Greyhands

Information

Character Full Name: Greyhands

Player: Jordoom

Character In-Game Name: Greyhands

Nickname(s):

Association(s): Undercity, the Horde.

Race: Forsaken

Class: Warrior

Age: 25 at the time of her death. She was raised at the beginning of the Third War

Sex: Female

Hair: White

Eyes: Brilliant topaz. Her real eyes rotted out, so she has the magical eyes of a Forsaken.

Weight: 130 pounds

Height: 5'9

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Appearance

Greyhands is always heavily armored, she hates the look of her undead body, so she is constantly covered to the teeth in mail or plate. Greyhands also enjoys the warmth of cloth or leather hoods.

Other: Greyhands' skin is of a pearly-white hue. She is so named Greyhands because much of her hands are naught but bone, as the skin has fallen off long ago.

Personality

"Oh, that ol' Greyhands. Dun' even git meh start'd on 'er! A vile wench, tha's for sure. I caugh' 'er nabbin' all my turnips from meh field! So, I go out and I says ta her, I says, 'Listen here, ya festerin' corpse! Put 'em back!' An' you know what she does? She lunges up, snaps meh wrist, an' says, 'Thanks for the turnips!' Bah, the nerve!" - Haryld Stonesworth, Westfalian Farmer.

Greyhands is a thief, a mercenary, and a vagabond. She roves across the land, taking what she needs and making little effort to respect authority of any kind. Greyhands' has little honour, and even less manners. While many see her as ruthless and evil, she is capable of love and remorse, but it's just buried deep down under all her grit and toughness. She is capable of murder, though she has an issue with "senseless" killing. Greyhands morality, ironically, falls under what one might call "morally grey." She is the type of person who would be willing to slaughter hundreds if it meant saving thousands.

One thing that is important to note is Greyhands' almost superstitious view of a contract. If one could manage to get this Forsaken to give her word, she would hold true to it. However, because of her superstition, it is rare for Greyhands to enter into any sort of binding contract.

History

I do have a pre-death history (and name) for Greyhands, but I will not be sharing it yet. It will likely be exposed through RP and IC posts on these forums in the form of stories, etc.

Part One: The Harvest

"More corpses?" came the voice of the Necromancer from behind the thick, leather-bound tome. The Necromancer was draped in the traditional garb of his position, long violet robes and a horned hood. His eyes seemed to almost glow with magical power.

"Y-yes, milord," replied Baridas, dragging in a big, brown sack with one hand and dropping a bloody hook on the floor with the other. He began wringing his hands nervously once they were freed of their burdens. The old man did not like these Necromancers, or their foul Cult. He hated the work they made him do even more, but if it would cure his Lysa... Baridas wiped a tear from his eye, looking at the big brown sack he had dragged into the dank, dingy barn. He wanted to apologize to all those dead inside of it, explain to them that he had to do them in... It wasn't as if he wanted to.

Baridas cleared his throat. "So, milord. H-h-How many more? Surely, I have earned the cure for my Lysa's sickness."

The Necromancer stroked his chin, as if in thought. "Ah, yes. The cure. You have one more task to complete before I cure your wife's ailment. One more task, Baridas. Are you up to it?" The Necromancer's eyes seemed to be alight with ecstasy.

More tears rolled down Baridas' elderly, weathered cheeks. "I don't wanna kill no more, milord." He looked at the big, brown sack with remorse, and then averted his gaze from it. "They cried, milord. They begged and cried and called me a monster."

The Necromancer merely laughed, "And what did you tell them, Baridas?" The sadistic Necromancer was enjoying this. He set his book down, and leaned across the desk, peering more closely at the aged farmer.

"I cried too, milord. I could barely talk but for cryin'. I told 'em it was for my Lysa. 'She's sick!' I says to 'em..." The old man fell to his knees, sobbing and shuddering. "I'll be damned for this, I'm sure. B-but as long as it saves my darlin' wife, I don't care..."

"Enough, I grow weary of your sobbing. On your feet, man, while I explain to you the final task you must complete," the Necromancer was on the pinnacle of excitement now.

Baridas nodded, wiping the tears and snot from his wet, leathery face. Again, he began to nervously wring his hands. "I'll do it. I'll do it jus' like I did all the rest. I'm too far gone now..."

"Your assignment," began the Necromancer, silencing Baridas' ramblings, "is to poison a stock of grain in Stratholme. Just one barrel full, that's all." The Necromancer leaned back in his chair, satisfied with what would soon be the end of a little game played with this old farmer.

Baridas' jaw dropped. He began to shake and tremble uncontrollably. Falling to his knees, he slammed his fist on the hay-strewn floor of the barn. "Poison the grain? But! But Lysa got sick from poisoned grain!"

The Necromancer sneered, "Oh, I know. Poor old Neddard Lark of Hearthglen came to me, not a month ago, crying about how his brother had gotten deathly ill after eating plagued grain. I promised old Neddard I'd save Eldretch, so long as he brought me fifteen bodies. Neddard was more opposed to it than you were, Baridas, but he did it. He brought them all, just as you have. Then, I commanded that he poison the grain in your little village. Your Lysa ate some bread, you came to me, and now, here we are." The Necromancer laughed again, pouring himself a glass of wine. He took a little sip, and then stroked his beard. "Now, then. One question remains. Will you do this task, and save your Lysa? Or will you allow your sweet, sweet wife to die?"

Baridas pulled at his hair, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Why?! Why would you do this?!"

"Quiet, fool, or you'll die before you get to even make a decision! Now, I promise you, I will cure your wife. With all due respect, whether she lives or dies is meaningless in the grand scheme of things, so it means nothing to me if I administer the cure to her." The Necromancer took another sip of wine. "Will you poison that grain?"

