Chester
Information
Contents
Player: Wujen
Character Full Name: Chester Chestnut
Character In-Game Name: Chester
Nickname(s): "Alch"
Association(s): Forsaken, Royal Apothecary Society, Horde
Race: Undead
Class: Apothecary (Priest OOC)
Age: 56
Sex: Male
Hair: None
Eyes: Amber
Scale/Height: 0.94
Weight: 53Kg
Appearance
Usual Garments/Armour: Chester is always adorned in some form of jet black attire with mixtures of silver threading etched throughout his tight yet well made clothes. Usually at his back is a large backpack sewn with a strange, purple thread in a multitude of places of previous tears or leakages. The backpack appears weight by the straps deeply digging into the fabric upon Chester, yet the backpack makes no sounds other than the gentle rustle against the fabric. On Chester's face is an ebony mask wrapped around his decrepit jaw. He always appears to be carrying a royal purple bag and a crude blackened metal dagger with a pommel in the shape of a pestle
A few subtle bulges are noticeable throughout his person. Some are in more questionable places than others, but it's unknown at first glance whether it is merely a clump of dead-skin creating lumps or some form of container.
Personality
Chester at first glance has a gloomy if yet also content voice in which he seems to love to project onto potential customers. He has a substantial amount of wit that he uses to adapt to situations and grasp opportunities. While he thinks he is an opportunist, he is merely trying to hide his desperation behind words not many truly understand, even if he himself is amongst those. His wall is composed of labels for himself and his own securities, which he inflicts upon his verbal opponents if he reaches a point of true and utter desolation. Despite his gigantic emotional wall formed in his death, he is altruistic to his undying wheeze, but not to just anyone. He holds a cause above all other causes inflicted upon him by either the Horde, Undeath or the Forsaken.
When his walls begin to falter, he sinks deeper and deeper into a state of quasi-insanity.
When he cannot sell for an extended period time or distract himself with alchemy his depression begins to take a hold of his fractured mind, as his self pity violently conflicts with his striving for independence in name of the greater good. However, he can easily pull himself out of this cycle of self loathing by doing something that will obtain money, whether it be vile or valorous.
History
In the days before the true Lordaeron Genocide perpetrated by Arthas and his gang of doleful undead, Chester lived a most harmonious life. With a father well versed in the fields of alchemy and a mother well versed in keeping her husband occupied in more ways than one, you could say his life was splendid. Indeed, it was. In his early years he would spend days upon weeks upon months of gallivanting the inner workings of his town and the fields around it, gathering pointless reagents that he would so decadently waste within the inner confines of his fathers alchemical lab in the attic. While a most intelligent soul, his father's investigation and deduction skills had much to be desired. His father never caught onto this vile breach of trust, and he mostly blamed his ever decreasing inventory on others in his village in his ever increasing incompetence. His mother never truly gave him any discipline, be it paranoia that he might spontaneously become miscarried like the rest of his unborn kin. This combination of coddling and lack of consequences for his mischievous actions set him down a dark path. While constantly enthralled by the potential for alchemy without having to have the natural talent to become a Sorcerer, he never did quite accept the possibility of buying reagents. Most of the time he'd cultivate plants and other things during adventures, which coincidentally in the future would last the start of the First War and the end of the Second War. But we are getting too far ahead of ourselves. As he grew into the ripe old age of twenty, he found the -one-. Hair like roasted chestnuts from a divine chef, freckles that dot her milky skin like saffron in lush meadows of Quel'Thalas with light grey eyes that twinkled in twilight. An intellect that could rival a half eaten shoe, with the vocabulary to match. A stupid yet blisteringly gorgeous specimen of gorgeousity, and she lived in his realm-nay, in his village. She was Ahstenimorial, a name thought up after a choice encounter with a most extravagant if somewhat pompous wandering elf whose metaphor for 'names having power' was taken a little too literally.
