Stoic

Information

Player: Frogspawned

Character Full Name: Gordon Mortimer Murphy

Character In-Game Name: Stoic

Nickname(s): Stoic

Association(s): The Forsaken.

Race: Forsaken

Class: Warrior

Skills and Abilities: Stoic excels almost exclusively with large shields and simple weapons. He has developed some talent with smithing, to the extent that he was able to fashion himself the sturdy metal-plate framework he wears habitually around his neck and hide the grisly ruin there.

Age: 36. 7 during first war, 13 during second, died in third at 27.

Sex: Male

Hair: None. Stoic is completely bald.

Eyes: None. Stoic has only empty black sockets where his eyes should be.

Weight: 245lbs

Height: 6'1”

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Heavy Plate Armour.

Other: Always wears a gigantic metal gorget around his mouth and neck to hide the hideous mess of his jaw.

Personality

Alignment: Neutral

Stoic is thoughtful, subservient and very, very quiet. Although his long silences and brief – often simple, one word exclamations – may speak to some of the onset of mindlessness, the truth is that he simply does not relish the sound of his own voice. In life, music and singing were among his greatest passions, but in death he cannot carry even the simplest of tunes. This is a source of great sorrow and regret for the Forsaken soldier, and when put into a situation that demands speech, he can become – at turns – petulant and childish, greatly aggravated, or lapse into simple despondency.

History

Stoic began life as a mason's son in northern Lordaeron. Part of a large family, he always craved attention. He was always a big lad, and he saw fit to 'help' with his father's business from as early as five. Though too young to do heavy lifting, he carried tools – brought and fetched drinks for the men – and generally tried to make life on building sites more bearable. And though he sometimes got in the way, his cheerful enthusiasm for his little tasks ensured that nobody ever had the heart to shoo him away. Shortly before the second war, he was old enough and large enough to start helping in more significant ways. It was hard work in the open air, exposed to the elements. It gave him a great strength, though his gentle nature saw to it that he never raised a hand to anyone. For these and other reasons, he was well loved by friends, family, and a pretty young girl called Lucille, who ignited his love for music. He liked nothing better than to watch her dance, to sing for her or to listen to her own quiet voice chime out a melody. They spent much of their adolescence together, and though they had fights, they were always quick to make up. They were in love.

A few years after the close of the second war, they decided to run away together. He was strong, he could sing, and she was agile, a dancer. They fit right in with a travelling band of entertainers, roaming the Lordaeronian countryside. Theirs was a classic elopement, and though they loved the travelling life, the fresh sights and sounds every new village provided, but after another seven or eight years they were starting to consider slowing down, finding somewhere to put down roots and start a family.

They never quite got around to it before the cult of the damned set their plot in motion. The travelling caravan they were a part of was just northwest of Darrowshire when they caught wind of the plague wracking the north-eastern reaches of the kingdom. The leaders of their merry band deliberated shortly over the best course of action, promptly turning everyone around and planning to go south, away from the trouble – resupplying in Andorhal and cutting through the mountain passes of Alterac down to Hillsbrad and Southshore.

It was a good plan, and would have worked perfectly – if while travelling through the passes, several of their number hadn't been taken ill. After a brief, worried discussion, it was concluded that those who'd fallen ill had eaten from the supplies taken on at Andorhal – Gordon amongst them. Fearing for their lives and not wanting to bring death even further south, both the supplies and the infected were left behind, to rot or die as appropriate just east of Strahnbrad.

A few friends, lovers or relatives couldn't bear to carry on without the sick and remained behind, clinging to forlorn hope that they would still recover. Among these was Lucille, who prayed and pleaded as she nursed her lover, even as the fast-acting plague made him almost seem to fade away before her very eyes. In the early stages of his illness, he tried to convince her to leave him, to catch up with the caravan again. They had friends there almost as close as family. She refused. She wept and begged as his condition worsened, and the last words he heard before the merciful veil of death drew over his mind, cloaking everything in darkness, stillness and quiet were; “Fight it. For me. You're strong. Stoic. I love you. Don't go.”

And then... nothing. For perhaps half a year he served in the destruction of Lordaeron as part of the scourge, though he retains no memories of that time. But when the lich king's powers began to wane, there was the sensation of movement, and a jolting in what might have been his stomach. Felt as if he was falling, and then... he awoke with a start, as if from a long sleep.

He found himself in a new state. The flesh of his fingers was worn away, and fragments of bone jutted from the ends of what remained of his fingers as sharp claws. Eyes that had once gleamed with vibrant life glowed a dull yellow. Cheeks were sunken and gaunt, and clumps of his long brown hair had been torn out by something. And he no longer needed to breathe. And he was alone. His heart no longer beat, his blood no longer raced through his veins. All those little things one never notices in life were conspicuous in their cessation, and he felt his mind reeling from grasping the significance of his new form.

He tried asking the world what he was, but the voice that emerged from his throat was not his. Gone was his pleasantly gruff bass, replaced by coarse, grating, rasping tones. Something had stolen his voice! Someone had taken it away, replacing it with this new, horrifyingly throaty abomination. He tried not to worry, humming a tune that had always calmed him in his youth. The strange, alien voice couldn't even get it right. It sounded more like a dirge. Already close to madness from his new state, panicked by his new appearance and the absence of anything that might have given him comfort, he turned his newfound claws against his face. He ripped and tore at his jaw in a frenzied desire to not ever hear from this … this other ever again. He tore out his own eyes so that he'd never have to look at his reflection. He tried to weep but produced no tears. He couldn't help but sob, however. The ruin he had made of his neck did not prevent this foreign voice from issuing from him as he'd hoped it would. There was nothing he could do. He wasn't even blinded as he'd hoped. His eyeless sockets still perversely reported what his eyes had once been necessary to see.

There was a short period of aimless wandering during which he met no others, and retreated further inside his own mind, grasping for memories – any memories – to help him piece together what had happened to him. He remembered his youth, his life, his love. But try as he might he couldn't bear to think of himself as Gordon any more.

He happened across the forsaken eventually, following them and their banshee queen not out of any sense of duty or fellowship with them, but out of a longing to think about anything but his curse. He found a weapon somewhere along the way. Maybe it had belonged to someone else, once. Maybe it had been prised from dead man's hands. Or maybe it was the torn chainmail that had been robbed from a mutilated corpse. Or maybe the battered wooden shield. Stoic barely knew himself. The early years of the forsaken were a blur, fighting elves, paladins, mindless... all in the name of the Dark Lady.

Over time, he picked up on how to take care of his weapons and armour. He took to covering up his jaw. Other forsaken, when they could see the clearly self-inflicted wounds were curious – and who could blame them? But he didn't want to answer. He both longed for the life he'd lost but was also ashamed of how he'd reacted when he woke. Unlife wasn't so bad. You still had jobs to do. Things to carry. People to fight. Armour to forge. And sometimes the banshees would sing. When they did, he risked whatever he dared to listen.

Over time, Stoic developed his smithing skills. He'd retained much of his former physique, and that was leant additional strength by his ghoulish existence so that he might never even have died. He crafted himself a crude set of plate mail and a resilient, buckled faceguard to obscure his neck. He fought in Northrend against skeletons and ghouls until Arthas was slain, not even being recalled to do his part in putting down Putress' attempt at a coup after the Wrathgate fiasco. Some forsaken had to remain to ensure no ground was lost; and he was one.