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Player: Thoradin

Character Full Name: Gregori Yakov Jkorvi

Character In-Game Name: Gregori

Nickname(s): Greg

Association(s): None

Race: Forsaken

Class: Necromancer

Skills and Abilities:

  • Raise Dead: Being a Necromancer gives Gregori the unholy ability to force life back into a corpse, no matter how rotted, into his service.
  • Control Undead: Gregori can manipulate the weakened minds of lesser undead, forcing them to obey his will.
  • Death Bolt: Gregori can manipulate death energy to take the form of a ghostly skull to throw at his enemies.
  • Various Shadow Spells: Since most Necromancers favor the Shadow, Gregori himself specializes in it. He can wield many shadow spells and abilities favored by those of his chosen profession.

Age: 60

Age at Time of Death: 53

Sex: Male

Hair: Brownish-blue, scraggly, and long

Eyes: Standard Forsaken Yellow

Weight: Around ninety pounds, if that.

Height: Around 5'7"


Usual Garments/Armor: Dark robes, as would befit most of his kind. He also carries a staff with several small light blue crystals.

Other: Gregori is, by this point, almost entirely skeletal. His organs are magically attached and 'glued' onto his skeleton, but most of his flesh has long since rotted away.


Alignment: Neutral Evil

Gregori has the mind of a deranged child. He'll personalize things that, generally, shouldn't. Yet when he gets involved in his work, he becomes quite serious. No distraction could break his focus on the task at hand, years of work pouring into his creation, whatever it may be. This adds a deadly advantage to Gregori, as it is difficult to tell what state of mind he could be in a given moment. He could be quite disturbingly friendly, or so serious you would have thought someone just died, which may very well have happened.


Gregori was born in Corin's Crossing, a rather large town in East Lordaeron. Although his parents were overjoyed at the bouncing baby boy, the feeling did not remain in the years to come. The baby was oddly focused, studying everything he could with big, bright eyes. As a toddler, he maimed and disfigured his toys with sticks and candle fire. When his parents though giving him a pup for his seventh birthday would help him mentally, he killed it outright. No regret, or hint of sorrow for what he had done. Gregori was just... off.

At the age of twelve, Gregori's parents had enough of the freaky little boy. They eventually decided to send him North to his Uncle Merv, who owned little more than a shack in the woods. When Gregori arrived, his Uncle didn't do much to welcome him. In fact, his Uncle didn't do much for himself either. The shack in the woods terminology worked well for a small hut with barely even a few possessions in it. His Uncle was a crude man, yet had a couple of surprises in him. Well, one really. He owned a few books, which Gregori read by himself.

Oddly enough, one of those books was an archaic tome on fire magics. Idly reading aloud, Gregori accidentally set his Uncles home on fire, burning it down to a crisp. This of course eventually led to the young boy being sent away to Dalaran, to learn how to better use this ability. He showed great enthusiasm, at first...

For years Gregori studied under some awful bore of a wizard. Alfineous the Wise was his name, though Gregori often loathed hearing it. His studies included the different schools of magic, his great interest being in none of them. All of the legal magics seemed to dull and wasteful to Gregori. Fire could be made with sticks and flint, ice with cold, so on so forth. Yet he learned what he had to learn, how to control this school of magic and that brand of arcane. It was all so dull. Even when his mentor took him into the area outside of Dalaran, to let the young man use the full force of his abilities.

When the First War had come and gone, Gregori didn't really care for it either. He had always dismissed it as 'Hogwash news from a country of idiots'. Refugees poured into Hillsbrad and the areas around Dalaran, only distressing Gregori further. His mentor, rapidly aging, decided that it was time to take Gregori north, further in Lordaeron. With nothing better to do, Gregori followed. It was mostly just a ploy for the old wizard to have someone to tend to his home for him, Gregori did not spare the old man from his constant bitching.

Eventually it had become too much for the young mage. Gregori blacked out in a fit of rage over a very small issue. He woke to the smoldering ruins of his mentor's house and field. Gregori felt no loss, no pain of regret. He knew what he had done, even if he had no memory of it. It was time for him to learn on his own, to study the magics that had been long forbidden by the mages of Dalaran. Good thing for him that Dalaran had only recently been destroyed by the orcish Horde. The once great Libraries were at his disposal, at least the few tomes that had survived.

