Roger

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Information

Player: ghaskan

Character Full Name: Roger Paine

Character In-Game Name: Roger

Nickname(s): N/A

Association(s): The Undercity

Race: Forsaken

Class: Priest

Skills and Abilities: An apprentice to the ways of the Holy Light in life, Roger learned some tricks of the Shadows during the start of his undeath. However, he only resorts to them in times of great need, as he is repulsed by the use of the Shadow. As a book enthusiastic, Roger is a very fast reader and proficient self-taught and self-employed scribe who occasionally dabbles in the ways of Inscription.

Age: 19 at time of death, 28 years old at present time.

Sex: Male

Hair: Retained its black colour from when he was alive, but now it is notably greasy and frayed.

Eyes: Dark blue in life, two ghostly glowing orbs of yellow in undeath.

Weight: 59kg

Height: 1,62m

Appearance

Roger prefers to dress in a white acolyte robe that reminds him of his old days as a living man. Unfortunately, the robe is very dirty and worn out, losing most of its majesty. He always carries a dagger with him, although he is a mediocre fighter at best; it acts more as a trivial guarantee of safety than anything else.

Other: He has no ense of posture and thus his lack of confidence usually make him slouch down, with his shoulders drooped and head lowered.

Personality

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

A coward in life will be a coward in death. Roger was always afraid of many things, and still is. Moreover, he is a very nervous fellow, always slouching and stuttering.

After becoming conscious of his condition, he became terrified by his new self, although later the force of habit transformed that fear primarily into self-loathing. The ways of his fellow Forsaken confuse him, for he does not understand why some of them are so thankful to the Dark Lady for freeing them. Roger is anything but grateful for his new state, as when he was out of his mind at least he had no idea of what was going on, and thus does not believe he is in debt to the faction of Undercity. However, he tags along, for lack of a better place to belong.

Indeed, it is quite ironic that the monsters he despises are nowadays the only ones who accept him without hesitation. After all, he is one of them. He retained the shyness he had in life and, now that most living beings think of him as an aberrant fiend, Roger has a very hard time connecting with people.

While Roger has managed to find a way to evade his misery, by re-discovering his pleasure for reading, he is still taken by depression once in a while. All in all, he is a very gloomy person who only had small tastes of true happiness. The undead even attempted suicide numerous times, but his fear of Death is so strong he remains in an impassive limbo.

Thankfully, his love for books serves as an anchor of sorts to keep him from going insane and, secretly, he is still hopeful that one day he will be able to feel the caring embrace of the Light once again. Roger keeps looking forward to it, even if his present is grim.

History

Roger Paine was the last son to be born from the blood of William Paine, caretaker of a noble’s farm in Lordaeron. Much to his father’s dismay, Roger did not pick up after the family’s good name, failing at even the simplest tasks at the farm – he would instead spend his days dozing around in their humble house, devouring over and over again the books from their thin collection. Not wanting his son to become a “housewife”, William Paine forced Roger to enlist in the military.

However, Roger did not thrive. He had grown small and frail, always nervous, always pale. When skirmishes were had, he would fall sick or pass on them. His superiors at the military were growing impatient as time ran by.

One day, during a rare day off, Roger decided to explore a city his military group was staying at. He heard a soft, distant murmur that seemed to call for him. He followed it, attracted by its tenderness, just to see one of the most beautiful things in his whole short life.

A church, of gothic architecture, stood in front of him, a melancholy albeit crystalline chore of angelical voices reverberating from within. “The Light shall protect thy”, they sang and, indeed, the sun that bathed the church’s white stone seemingly made it glow with a caring holy light. Dragged in by the magnificence, by the promise of security, Roger entered the church.

“The Light shall protect you. The Light shall heal you. The Light shall guide you. All you need is to believe, and carry Its will”, proclaimed a strong and clear masculine voice.

Roger looked up. Behind the pulpit stood a man, dressed in pure white, illuminate by a colourful shower of luminosity that was shed from a stained glass window at the back. His voice carried command, yet his eyes shone with warm kindness. Roger kneeled down before him. He had heard of the Light before. It was for It that everyone at his home prayed, yet the young man had never before understood Its sheer beauty and affection.

“Father, may I carry out the Light’s will and do Its bidding?” he plead, feeling an unusual certainty.

Leaving the military behind, Roger moved to the church. His father, William Paine, seemed satisfied enough to have his son finding his own path, although he still felt a bittersweet disappointment for having one less pair of arms to help around the farm.

Roger started to study under the Father’s tutelage. The older man would often remark that, if ignorance was a bliss, then knowledge was a blessing. Although Roger would preach from time to time as part of his education and sheer love for the Light, it was with books that he found true pleasure, and would often spend days at a time without catching a glimpse of sunlight.

