more. The Scourge took him back.

Once more he awoke amongst corpses in a dark place. A Necropolis, he realized. He wondered if he would ever find his way back to Lordaeron when abruptly a tall, dark shape approached him and told him to rise. Only then did he realize that his fellow corpses were as conscious as he was. The thought unsettled him, as he never knew the Scourge to take prisoners. The ragged band followed the shape through the dark halls, until they arrived to the center of the accursed hold. Malachai looked about, staring at all the creatures massed to the Scourge’s service. Men, Dwarves, Elves, Orcs, Trolls and other creatures he didn’t recognize.

Malachai took to the service under the Scourge… Surprisingly well. It wasn’t exactly as if he hadn’t been killing Scarlet mongrels already when he was with the Forsaken. As one of the Death Knights he was a merciless killing-machine, tearing through Scarlet lines beside his Brothers. And he saw new Brethren joining them every day, too. As the months became years, Malachai grew harder and the horrors that had disquieted him before didn’t bother him as much as they did before. Things such as honor and mercy were no longer a priority; all that mattered was duty and service to the Lich King.

The Hunger blinded him to the cruelties he committed, leaving him with no remorse or pity for the victims of his bloodthirst. However, rather than brute strength and berserker rage, he relied on calculation and precision to bring down his targets. Many excuses could be made for him of the acts he committed under the Scourge, but that he never meant to kill would not be one; Killing was his sole purpose.

And then one fateful day, like so many others he found himself marching on the Chapel of Light’s Hope. Trudging over tainted soil and cursed weeds, Malachai reflected on the courage of the defenders. He suspected some sort of trap, to be fair. Even the Scarlet Crusaders had withered before the might of the Scourge, why would the Argent Dawn be as confident of victory? Something did not add up, he thought to himself as he walked. When the battle commenced, and subsequently ended, Malachai barely had the time to draw his sword before he was forced to stand down and throw it to the ground.

Safe to say the Death Knight was seething by the time he was allowed to reclaim his blade, but with the Knights of Acherus forswearing their loyalty to the Lich King, anything was fair game. Malachai and his Brothers drew their blades once more and returned to the Necropolis, wrestling it from the Scourge’s grasp. After their treason, they were no longer the Scourge’s elite. No, now they were the Knights of the Ebon Blade. They were sworn to fight the Scourge now, all of a sudden. Malachai needed some time to grow used to the thought, but when he did a sense of urgent anticipation grew within, too. He could hardly wait.

Northrend was Hell frozen over. Luckily for Malachai, though, it wasn’t his Hell. He was fortunate enough to be spared of the most humiliating defeats of the war against the Lich King, though the betrayal of the Royal Apothecary Society was frustrating enough for the Death Knight; some lingering sense of loyalty to the Banshee Queen drove him furious when he heard of the man’s betrayal. He was conflicted, but he ultimately decided to remain behind in Northrend, though he swore to kill any of the rebels he might get his hands on, should the opportunity arise.

Malachai’s frustrations did not end with the Lich King’s death. In fact, partially it was another source of it for him. Forced to serve elsewhere while the Ashen Verdict pushed into the Citadel, he was denied the chance to face the most deadly of the Scourge’s servants and it was annoying him to no end. He left for Lordaeron as soon as he could; he returned to the Ebon Hold to brood and make occasional excursions to fight whatever remained of the Scourge’s forces in the land. In the end he grew restless and sought to find new enemies to quench his bloodthirst. He returned to the Undercity, at long last.

Skills and Abilities

• Particular Set of Skills: Ever since he regained his mind, Malachai has honed himself for the task of killing. Initially he was trained by the Deathguard to become a killing machine, but he was later exalted by the Lich King to become a Death Knight - an even worse killing machine. And thus the last decade of training and killing has left him a ruthless and cunning combatant.

• Blessing of Acherus: Like all other Death Knights, Malachai possesses the ability to draw power from runes engraved into his blades and armor, and he has been taught at Acherus to properly wield these powers. He fights aggressively, relying on his armor to defend him as he focuses almost entirely on offense. His attacks are frequently augmented by his runes, varying between swift stabs to powerful slashes, and though he prefers to focus on his swordsmanship he can make use of his runic magic to form ice javelins or mend the wounds of his allies.

• Enruned Armor: While most Death Knights are crippled when separated from their engraved runeblades, Malachai has picked up an interesting trick; By engraving the gauntlets of his armor, he's guaranteed himself secure access to his runes, and needn't even draw his blades to make use of his magic.