Though, almost everyone seemed to agree to call her Ahs in reference to her bodacious derrière. Chester was not amongst the bullies that called her such a horrid nickname. He called her Ten, as that is the highest number should could count to even with the aid of extremities. In a way, she reminded her of his own dear insolent-barren mother. Ten would never speak out against Chester, could she? She had not a mean bone in her body, for one with a mind so insipid and functionally broken could not speak out against one so smart and devious as Chester. However, Ten was under the watchful eye of her over protective father and his three sons. They proved troublesome, seemingly having a sense of responsibility for their unfortunate sibling. The idea was alien to Chester, and as his passion for torrid moments with a women was slowly approaching a fraction of his passion for alchemy. Instead of merely gaining trust of the family and bonding like any person with a half a brain would do, he would do something that only a person with a full brain could do. One a day like almost any other, as the men of the house escorted Ten out to the fields in order not be abducted, old Chester slipped a most ravishing alchemical wonder into their ale keg which they worked so hard for.
For you see, a clan of farmers without any available attractive women insight without committing atrocities not even Chester would do, drinking ale in the vein attempt of invoking the famous ale elemental women sometimes passed around by sexually deprived men is an acceptable pastime. Like an imp, he hobbled out the house and waited for the glorious midnight to strike. With the confidence of a deity, he barged into the house of Ten to find her staring doltishly at the paralysed bodies of her kin. After a few one syllable words later, he escorted her upstairs to her room where he informed her happiness in her dreams, but only for a limited time only. Now, the people of the town are very superstitious, but they are ones to jump to conclusions. Alchemy would surely be to blame if Chester choked them with a tablecloth, as they would easily pin it upon an art they knew nothing about. However, most of them are familiar with large knifes. And even more so with necks. He did the thing anyone of his intellectual calibre would do; spend a few hours beheading them with a knife made for chopping ham and then eating parts of the men for good measure. Trolls never came this far west, but the townsfolk would want to believe that over inducing paranoia to the people they speak to every day. He didn't know if the potion dulled the pain. If it did, that'd be wonderful. If it didn't well, at least their ghosts have more fuel to their rage. The early hours of the morning came, and Ten wandered around town squealing like a pig. While able to comprehend death, she wasn't able to quite join the dots to Chester's appearance and the cannibalisation of her family. Chester swaggered into the scene of the crime with the townsfolk in pursuit, and created a most grand story of supposed evidence that leads to Trolls. He made sure to use special words more than eight letters long to really convince them. The problem of Ten was brought up, and who else but Chester stepped up to the challenge of keeping her under his wing. "I will check upon her every day to make sure she is all right and safe from the trolls. I will also make anti-troll elixirs that will keep the trolls away for a low sum of twenty silvers!" he proclaimed to the townsfolk, and they believed him. His mother was proud of her son, and her father managed to care enough to shed but a single piece of sweat as he ventured out to give his son a curt nod.
The praise did not matter, as he had Ten all to himself. The vile atrocities he committed to Ten over the next few years were indeed vile. So vile and amorous that to even mention it would defy the principles Lordaeron fought so hard to maintain. As Chester's parent's came and went, to the grave, so too did the option of marriage and even a child. While Ten fought valiantly against fate, for the better she drifted off to a better place. The cold void of death. But yet, through luck beyond chance, her spawn lived. As Chester held it in his arms, he felt something he felt only usually for his draughts, his elixirs and his potions. A sense of protection and responsibility. Its eyes were like dark amethyst, and the beginning of its soon to be silver hair were prevalent even in the early stages. It even had a few saffron freckles derived from the brood mother. The strange characteristics of the child could have been from the constant biochemical attacks upon Ten to either keep her still, silent, and maybe one time one to change her eyes as they began to bore the almighty lust of Chester. But yet, his spawn was magnificent. Such luck is nothing less than the work of a true divine entity. 'Blessed by the Light' would be a grand excuse to keep his spawn from being bullied like so many of Chester's friends in his youth. He could mold his child to become a priest, one of Northshire's clerics. That was quickly snuffed out when the First War came, and even with Chester's new found responsibility he ravished in, he didn't quite like the idea of dying for anything just yet.
