Harkin

Information

Player Name: Sol

Character Full Name: Harkin Rockridge

Character In-Game Name: Harkin

Nickname(s): Hark, Harks, ‘Arkin and everything in between. Ass. The addition of a profanity ending in the suffix "-ing" may occasionally serve as his middle name.

Association(s): The Steamwheedle Cartel and the Clash Company. He's still connected distantly to the Rockridge Clan, though, and is politically aligned to Ironforge and the Grand Alliance as a veteran and a patriot.

Race: Hill dwarf

Class: Warrior

Age: 147. “Old enough.”

Sex: Male

Hair: Coal black, flecked with salt and pepper. Both his hair in beard are cut short by the standards of dwarves.

Eyes: Slate grey and missing one, covered up with an eye patch.

Weight: Harks weighs in at about a hundred and ninety, and is of stocky, athletic build to show for it.

Height: About 5'2', slightly taller than the average dwarf.

Appearance

Usual garments/armour: Usually, Harkin's outfit is comprimised by comfy leather trousers and boots with an open white shirt. When he knows he's going to get into a fight, he adds scalemail legguards, a steel breastplate strapped over his shirt and a different pair of boots more suited to stamping on people's tracheas to the equation, as well as binding his knuckles in dirty linen wraps. His armour isn't in good condition, but it's rough, tough, cheap and practical.

Other: Harkin's arms and back are covered in a number of tattoos inked. The most notable ones would be the regimental insignia inked into his left bicep and a crude version of the Rockridge clan's heraldry in his right. Both his forearms carry what seem to be several small sets of tallies on the upper side, with the one on the left being considerably fuller than the right, which only has about fifteen marks. Most of his ink has some sort of deeper meaning, but others, like the spidery black tribal pattern spreading out from his empty eye socket, are there for simpler reasons (that particular example being for the intimidation factor). His idea of a joke sits on his throat, in the form of a dotted line, indicated for cutting. The most recent tattoo he's had done consists of two lions rampant facing off against each other on his lower back.

His body is also covered in so many small scars that there's no point keeping track of them all, but, to note, he walks awkwardly on his right leg due to both a cracked kneecap and a crushed foot (both of which have since healed, but such things don't go away so easily). He lacks full dexterity in his right hand from getting a poinard clean through his wrist sixty years ago, and can't raise his left arm above the shoulder thanks to damaged intercostal muscles from a stab to the chest. Smoking and that same injury appears to have negatively affected his lung capacity, and he tires out quickly, even for a dwarf of his age. Much of his torso and chest are also covered in what appear to be healed, scarred third-degree burns. Apart from this and his notably missing eye, he seems to be in good shape, especially so considering all of the above.

He almost always carries either his two-handed spiked maul, fighting hatchet and/or shortsword, always having at least one handy. These aside, he carries a small shiv and a punch knife hidden on his person, along with a single-shot duelling derringer pistol usually tucked into the back of his belt. All of his weapons are surprisingly well-kept in comparison to his shabby armour.

Personality

Usually stoic and the sort to mind his own business, Harkin is nonetheless conversational when approached, even if he is blunt, gutter-mouthed and outspoken when engaged. However, as long as there's a steady supply of alcohol and tobacco, he can be relatively pleasant, flaunting a wry yet morbid sense of humour and a relatively casual, carefree manner. While usually headstrong and dismissive, he can certainly get along immediately well with like-minded individuals - he's generally the kind of guy you either just "click" with, or you don't at all.

This dwarf has led a long life and has accumulated a lot of knowledge and experience in his years. Some of this relates to survival skills, the cultures and customs of other races, and bakery. A lot of it, though, relates to the fine art of inflicting pain on other sentient beings, and he seems to like making this clear to everyone he deals with. He's extremely stubborn and heavily grounded in his own ideals and views, and can be brutally argumentative whenever he comes to a disagreement with somebody. However, despite being quick to downtalk, insult and threaten his adversaries, he's extremely hesitant when it actually comes to taking a life, and prefers to resolve things peacefully. He's in no position to decide who lives and who dies, so he thinks. This only extends to what he views as outright murder, so in self-defense or in battle against enemies of the Alliance, he has no qualms about splitting a few heads.

Harkin strives to keep his life well-documented if nothing else, as evidenced by his journals and his abundant tattoos. He can often be found dwelling on his past over a pint and a pouch of Fadeleaf – on “better days”, as it were, but doesn't let it get in the way. At his core, Harkin is prideful, arrogant, brash and fiery, with sharp weapons, almost as sharp a tongue and just enough muscle to back it up. He's always had a strong drive to achieve and prove himself, and his years in the army and as a traveller have given him the discipline, skills and indomitable will with which to do this. He's always been on the lookout for glory and riches, and has been content to wait for it thus far – but his increasing age is making him impatient. If he has to go, he's going to be going in eighty years after living in luxury for roughly the same amount of time, or as loudly and violently as possible if sooner than that.