One could say that Roger Paine had found his happiness. And yet, that happiness escaped his hands in an instant. Before anyone could stop it, the undead Plague struck, killing many of Lordaeron’s citizens, and Roger was no exception.

That was it. No longer would he hear the Father’s inspiring preaching, for a blade had sunk deep into his heart. No longer would he be able to finish reading every book from the Church’s library, burnt to ashes during a raid to the settlement. No longer would he feel the gentle embrace of the Light, now that a greater darkness had consumed him.

A faint existence seemed to dwell in his memories... memories of growling, butchery and feasting upon flesh. A legion of abominable beings, walking corpses, intent to kill anything that breathed. Men clad in armour shining with hope...and painful baths of holiness.

The Light...a light did indeed glimmer, dim and ghastly. Roger was lying on the ground with a freezing apathy. He extended his arm; his hand was about to fall to rub his tired eyes...when a gruff, eerie scream escaped his rotten lips.

His hands were no longer Human - a palm made of rags of dead skin and bits of decayed meat that ended in gnarled claws could no longer be Human. What had happened? Roger did not know. All he knew was that he was alive...sort of.

“Come right here you slacker, stop screamin’ and get a move on!”, bellowed a unnatural voice as a fist smacked on Roger’s head. For the first time since his strange visions he felt something: pain.

He looked up. In front of him stood a man, dressed in dark rags, covered by a darkness accentuated by the torch he carried. His voice carried impatience and his eyes shone with an peculiar yellow glow. A corpse was talking to him. Roger ran away from the monster.

But his hands, his voice... was not Roger a monster as well? He dashed through the grass, shrouded by shadows, as the corpse who had welcomed him from his sleep yelled orders that Roger could no longer comprehend.

After running for what appeared to be an eternity, Roger found a lake. There, he would be able to wash away his doubts. The puzzled man peered and, from the water’s surface, a cadaverous green face with glowing yellow eyes peered at him with an expressionless look. Roger let another aberrant scream out. He fell to the ground on his backside, cowering in fear of himself. He was one of them, a murderous monster! More than afraid, Roger was disgusted of himself.

“So yer there!”

Roger froze and stared from over his shoulder to who had interjected him. It was the one who had greeted him after his foul sleep.

“Let’s arm you so ya can fight against the Scourge and serve the Dark Lady, eh?” continued the monster, “Do you remember yer past craft? Some do, could speed up things”

Fight...Roger knew he had fought for the military and that he was no good at the time. But fighting would mean needing weapons. A weapon was all he needed.

“Y-yes. W-w-was a w-warrior in the past. Good w-with d-d-daggers” he stuttered coldly.

Soon enough Roger and his greeter were in a village populated by spooky ruined buildings and walking corpses, who called themselves undead or, more commonly, Forsaken. It was a terrible sight he wanted to escape from.

As soon as he had a dagger in his possession, he promised to train in order to aid the Forsaken. A lie, albeit a so petty and necessary one. When Roger found himself out of the sight of any intelligent being, he attempted to bring down the dagger to meet his heart and free him from the shackles of undeath.

But the dagger stopped in midair. As much as Roger loathed his newfound self, his fear of Death was greater. He threw the useless weapon to the ground and gloomily walked back town, his shoulders drooped as if they carried the whole weight of Azeroth.

At the start of his new life, Roger remained depressive, committing further failed suicide attempts in secret. He was deemed unworthy of fighting as a footman, and thus he was thrown at Deathknell to learn the secrets of the Shadow due to his not-too-shabby wits. Without the willpower to retaliate, Roger ‘lived’ through months of learning, dominated by lethargy. He mastered some of the secrets of the shadows, descending further into his path of death.

Some time after that, during one of his investigations as an initiate of the Shadow, Roger found a book different from those he was used to. Instead of talking strictly of topics important to feed knowledge, that one told a fantastic tale that narrated the adventures of a dwarven explorer. Fascinated, Roger read, absorbing every word as a fragment of life that dwelt within the tattered pages.

Roger had found a reason to continue his existence – to read was to live, even if it was the life of a character, fictional or not. There were no obligations among the Forsaken that dictated that he had to stay and help. The laws of duty were, indeed, pretty lax, as most Forsaken worked out of free will, since they were thankful for being freed from one “Lich King”. Roger felt no gratitude for his state. From his faint memories, he knew he had served as such a mindless servant, yet even that would be preferred over being able to think in his condition.

He left Deathknell, moving to the Undercity. The dead man went through his days reading once more, evading himself from his putrid reality. He would be swayed by depression once in a while, and self-loathing was part of his daily undeath, however, the books gave Roger a purpose. He also went, and still goes, to visit other places from time to time, mostly in search of new manuscripts or to visit the important places of his foggy past – even if most of them are now destroyed.

To this day, Roger dwells in the walls of Undercity, living among the tales and teachings that books have to offer.