Throughout the first and second war, Chester kept himself occupied with travelling with his spawn to find wondrous reagents that could improve its capabilities to become truly godlike. Such ambitions while unrealistic, kept Chester from straying for the path too much and indulging in his vices. There was time for that after he had perfected his spawn. As the child grew, Chester force-fed it knowledge to keep itself above its peers. He slammed the idea of becoming a priest or even a Paladin of the Silverhand forcefully, while preaching about the glories of the Light. He managed to hide his hypocrisy with suppressing his dark urges and releasing them when in his attic of his parent's former home. His spawn developed, Chester did not. His spawn grew to the point where it could finally induct itself into the Knights of the Silver Hand as a lowly squire. It almost made Chester feeling satisfaction for his spawn becoming a true success. Luck had smiled upon Chester, ignoring his vast plethora of vice. Why, things could only get better from here, thought Chester.
Twenty years after the glorious First War, the province of Lordaeron buzzed with tales of spirits rising from their graves, of baker's skill in bread making getting worse and worse, and of course of a lone shape shifter who managed to infiltrate the seat of Teneras himself. Chester found himself a new scheme to commit while his prized offspring was away doing the work of the Light. Even in his elder age, he could of course find ways to scam idiotic townsfolk. "Spirit-slaying oil! Place on your swords and place on your pets to keep the ghosts at bay." he'd cry out to the peasants. On the first day, they came in swarms begging for his milky fluids. They tossed their money, farm animals and even a book at him to get their hands on it. A day of success. The next day, less came. The day after that, fewer came. The week after that, there were none left.
They had either been assimilated into the unity of the undead, or had gone to greener pastures. Chester of course had to move closer to the city of Lordaeron, where the folk are more educated and more pious, more smart, even matching his calibre. He stopped three days from Lordaeron, in what is now Brill. His spawn was there, and he'd have to offer advice as fathers do in times such as these. She wasn't there. She was on her way to Stratholme for one reason or another according to the most resourceful of innkeepers. He set out to find his spawn, as he feared it would soon slip from his grasp and forget about him. Who could forget about kind Chester? He read it a story once before its slumber, a depressing anecdote about how he once had to put down his grandfather. He healed her wound from playing with a potion that also had the side effect of expressing ones inner most thoughts and feelings from the mouth with rainbow coloured bile. He even gave it a name that wasn't "Spawn" "Child" or "You". He forgot it, but his satisfaction from it still stands to this day. But it grows more and more everyday, and would one day forget Chester in favour of the Light.
It could ascend to godhood without him, and that wouldn't be a choice option for Chester. Luck had smiled upon him again, meeting his daughter on the road to Stratholme. "I am no longer apart of the Silver Hand, as Uther dictates-" it didn't finish its vile accuse before Chester grasped his fingers around its throat. "You fool! You VILE PIECE OF FLESH! You are nothing, you are not my spawn. You are nothing!" he repeated, yelling a whole plethora more of horrendous words. The spawn was weak, it did not try to fight back against Chester. It hugged him tightly, with 'love' and 'compassion'. It needed him. It also needed him to stop trying to choke it. Chester's hands lost their strength as he was grasped in his spawns stronger, fitter, plated arms. His babbling turned into angry tears as he was held in arms that could have been for him throughout his life. His mothers arms could have been there, his fathers, Ten's, his grandfathers. Any of those arms could have been there. They didn't reject him because they were spiteful. They rejected him because of his own spite...