He's strongly bigoted, carrying a murderous hatred for the Horde, a similar dislike for Elves of all sorts due to narrow-mindedness and a minor friendly fire incident during the Second War, and a tendency to regard humanity as the "retarded little brother" of the proud Dwarven people. He gets on fine with gnomes, though, but still dinnae trust them space-goats much.

History

Born into a lowly clan of miners living in Thelsamar, Harkin was the product of a son of the vast Stormpike clan marrying a prospector's daughter, for which he was effectively disowned by his family at large. The Rockridges took pride in their traditional profession, regarding it as the utmost foundation of Dwarven society and its true “core”, through which their famous metalsmithing, stonework and archaeology was ultimately derived. Though arguably correct in this sentiment, it was regarded as a sort of heavily exaggerated delusion by those outside the clan, who looked down on the largely uneducated, working-class family. Harkin was, of course, raised by his mother and his uncles to work in the mines and was more of less resigned to the life ahead of him, but his father, having once been a part of a clan with strong martial traditions, was a soldier. The young Rockrdige grew up around tales of magnificent battles, friendship and camaraderie, which planted a seed in his mind.

This seed eventually developed into a filled-in enlistment form after the first ten years of Harkin's adult life spent hitting rocks with a pick and a subsequently collapsed mineshaft, much to the dismay and chagrin of his family at large but to the joy of his father. With little talent beyond a strong arm, Harkin trained and drilled as your bog-standard infantry grunt for some time until he was deployed in a garrison posting in the Badlands. Whereas much of Dwarven territory could otherwise be kept secure by light mountaineer patrols, the heavy Dark Iron presence in these deserts so close to Loch Modan meant it had to be watched heavily. While there had not been a major offensive since the War of the Three Hammers, skirmishing was increasingly common as the Dark Irons infringed on Ironforge's territory.

In the early days of his career, Harkin established a reputation for himself as something of a glory hound who constantly tried to differentiate himself from the masses. While his more interesting exploits earned him a commendation or two, the disciplinary action, stern chats with his father and a few beatings from his unit eventually drummed this streak out of him. While dwarves were notoriously hardline in their laws and regulations, especially so in the military, the fact that Harkin's father held an officer's rank earned him some leniency, which may have been what salvaged him in the end. He grew to respect the basic discipline originally drilled into his head during his training and realised that falling into line and serving normally was service enough – not that the light skirmish warfare gave him much room for achievement anyway. All that was required of him was to follow orders and do it well, to stand in line and fight, and there was little wiggle room around this behaviour. While he was acceptant of this at first, a festering resentment grew within him.

Decades passed quickly, and Harkin slowly became a model rank and file soldier, pushed from his previous unpredictable ways by a several demotions and a final threat of court-martial. Eventually, it seemed that the antics in his early service had been forgotten and dismissed entirely, and he was once again just another man in line. At some point, he started getting tattoos done to commemorate important incidences in his military life, such as battles, promotions, claiming a kill and the untimely loss of a comrade. And somewhere still along the line, Harkin finally came to the realisation that war wasn't filled with the glamorous heroics his father had flooded his head with in his youth. He attained and held the rank of Corporal for a long time, regarded by his superiors as lacking the charisma and ability to co-ordinate a group necessary to become a sergeant and certainly the finesse and refined manner required of officers. After being hospitalised during an ambush that involved several Dark Iron sorcerers summoning a Fire Elemental, Harkin met, befriended and apparently fell in love with the trauma surgeon who he'd marry five years after that.

Another five years passed and Harkin had a young son, although both he and his wife were still serving in the army – as such, their son remained in the care of distant relatives for much of the time. However, Harkin remained confident that this would soon come to an end – that he'd retire from the army after all his years and finally settle down.

Human refugees showing up at King Magni's doorstep smashed his plans to pieces. He had a plot of land purchased and everything.

Before Harkin knew it, he was marching in a phalanx back out into the Badlands to face a new foe that swept up the Eastern Kingdoms like wildfire. Bigger and stronger than him by nature, driven by an insatiable lust for blood and able to swing hellish magics around just as well as their trademark waraxes – the Orcish Horde had descended upon Khaz Modan.

While he'd once had a reputation for his vigour, resourcefulness and adaptability in the field of battle, he'd grown old. He'd grown tired, he'd grown complacent in the routine of his job and disillusioned with it. At first, all that kept him going was fear – but when he finally realised that the Dwarven way of life was threatened and everything he held dear was at stake, the fervent patriotism he'd join the army with in his heart was reignited, having long since been quashed by failed expectations. When he went to war, he did so proudly, and was only dragged back away from it kicking and screaming when he lost his eye to a Troll axe-thrower while his squad was attempting to rescue a downed Gnomish pilot. His helmet had just about managed to deflect what would have split open his skull, but it'd still tore open his face something fierce.