'A Treatise on Shadowmancy' was the only worthwhile book he could find. He treasured it, flipping through the ancient pages, practicing the old words and hand motions. His first shadow spell consumed a squirrel and the bush it was in. The darkness rising up around it, suffocating both plant and critter. Greg looked on in a feverish delight at his newfound magic. He continued to study the pages, every word, every letter. Before long, Gregori had turned himself into a proper Shadowmage, but it wasn't enough. The years rolled on, Gregori resorting to petty roadside theft to get by.

The Kirin Tor always had an interesting way of finding those they want. Gregori awoke one day in a prison, his hands shackled by faintly glowing irons. His magic was nullified! He cursed aloud, trying to come up with a way to escape the prison. It sank in, where he was. The Violet Hold was notorious for never having a breakout. Gregori remained he for the better part of the year, his mind slipping into a deep madness. Voices in his head, one standing out in particular. It spoke of his Shadowmancy, and of other darker magics. The mage ignored it as best as he could, it was just another voice, at least that is what it seemed to be.

In the dead of the night he was hustled out of the prison, robed agents of some unknown agenda. It hit Gregori like a brick. The Voice was not his, it couldn't have been. It spoke of outlandish magics, yet intriguing all the same. He awoke in a cave, dark chants echoing throughout. Next to him was another mage from the prison, his clothing as ragged as Gregori's. A figure weaved to the pair of weary mages, his form like a shadow.

The Figure led the two mages along a narrow corridor of rock and stone, passing chambers where more hooded forms chanted and convened in darkness. Gregori and the ragged mage were stopped in a final chamber, the Figure presenting them the choice: Servitude in one form or another. They were offered knowledge in service to the True King, dark magics and spells. Gregori hastily accepted while his counterpart wanted no part in it. His death was quick, his resurrection unholy and gruesome; Gregori watched with wide-eyed fascination.

For months Gregori toiled under a new master, his mind muddled and bewitched by new spells and incantations. His willed enslaved by a new Lord of death and fear. Gregori had become a Necromancer, raising his first thralls: his beloved parents who wanted nothing to do with him. This went on for a long while, until Gregori was cut down by an ambush of human soldiers. The attack was beaten away, the survivors high-tailing it back to their base. Gregori's own corpse was dragged back, raised into blissful undeath.

He continued for the duration of the Lich King's operations in Lordaeron, until his Lord's power over him dwindled. Gregori simply felt his will return to him one day. His mind cleared as he realized what had transpired, his memory flooding back to him like a tsunami. He studied his form, rotted flesh, exposed bone. He was horrified at what had happened, what he had become. His mind raced for an idea, some epiphany, to cure him. His new-found powers over death? Surely something can come of that?

As the years flew by, Gregori picked up the art of Alchemy. He began different concoctions, recipes with herbs, minerals, and magic infused. His search for a cure corrupting him to a state of mind more deranged than he could've been perceived before. He began testing his volatile mixtures on living beings, captured humans, dwarves, elves. His preference had always been human, in the hopes that it would strengthen the chance of a cure. Days, weeks, months, years rolled by, with no result. His mind slipping further and further due to his constant failure.

Lordaeron eventually dried up, few potential recruits left anywhere near the Capital City. His ghostly eyes turned southbound, to the recovering nation of Stormwind. Surely there would be prey-a-plenty. He made his way south, gathering ingredients as he traveled on, eventually finding himself in the region of Duskwood. Setting up shop in the town of Raven Hill, Gregori preyed upon the passerby, using them to construct undead thralls or to test his newest mixture.

Soon enough the Worgen took over Raven Hill. Not the feral, mindless beasts that roamed the woods, but intelligent worgen with peculiar accents. Thinking it best not to aggravate them, Gregori closed up shop and fled into the darkness of the woods. At this point, Gregori set up shop in a cozy little cave, growing some of his ingredients and experimenting where he could. This is where we find him even today.