His spawn was a paragon, to overcome his flaws and embrace himself despite being vile as rot beneath the skin. He grasped its hair, pulling it so hard in condensed rage that a clump of it came out. It did not ruin the valour of his spawn more than a grimace. He held it tight as he struggled to maintain himself. His spawn turned around to a wave of decrepit biomass behind. It pushed its broodlord away as it waded into the wall of gargling chaos. Chester's ran, as he always did, from his spawn that needed him most. He stole a look back to see the amalgamation falter, blood and horrendous wails all around the shining star in the centre. The his star flicked with golden light for a moment, a red miasmic cloud bursting out of the armour of a former Knight Of The Silver Hand. In the centre of the bloody corpse explosion was goat's skull, dancing in unison with the flesh monstrosities as verdant magics enveloped the surrounding, soon to be undying soldiers. Chester kept running, refusing to acknowledge the consequences of his actions fully. He was the cause of his star's death. If he had not been so cruel, it wouldn't have needed to hug him. If he had been there for it as it grew, it wouldn't have needed to condense it's love into a single, sorrowful hug. As he acknowledged his surroundings, he noticed a lone tree standing defiant to the cacophony of chaos around it. He slammed himself against the tree, panting desperately as his old bones began to give way.
He scrambled into his backpack of wonders, a plan in mind for the future. He shoved a clump of hair into a vial, adding a strange cream oil in after. He used the last of his remaining power to scrape away at the bark of the tree. He tore his two gold sleeves, wrapping them tightly around the vial. He himself has a vague recollection of whether the tears that were absorbed into the fabric were part of his scheme, or were an afterthought. Alas, it didn't matter. The sound of unholy chanting and chattering came closer to him. He sealed his fate when he shoved the concoction into a space made on the bark. As Chester flung his back against the tree in exhaustion, he perceived the mass coming closer. He tried to steal a glance at the sky. It was dusk. He smiled as a single solitary star lay alone in the small space he gazed at. Beside the star, a lone chestnut bristled in the wind and fell down to the desecrated earth beneath. His last memories were of the crack of the chestnut against the dry ground, and the sound of his stomach being torn asunder.
When he next opened his eyes, they were already open. He looked down to his bony hands and howled into the night in desperation. The voice that had plagued his dreams had stopped, and his brothers in death around him jeered in excessive relief as the realisation hit them, and wailed when the second realisation hit. He found himself looking to the amalgamation of horrors wandering in a large conglomerate into the forests. They danced chaotically, slamming themselves against each other and the trees to gauge feeling. Chester joined the rotted fleshlings in their march. They shared tales to each other of times before the strife, they shared insults and observations. Chester's joined in a conversation of the observations of being undead, as well as proposed where the flock headed. Somehow, the problems of his past seemed less. It was balanced out by the feeling of undeath, so he was in the same position as he was before.
But at the very least, his dark urges seemed to subside as he wandered towards his destination. After what seemed like an eternity of wandering in the symphony, they came across a familiar sight. Lordaeron's tattered flag bristled against the harsh winds of the cracked walls, and the mass stood there and gawked at a ghastly choir of women preaching about the Dark Lady. One who struck the very traitor himself who sentenced his people to damnation, and was infinitesimally close to slaying him once and for all. They preached so loud you could hear their voices for miles echoing off the dead trees of the Tirisfal Glades. "We are the Forsaken. We do not forget, we will slaughter anyone who gets in our way. Death to Scourge!" they screeched, curling metal but invoking the slumbering emotions of eternal dedication and wrath from the Forsaken. They marched into Lordaeron's ruins and went beneath the surface, rebuilding their home. Chester didn't actually live here at any point, but he felt it necessary to join in the unity so helped anyway. Within a few months after the Dreadlords were snuffed out, society began to form to reflect their new forms. Chester found his new calling, the Royal Apothecary Society. If only he would have found it earlier, he may have found a potion to give him compassion. He began to dabble in dark magics, derived from the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow and it's faith to the void. Where the Light had failed him and his star, the transhumanism and ascension of the Cult may rekindle the star that was snuffed out. In these days of new strife and war, Chester's goal remains the same before he allows his luck to run out. To acquire Five Hundred gold pieces to create a new body for his Star, and to acquire the skills to do so. Everything in between and after is an afterthought, and the clocks tick down from his immortality, where the sins of his previous life can truly catch him and give him the retribution he deserves.
For the last few years he has been cooped up in his laboratory, becoming a full fledged apothecary. With the world as his nauseating, hellish oyster with an undaughting determination, he sets out into the crevices of the dark in search of his star.
