Bralt

Information

Player: Ronin

Character Full Name: Bralt Tyrias Volgard

Character In-Game Name: Bralt

Nickname(s): Tyr (By Close Family), "Bralt the Vulgar"

Association(s): Undercity, Sin'sholai

Race: Forsaken

Class: Swordsman (Warrior In-game)

Age: About 27 (around 17 at time of death)

Sex: Male

Hair: Black

Eyes: Dimly Glowing Yellow

Weight: 274 lbs (Mostly muscle retained from life)

Height: 5'11"

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Appearance

He's un-picky when it comes to his attire, and will dress to match the occasion. His only consistent item is his Journal, which he takes with him wherever he goes.

Personality

Bralt's a lazy, stupid, arrogant a-hole. His desire to -not- apply himself in most situations unless specifically told to do so is overwhelming, and even when he is "motivated" (a loosely used word), he exerts the least effort possible while still getting the job done. his mind is still fully intact from his days with the living, but he wasn't very bright to begin with, and as such, tries to hide his lack of intelligence with not-so-witty comebacks, foul language, and crude humor. In general, Bralt's attitude urges most to dislike him, and any good qualities he -might- have usually remain hidden.

One of said redeeming traits happens to be his lack of blood thirst. Unlike most able-bodied Forsaken, he doesn't desire the "end of the breather's world". Unfortunately, this drive comes from much less a place of caring (he -is- an undead), and more from his near lethargy. He just doesn't care enough to kill people readily.

In truth, Bralt has been clinically classified as depressed, though he non-verbally disagrees. Still, he suffers from "comfort eating", which he had in life. Yet, being undead and not actually -needing- to eat means he simply stuffs himself with whatever he finds interesting, then works on puking it up later. Combine that with a lack of social skills, and things can get difficult.

Other: Bralt eats whenever he can, and usually doesn't care what the meal is, normally edible or not. His current top goal is to figure out a way to sleep in such a way as to have noticeable time pass during his unconsciousness, as opposed to feeling like he falls asleep and wakes up a moment later. Dreams are optional. Currently, he's keeping a Journal (an old Diary he found in a condemned house, with a dead little girl, who's pages he tore out and burned), filled with all sorts of inane and pointless banter about his life. He only does this because his therapist told him to.

History

Bralt Volgard was born to a house of nobles in eastern Lordaeron. Growing up was fairly uneventful for him, being a boy that lived mostly around servants. He attempted to make friends with a few, but unfortunately was never able to succeed. There was always the barrier of master/servant between them.

Things being as they were, Bralt received only a minor education, enough to read and write, and simple mathematics. But being as his grandfather was a war veteran, and his father looked up to him.(despite never having seen a battle field), Bralt began swordsmanship training at an early age. His parents weren't quite rich enough to get him the best tutors, but he got moderate schooling in martial prowess, and proceeded along well enough. He also learned how to use a crossbow in this time, which he was, again, fairly okay with.

By the time the lad had reached age eleven or so, his father, the hard, militaristic-minded man that he was felt it was time for the boy to spend some time off the estate. As such, Bralt was forced to join the first passing merchant caravan that went by, and headed for Capitol City. He had not much more than a backpack filled with the essentials, and a coin pouch practically bursting.

Bralt considered spending some time trying this and that out, seeing where his path best lay, but his age and social skills lacking as they were, it didn't take him long to settle on something more to his class than preference. He signed on with the Knights of Lordaeron, though he was only permitted the station of Squire to one of the senior Knights. Still, he learned what he could, and the years passed quickly enough.

Five years slipped by, Bralt hitting sixteen, almost seventeen. At this point, rumors of war had begun swimming around. Bralt never paid much attention, so he wasn't exactly clear on what was going on. The Orcs jumping out of their internment camps, some sort of new plague hitting the villages. He didn't really know anything. Still, Bralt was concerned for his parents back at the estate. But, there wasn't much he could do. He was ready to take the next step into knight-hood, which was a commitment. It was his path, now. But, while he was ready to proceed, fate wasn't. Prince Arthas returned from some sort of campaign in Northrend. His first order of business was shocking; he killed his Father, and opened the doors for this 'Scourge".

Bralt was just as struck by the loss of the king and the betrayal of Arthas as anyone, and just like the rest, attempted to pretend all was fine. He continued working, every day becoming a heavier burden as the depression and sense of doom mounted higher and higher. It was almost a relief when two of Arthas' generals brought the final attack and delivered them from one type of slow, decaying death to another.

Bralt tried to fight, but his skills weren't quite up to par, and fear tore at him. He tried to run, to escape the death that undoubtedly awaited him, coming around a corner to lock gazes with one of the creatures, a crossbow leveled on him. The bolt flew free, lodging itself into his chest. Bralt

But, it wasn't the end. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up. Looking down, the bolt was still stuck within him. He moved to take it out, since that obviously wasn't natural, but his hand froze mid-movement. The thoughts that buzzed in his mind began to dull, and he got to his feet. In one of the nearby houses, he could vaguely make out the figures of cowering folk. Thoughts of the bolt in his chest turned to images of those people laying in bloody pieces at his feet. He shambled forward, moving to bang on the door angrily. The knob was right there, but he couldn't quite recall what it did. Slowly, everything trailed off into pointless images.

Like a snap, everything came back to him. Bralt stood, stunned, looking around dreary ruins and a rainy day, though he remembered it being sunny a moment before. He looked down to see the bolt, snapped off now, still sitting in his chest. Testing, he tentatively moved his hand. Then his arm. He had control again. Like a triumphant release, he gripped the bolt and tore it free, confused as to the lack of pain. It was then he noticed his skin had turned a dull blue-grey, and looked unnaturally thin.

What happened after that is history. Bralt remained largely out of the combat, helping Sylvannas' efforts minimally as he adapted to his new "life". He found one oddity in that he had no real desire to kill things. He, infact, had no real desire to do anything.

His life since then has been virtually pointless. A vagabond, going from place to place, avoiding situations that would result in his "true" demise. At one point, he took a trip to his old estate, finding it sacked. His father was buried out back, mother undead and crazy as can be. He left her to her ravings, since she probably deserved it. Worst of all, he had no money.

He eventually decided to take a more pro-active approach to unlife, making appointments with a Forsaken therepist. He's been working on developing a more violent nature, or at least start to fully apply himself for his people. Unfortunately, he doesn't have high hopes.