Fastaran

Information

Player: Damian8048

Character Full Name: Fastaran Falconious Hawkrend

Character In-Game Name: Fastaran

Nickname(s): N/A

Association(s):

Race: Blood Elf

Class: Warlock

Age: 128 years

Sex: Male

Hair: Deep Red

Eyes: Fel Green

Weight: 140

Height: 5'9

Other: He can usually be found with a small wine glass in hand that he carries with him, filled with various wines he keeps in his flask, which is tucked away in a pouch at his side.

Alignment: Neutral to sometimes Chaotic Evil

Appearance

He enjoys wearing clothing that are clean and stand out a bit. He loves nothing better than catching someone's eye. Yet when he is out and practicing his fel techniques he is usually adorned in blackened or reddened robes.

Personality

Fastaran carries himself with a slightly arrogant, cocky manner. A deviant smirk or an amused half grin is usually found playing upon his face. Self proclaimed wine enthusiast, Fastaran gives off the appearance of one who does not take life's toils seriously, rather opting to enjoy and lust after all the pleasures it has to offer. Wine, women, Bloodthistle, money...all are pieces to his game. At least, that is how it appears. He doesn't seem to get upset easily, always retorting with condescending smirks and sarcastic blows of what he calls "wit." Yet whether or not said wit exists is still open for debate. But Fastaran does in fact hold within him a darker persona, not truly holding any love for other life and often partaking in the abuse of the Demons enslaved to him. He finds a subtle joy in the pain of others, yet it is not so much that would lead him to be a criminal. He still realizes to enjoy the various pleasures he pursues he must obey the laws and appear civil to the patrons within the various Taverns he frequents. He understands the power of reputation and the speed word of mouth carries.

History

As it was with many of the High Elves of Quel'Thalas, Fastaran was born into the practices of the Arcane. Not possessing the fortitude or skill of a Ranger, or the cunning of an Outrunner...not even the physical state to be a simple laborer or craftsman, Fastaran was placed where he may be of some use. Fastaran was no fool in mind, yet he was seen as a fool in spirit. Not caring for the demands of everyday life, of his "training" within the Arcane arts, or of the Wars he had heard tell of, he was fixated upon only one: the one he called a lover. Of course, her name is now but forgotten words to him.

In consequence, Fastaran was a lackluster pupil at best. His High Elven instructors and superiors spoke his name with traces of disdain as he was reduced to menial tasks; such as cleaning and polishing weapons, scrubbing floors, and the like. And even those tasks were only half-done. For his mind only held room for one thought, one distraction; her. Perhaps it was not love. He was, in fact, just a young Elf. Infatuation it may have been. But nevertheless it held him fast, entrancing him and reflecting within his every action. True, he learned basic manipulations of the Arcane, such as creating very small whisps of fire or summoning a few drops of water. But it was all of little concern to him. He left all whatever feelings of underachievement or failure he may have felt to his masters. He was happy enough with his wineglass full and in hand, strands of Bloodthistle hanging out of the corner of his mouth (when his masters weren't around, of course), and his eyes upon her. Such a life of luxury couldn't exist, yet somehow he made himself believe it was all his. A few more years passed. Fastaran stayed happily secluded in his Quel'Thalassian schools, away from the now resolving conflicts of the Second War. He had heard disturbing stories that Quel'Thalas had faced near decimation at the hands of the Orcish Horde, yet that was the extremity of his luxury. He had made it so he did not notice. He could not notice. Such a carefree fool, blind to the suffering around him as he trapped himself in his mind and his "life" of luxury he lead.

More years passed. Gossip that his people had removed themselves from the Alliance. Rumors of a Plague in the Human Lands. Stories of Orcs breaking free of their Human captors and making for various ports and commandeering ships for lands unknown. Fastaran shrugged it all off. Then came the Lordaeronian Prince Arthas and the Scourging of Quel'Thalas. The campaign was swift as more and more Rangers retreated back from the front. The Enemy was gaining ground, they had said. Burning the trees. Still pushing forward with Unholy intent. Fastaran...somehow...shrugged it off.

Then came the day when it would be impossible for him to "shrug it off." Sylvannas was dead or worse, the Rangers scattered and frantically attempting a last stand, and one final gate separating him from the terrors beyond. It was then, as the cries filled the air and the gate began to splinter and buckle, that Fastaran began to realize just how useless he was. The gates slowly gave way, being chopped and hacked apart to reveal monstrosities grinning soullessly back at them.

