Berach

Information

Player: Jason

Character Full Name: Berach McCallan

Character In-Game Name: Berach

Association(s): The Horde

Race: Forsaken

Class: Rogue

Age of Natural Death: 20

Current Age: 27

Sex: Male

Hair: Bald

Eyes: Yellow

Weight: 100 lbs.

Height: 5'6

Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Appearance

The clothes Berach wore when awoken are now dust in the wind, and he has taken to covering his flesh up with accessible linens in order to reduce the annoyance caused by the wind.

Personality

What remains of Berach's personality is now tatters within his mind. Echoes that used to mean something but now only tug at his consciousness with memories of fondness, hate, and morbid pleasure. He speaks very little, suffering from slightly deteriorated vocal cords due to a once cut throat. He has a tendency to not let himself be seen and prefers perfect silence at intervals that agree with him. Berach has an extremely violent disposition, and he cares little for it. Another slaughter is another slaughter and him dying means he doesn't live. Trivial things such as these fail to concern him.

Other: He loves his own natural claws as a weapon.

History

Berach was born and raised in a small village within Tirisfal. He lived through the time of Lordaeron's greatness, and eventually it's fall, as the Scourge attacked and brought plague sweeping across the land. It infected everything; killing crops, killing people, killing and blighting the land as it's shadow reached further and further outward like a sickening radiation. Mindless Scourge zombies rose from the corpses of the fallen, turning on their spouses and butchering their children. Berach's own mother turned against him as he entered her house to take his family and flee. She leaped atop him and ripped at his throat until he lay dead and bleeding. He could not remember then how he had done the bidden of "Master" and decimated families, destroyed generations of working and caring for the land, and spread his own affliction. How he had been hunted down by his own, but not his own. How they had shut the voice out, and how he had spiraled into nothingness. How he had been hunted down by men with swords and armor blue. They had overpowered him, and put him in a pit with wood stacks. A torch hung close, but others came. Scourge fell on the men and overcame them with numbers. He could not escape the trappings holding him. Then he awoke. A rotting demon stood over him, purple energies flying about the air from his fingertips.

He'd leapt to his feet, tackling the diseased monster and ripping him to shreds with his bare hands. As the undead lay in a pile before him, he realized something. The air that he should be breathing hard and fast was not coming. He was drowning. He clapped his hands to his neck, and felt his skin's open, decomposed rent. And he felt no shame or pain. He wasn't sure if he should or should not. His cold and emotionless brain processed the information rapidly, unhindered. He was dead. He was living, not breathing, and killing. He was Forsaken, he realized, as the knowledge of his appearance came to full light in the were-lighten pool that reflected his visage. He was outcast. He was bitter, angry, and victorious. His kill made him his own God. He was a God. And he would keep his throne if he had to slaughter hundreds, or even thousands more.

He walked, stalked, killed, and instilled fear in the lands he swept through, destroying and maiming any and all that he could lay hands on. Animals, humans, children, mothers, babies, Lords, beggars. He was their God. He took them under his shadowed wings and gave them death, and in return, they gave him a place. He continued as such for months, until realization dawned that he would need to slow his pace before his people overthrew him. Soon, his subjects would be so many that he could not control them. He stalked. He relished that part. His favorite moment was before he heard them cry and scream in terror, for they knew they could not beg him for mercy. Then he would silence them, and he would rock back and forth in the throes of delicious power. A God in his own deteriorating mind.