Crescenthorn
Information
Player: Aphetoros
Character Full Name: Bramuul of the Crooning Winds
Character In-Game Name: Crescenthorn
Nickname(s): Crescenthorn Spirithoof
Association(s): Bronze Dragonflight
Race: Tauren
Class: Spirit Champion // Watcher of the Bronze Flight
Skills and Abilities: Note. If the skills and ability section is large, move it to the end of history.
Age: 104
Sex: Male
Hair: What was once pure black is beginning to grey in the face just below his eyes, and around his knuckles.
Eyes: Piercing blue.
Scale/Height: 8’1” (Hardly taller than average, with slightly longer legs than torso.)
Weight: 498 lbs. (A bit heavier than a mid-weight Tauren, he has more muscle than fat.)
Appearance
He oft wears the traditional garments of a Tauren shaman, though if he is truly going into battle he dons chain armor and two identical maces of elementally-infused ivory. The Tauren, however, prefers to abstain from most combat aside from self-defensive or occasional enjoyment or necessity. He wishes to leave larger scale combat to the mortal races.
Other: He is not yet immortal, though his life-span has been expanded by his master’s grace, rejuvenating bits of his youth as a gift for service. He also has an artifact—that being a mirror that allows him to gaze at scenes of long ago when his tribe remained. (It shows him scenes of his family as if reflected in the surface of a still pond.) He wields a runespear with the stories of the past chieftains of his tribe carved into its shaft, including much of his father's. He has not yet begun his own. The spear was blessed long ago by a long-dead spirit walker of the tribe, so that it could strike and harm incorporeal spirits as if they were any solid opponent.
Personality
Alignment: Neutral, leaning perhaps in the direction of Lawful Neutral.
Crescenthorn is reticent, now. More than he had been prior to his entrance of service. He once believed in pure honesty and noble, bold actions, but such days are no more. He understands that the world should not know of his position, and should they find out? His youth would wither and he too would be lost in time. The Tauren longs for more time with his tribe, though impossible he hopes he may someday be granted the opportunity to seek forgiveness from his deceased family. Compassionate and kind to those he cares for, but unforgiving to any whom betray his trust, he is vengeful by nature. After his rather tragic history with the Silithid, he does not forgive them and wishes to eradicate the species. Despite his ability to hold his anger, he is very quick to anger, and very slow to forgive. He wishes to use the gift of time he was given to serve faithfully, but also live his life as best he can-- as much as he is allowed by his dragon masters.
History
The Tauren was born during a tremulous time for his tribe, and his mother’s sudden, unexpected labor caused an abrupt halt in their journey. Chased from Mulgore by a tribe whom they shared extreme enmity with, the Spirithoof Tribe quitted the prairie not in honor, but in fear of annihilation. They traveled southward, spending the nights trekking through the harsh red-gold canyons named ‘The Thousand Needles.’
Crescenthorn was born blind, graced with piercing blue eyes and vibrant, white fur. Two bits of ivory curved slightly above his brow. After a few weeks, however, his sight came and over the first years of his life his pelt darkened to a midnight black. During this halt in their journey, they camped for four days on a jutting promontory in easy-to-carry tents. The long labor left his mother weak and needing rest, and unfortunately for the tribe the event stopped them just east of a centaur village. The four-legged creatures made assault on the tribe quickly, and even though his mother was still fatigued the tribe was forced further from Mulgore, through the deserts of Tanaris and through a mountain pass that lead to Silithus. The tribe made their home in a system of caves not too far from a hive of buzzing creatures, and a wall of strange origin.
His boyhood was comprised of normal Tauren culture; rites of strength, wisdom, and spirit came and passed as his mother and father tried to impart upon him their values, morals, and prejudices (to this day he has a strong distaste for centaur and for bandits.) His own tribe began their own rituals, such as the skinning of a Qiraji's carapace and crafting from it a fetish of spiritual blessing and The Pale Day (a rite only achievable once per year, on the hottest day of the year the sun would cause the sand to glow so bright it became almost blinding, and on that day the youth had to fend for himself, returning before the next dawn.) He gave his Spiritual Fetish to his mother when she became ill, in hopes that she would soon get better. The illness left her, but it left her aged and tired. The Tauren was trained as a warrior by his father, and eventually as a shaman by an old spirit walker of the tribe. He himself not of the elder’s power, Crescenthorn felt as though he often disappointed his teacher. He studied hard in the name of the Spirits, and after a time rose in influence among his people. He was a respected warrior and hunter, and his family was proud to have him.
Defending his tribe from the mindless insects and beasts seemed easy enough. It was rather good hunting—easy meat, and such. He led his life as any other Tauren in the tribe: ambitious, but selfless enough to put the others above himself. Soon he took a wife, and with her had two children. He began to grow older, and as did his father and eldest brother. They knew not of war, or conflict. It was a shock, then, when during his fifty-fourth year, the insects attacked without warning. Confident with their shells glistening in the bright sunlight, the mass of Qiraji assaulted the camp relentlessly. It was a massacre—it was ages before the warriors moved into battle and in the time it took them, over twenty Tauren were slain. Crescenthorn joined them in battle, and as his maces spun with elemental wrath, the scales and ichor of the beasts piled at his feet. He watched brother and sister alike fall around him, but when his chieftain—his father—fell victim to the claws of a centipede-like beast, he felt his pelt grow hot with indignation.