Baridas closed his eyes. He remembered the pain he went through, the cries from the families as he stormed into their homes, slaughtering the father and brothers first, and then the mothers and daughters... He remembered holding his comatose wife, whispering into her ear and telling her he would help her...

"Baridas?"

"One second, ya monster! I'm thinkin'!"

How could he condemn another man, another family, to do what he had done? Closing his eyes again, he whispered, "I am so, so sorry, Lysa." Baridas reached for the bloody hook, the instrument he had used to harvest these bodies for the Necromancer. Sighing, he said a prayer, and leaped across the Necromancer's desk, slashing wildly.

The hook tore at the Necromancer's throat, and Baridas felt, not for the first time, blood run across his fingers. "Fool! You've damned yourself and your wife with her!" wheezed the Necromancer, clutching his wound. The Necromancer cast a spell on the big, brown sack that Baridas had dragged in. The spellcaster then swatted Baridas in the temple with his ornate stave.

The bodies began to stir inside the bag, until the first one emerged. A young woman, thin, with blood matted to her blonde hair and a look of sorrow in her eyes. Most of the skin on her hands was torn off, she'd tried to defend her throat form Baridas' hook, so many hours ago.

"N-no!" cried Baridas as the animated body of the young girl looked at him. "No! I'm so sorry!" The Necromancer pointed at Baridas with his staff.

"Kill him, my pet." The corpse stood still for a moment... The tackled Baridas and tore out his throat.

Part Two: The Awakening

Civil War was rampant in Lordaeron, with the upstart Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner destroying the demonic and undead armies of the Dreadlords. Arthas had left these lands recently, heading to Northrend to protect the Frozen Throne from Illidan and his forces, and that had lead to war breaking out between former allies.

Balnazzar, as far as his intelligence could tell him, was the last of his kind, save for the traitor Varimathras, who had joined the foolish would-be Queen and her "conscious" horde of Undead. It was no matter, though. Sylvanas made her way to him even now, and he was confident that he could slay her, regardless of the alleged size of her forces.

The Dreadlord surveyed his own forces, a formidable assortment of ghouls, undead, and demons. Balnazzar fixated his gaze on an undead female. She clutched a crude claymore in her hands, hands that were all but skinless, revealing dirty, grey bones. Her hair was white and filthy. "These Undead really are, puny. Sylvanas is not but an undead herself. I shall destroy her with ease," he mused to himself.

Shouts echoed around him, Sylvanas and her rag-tag army fighting their way through the halls of the Lordaeron capitol. They were getting closer.

"Make ready, maggots!" bellowed Balnazzar, preparing himself to destroy this last, measly threat to his hegemony in the Plaguelands.

The door to the throne room blew open, sending splinters and debris everywhere. Sylvanas was accompanied by scores of undead, as well as a few humans... Peculiar. "Balnazaar, you should have left when your master fell," spat Sylvanas.

The battle erupted without a reply from Balnazzar. Felhounds leapt on humans, Felguards swung their axes at Sylvanas' undead, and the undead forces on both sides clashed weapons, hands, and claws in combat...

She awoke on the ground, her chaos and screams of war filling her ears. The floor was lined with bones and blood and splinters of wood. She looked at her hands, noting that they were bony and all but skinless, especially around the fingers. She knew not who she was, or who was fighting around her.

Part of her wanted to get up and leap into the fray. She felt like that was what she should do... But she knew not who to attack...

So, she lay there, on the floor, as curses and howls filled the air. An arrow whizzed by her, a body crumpled down on top of her, yet she did not move. The fighting seemed to go on for hours, so she decided that rest would do her well. She closed her eyes, but found that she could not sleep. So, instead, she listened.

The yelp of what sounded like a dog filled her ears, and then the fighting was done. A leathery wing flapped off to the side of her, and she listened.

"My Queen, it is forbidden for a Nathrezim to slay another," stated a deep voice matter-of-factly.

"You've no need to follow their laws any more, Varimathras. They, and their leader, are all but destroyed."

A sigh of acquiescence, and then a rush of air. A scream. A body toppling to the floor.

"We shall call ourselves Forsaken!" said a voice.

Forsaken? That was certainly how she felt, lying her on the floor, broken bodies around her. Hell, her body could have been referred to as "broken" too, yet she still lived, somehow. Something in her came alive, and she shoved the body off of her, and got to her feet.

A demon, bat-winged and horned, and a hooded, dead elf conversed on the other side of the room. She watched them, wondering who they could possibly be. Additionally, there were a number of sagging, rotted humans walking around the room, occasionally kneeling down next to the body of a demon or undead human and slicing the throat, to ensure that it had actually been vanquished. Not wanting to be killed herself, she got to her feet, pushing aside the body that had toppled onto her previously.

Four undead whirled around as she arose. One with a long ponytail twirled his sword expertly and stepped forward. "One of Balnazzar's I bet. I'll handle it."

She cowered, scrambling backwards against the stone walls of the room. The undead advanced.

"Wait!" cried one of the four that had noticed her, this one a male and with wiry hair and a crooked, broken jaw. "Look at her! She's afraid. There is no way she is still Scourge." He crept forward, smiling at her. The smile was macabre, his twisted jaw turning what once was a handsome smile into a deathly grimace. She smiled back.

"Who are you?" asked the undead, sternly, but not unkindly. He knelt down beside her.

"I am... I am..." Finally, she looked at the floor, "I know not who I am..."

She thought she saw the man smile, but she wasn't sure. "Then you, too, are Forsaken... Come with us..."