Fastaran foolishly clinged to that false world in which he could in fact handle and overcome any challenge...and he joined his people in their final, terrifying, struggle. Not but mere seconds passed before Fastaran had turned and fled away. The sight of the Undead Hordes rushing too him overtook his mind with fear. He ran, desperately searching for a place to hide.

There was no such place. As he ran, ducking and weaving through the nightmares about him. He ran. He ran far beyond the point of tiring. As he ran, his panicked eyes darted about, taking in the horrors. Then he saw it. His love's corpse...or at least a part of it, lay upon the ground, her face twisted in the most horrible expression of pain and fear. And on her were two ghoulish figures, feverishly tearing and ripping into her, devouring her flesh in a starving frenzy. Fastaran only paused a moment, before continuing on his nightmarish flight. It was an irony of sorts, for Fastaran, the utter failure and lackluster pupil, somehow managed to keep running and evading death for days. Perhaps it was luck. Perhaps it was a divine blessing. Or the beginning of a horrible torment.

And thus much time passed as the tormented Elf managed to scrap and survive, slipping around the many dangers that seemed to engulf everything. The failure Elf continued West to the lands of the Wizards of Dalaran. It was a strange coincidence, for he happened upon something he did not expect. True, he was not able to make it to Dalaran, but he came across his people. His people. Surviving Elves. He quickly approached them and sought safety within their numbers. As he was there he learned that they were some of the only ones left, at least to their knowledge, and they were following the words of the still-surviving Prince, Kael'Thas Sunstrider. They were seeking to rejoin the Alliance and retake their home. Much time passed as stories reached them of Kael'Thas' exploits and betrayal at the racist hands of the Alliance. Rumors were spoken that Kael'Thas had, with a number of their people, departed this world...nowhere to be found.

((Lore Intermission: The remaining Elves fought and reclaimed Silvermoon and Eversong))

Fastaran awoke in a cold sweat, terrified. She wouldn't leave. Her face filled his dreams. Her twisted scream piercing his ears. For all his efforts to forget, his heart and mind remained steadfastly clinging to her tragic memory. Fastaran sat in the dark room, feeling his face buckle a bit. He held his own head in his hands and screamed. A desperate cry of loss, a tragic sound. Fastaran crumpled upon his bed, sobbing and clutching his head. Fastaran quickly sat up as more memories floated to him. Memories of old lectures and teachings back when he was a pupil of the Arcane. It had come up in discussion the deaths of others. Where souls were destined. Fastaran could not remember what was said. Yet...Twisting Nether. Yes. It was well beyond his understanding, even he knew, yet he immediately set off looking for whatever books or writings he could on the subject. Of course, many of these documents were procured by...less than honorable means, for they were not available for everyday readings. Yet so driven was Fastaran, it never crossed his mind the consequences.

Weeks later, his impatient nature caught up to him, and ready or not...he would call to her. He would find her. Hear her voice again. After all, there were tales of many who had reached out into the Nether. Someone named Medivh had accomplished it...of course Fastaran hadn't bothered to actually *finish* that particular story. As he called out, opening his mind and applying whatever little power he had, he was suddenly seized and overpowered. His eyes opened, luckily snapping him away. He paused as he sat there, pondering what he had just saw. What he had...felt. Such power. Such immeasurable power was there. Within the Nether. He had felt it touch him for only a moment, yet somehow he knew he could control it. He had to.

And suddenly everything changed for Fastaran.

He was driven still, yes, but by less than honorable goals. This power. He would have it. It felt so amazing, tasted so delicious. He had never encountered something so...true to his own nature before. He felt as if he were just now meeting himself as he continued for nights and nights to reach out and beckon this power. He began to visit the more shady areas of Silvermoon, such as the Murder Row. He quietly, shiftily, sought out those that were called Warlocks. Sure, he had heard of their kind before. Yet he knew little at all about them. They were simply evil ones in bed time stories mothers would tell their children. And then he found them. The Warlocks. All converging together in one place to practice their arts, to master the control of this delicious power.

Fastaran felt a vicious sneer form upon his lips as he entered into the coveted brotherhood...

...forever to be changed.