Raising a battle cry to the spirits, he felt his muscles bulge with new strength and his wounds fade like tears in rain. He tore through the mass of insects, and the camp fell around him. He felt the rhythmic pulse of shamanistic healing fade, and with the death of his mentor he was alone. The broken carapaces around him were lives he had taken, but without his fellow shaman sending their healing rays towards him, or his fellow warriors he was useless. One man could not take on the swarm, no matter who was on his side. He was the last, he knew. And he knew that with his dying breath, the Spirithoof would be forgotten. He let one final plea escape his lips into the dwindling daylight as claws began to pry at his flesh, a prayer to anything that something would save him, and let the tribe live on through him.
It was then that he felt the very sands of time slow. The battle froze around him, and the very blood pulsing from grievous wounds ceased to flow. The Tauren began to wonder if this is what death was like, and as the scene before him was diluted by a sandstorm he let out a shriek of surprise and fear. The sands whirled around him, lifting him from the ground it seemed. All around him was shifting sand.
Moments later, the storm settled and he was beneath the ground. Ethereal lights flushed through cracks in the rock as a creature let fall the cloak of illusion. It was large Tauren male with an almost eerie shine to his brown skin; the creature reminded him of his grandfather and yet the man exuded a frighteningly powerful aura. Crescenthorn’s weapons were instinctively at the ready, but his aggression provoked only deep, guttural laughter from the creature. “You won't need to fight here. Though, I wonder what may have happened had your tribe been able to defend itself. Surely, then, you wouldn't be here. And if you hadn't come here, then you wouldn't be there t-- Ah, right. You can't know that, yet. I shall bring the point: I've a proposition to offer.” The Tauren let his weapons slowly fall, and he let his eyes search the dark stone cavern. There wasn't much, other than the phosphorescent slices in the ceiling and walls.
“Who are you? And where am I?” The voice echoed throughout the room, and the creature grinned bemusedly. “You, my acquaintance, are beneath the Caverns of Time. I am a Dragon of the Bronze Flight, sworn to protect these ever-growing time-ways, and you are here to be tested. You see, we've been watching you and keeping track of your deeds. You have not only proved your worth in your battle against the Qiraji, but when unasked you’ve aided members of our people-- in disguise of course-- when they were endangered. You would put yourself at risk merely for the protection of those you do not know, and that selflessness in-of-itself is… rather admirable.” Crescenthorn nodded slowly; rather unsure of what to say—the shaman didn’t really know what a dragon was, and he'd never been good at receiving compliments. As if reading his mind, but more accurately interpreting the confused expression on his face, the Tauren’s form became a brilliant shower of golden light into the form of a massive winged beast. The voice was more a growl, and yet the words still flowed clear through jagged teeth. “You will remain in this cavern, and you will learn of this world’s past. We shall watch you, as you watch. Know that you are being tested. Do not fail; for to pass your trial, each grain of the desert must be closely inspected.”
The creature vanished, and the lights in the room shifted to reveal a pool of glass-like water. The cracks in the ceiling closed, except for a circular hole above the small pond. A tiny violet pouch lay in front of the pool, and inside it was merely sand. The tauren thought a moment, and then emptied the contents in the water. There was a click of magic, and slowly figures formed like pictures in the surface. Crescenthorn knelt before the pond, dipping a finger into it and sending ripples across the image. He watched intently as the world’s history unfolded before him, and the terrible things he saw and remembered caused pain in his chest. After an hour at least of watching, he felt a truly a part of Azeroth for the first time, acutely aware of the planet's suffering. He felt for the world, and almost felt a need to protect it from the terrors of the strange black-grey dragons that meddled with the flow of the ages. “But if they are not to take and add to the time, how is it that I was torn without worry? Is it…” His voice fell to a whisper and he clenched his fist, “I would have died had these creatures not saved me. The memory of my people would be gone, for who knew our history?”
He stared into the waters, which had turned to reveal a bird’s eye view of himself, and he was the smallest dot of dust. "In the grandness of time, I would have been unimportant. The memory of my tribe... a mere grain of sand in a desert. It must be preserved-- nothing may be forgotten! The dragon returned after a while, informing him that he’d passed the trial. He was sent to see a dragon by the name of Minormi, for it was she that he was to report and receive instruction.
He became a Watcher-in-Training, completing a single year of training under the careful eye of his master. In that time, he worked inside the Caverns of Time, helping to organize time-lines, recovered books and other thought menial tasks. Upon his promotion to a full-fledged Watcher, he was gifted with a hand-mirror crafted of bronze and trust. Crafted of infinitely small bronze plates welded together, fit with oval reflection in the center. A single blue dragonscale is set into the mirror’s back, and it is etched with a forgotten (to most) rune. He grew older, and eventually was called back to the Caverns of Time. The Qiraji needed to be put down, and so he fought them with all of his might. Grievously wounded, he was taken back to the Caverns for healing. His wounds were cured by draconic magic, though even today he fatigues easier. A blessing was granted for his service in the battle, some years of his age torn away to revitalize his bones. While he is not yet immortal, he hopes that he can please his masters enough to serve them for eternity.
Skills and Abilities
He has all the basic abilities of a shaman, and he has a strong connection with the spirits. This makes it far easier for him to juggle melee combat and spell-casting. He is a master of none, but proficient in healing magic, damaging magic, and melee combat. He believes in self-balance and wishes to keep the timeline as it occurs—without meddling unless extremely necessary. His connection with his ancestors is extremely strong; so strong that he often is plagued by lucid dreams of the past, or voices just on the edge of his hearing. As a Tauren Chieftain, his combat abilities have been honed further and his muscles have been trained to great strength, and as the last member of his clan the spirits have begun to speak to him in a new way, and he is on his way to becoming a spirit champion.
Spirit Totem: Crescenthorn conjures a totem with the history of his tribe engraved in it, temporarily enhancing his connection to the spirits and doubling as a powerful blunt weapon and increasing the effectiveness of his Spiritwalker's Grace for a short time.