It took him a while to adjust to such a sudden deprivation of depth perception, and even after the wound had been mended – to the best extent it could be – and he was given a patch to hide it, Harkin arranged for himself to remain in the field hospital in the hopes of seeing his wife again, who he heard had been assigned there. This was far from the case. His wife was neither seen nor heard from again, having apparently disappeared in the field. In the time it'd taken him to recover, his former unit had been sent to the cracked deserts of the Blasted Lands and marched through the portal with Lothar and his expedition. When the war finally wrapped up, Harkin's comrades, the men he'd grown close to over the years in the absence of his clan and family, were trapped on a doomed world. Statues were erected in honour of the so-called heroes of the expedition, but the real ones in Harkin's eyes – the average footsoldiers who'd been stranded in the line of duty – earned no such merit.

Moreover, his father, who had rejoined the army full-time despite his encroaching venerability, had been killed in action. Much of his clan, and that of his wife, had been slaughtered as the Horde flooded through the Dwarven lands. A one-eyed Harkin marched out yet again with heavy steps, focusing his anger and sorrow into something vaguely productive – against the stragglers of the Orcish forces lingering in pockets – but it didn't help as much as he would like to think. It seemed as though nothing would replace what he'd lost. By the time his honourable discharge came a year later, the word “honour” meant nothing to him. War walked hand in hand with loss as always, but it took him a long while to get to grips with a loss like that. Intelligently enough, Harkin chose to flood the void in his heart with alcohol and lots of it.

The Dwarven kingdom, in the wake of war, could not afford to extend a state pension to the weary veteran. At least, that's what they told him at the office, garbed in the rags of his old uniform and stinking of hard liquor. His clan of birth still wanted nothing to do with him after his seventy-five years in the army. Harkin didn't really care at that point, but he soon resolved that he couldn't just give up – and more importantly, he couldn't live without money, so he went about getting it however he could. With no other skills to fall back on, Harkin found himself fighting yet again. The cause, circumstance and environment changed regularly, but he fought all the same. He drifted between Dwarven settlements for several years, helping out where he could in exchange for coin. While most of this went to the barkeeps, occasionally, the Rockridge household in Thelsamar would receive anonymous packages addressed to the little runt their wayward son had saddled them with before sodding off permanently.

This manner of living on the fringes of society persisted for some time. Over time, Harkin managed to reconcile his losses and curbed his alcoholism, though as a dwarf you could hardly expect him to put the demon-drink away entirely. There were other ways, he decided, to deal with things aside from self-pity and drowning his sorrows. During the Third War, Harkin managed to work himself into a small mercenary crew that accompanied Admiral Proudmoore's fleet to Kalimdor. The prospect of slaughtering orcs again after all this time (tired, world-weary orcs without the same drive for slaughter and without their warlockry, but do you expect him to know the difference?) appealed to something primal and sadistic in the back of Harkin's head.

Savage and brutal they were still, but there were some things markedly different about the greenskins as he faced them this time. Not the least of these were their new allies – the Tauren, Darkspear Trolls and those of the Alliance under Jaina Proudmoore. After the Admiral's fleet were scattered and decimated, the survivors of Harkin's mercenary band abandoned their colours, licked their own wounds and decided that this was more than they'd signed on for. They made their way into the recently established Theramore, kept their heads down, and eventually managed to earn themselves passage back to Menethil, where they went their separate ways. It occurred to him then that the world was moving forward almost too fast for him to keep up. Harkin himself drifted for a few years as he had done in the past, gliding effortlessly (or rather, despite his efforts) between employer and employer before he settled into freelancing once again.

These have been an interesting few years for Harkin. To note, he briefly met up with a few of his old army buddies and ventured to Dustwallow Marsh with them, where they went to investigate rumours of great treasure hoards being stored somewhere in the swamps. They didn't quite account for the fact that these alleged treasures were guarded by the Black Dragonflight, and only Harkin and one more got on the boat home from Theramore again. A year or two later, he was recruited by a wealthy high elf wizard to serve as hired muscle on an expedition to Outland, and after running afoul a marauding pack of Warp Stalkers he and three surviving colleagues sold the mage's bloodied clothes and valuable possessions and spent two weeks on a bar crawl in Shattrath's Lower City, sampling local delicacies, booze and women.

He was, quite briefly, a security officer on a trading ship, and later somehow found himself commited to piracy. Not six months into this budding career, he became shipwrecked and marooned on an iceberg, and just barely after making it back to land he joined up with a band of Alliance veterans who briefly tore a bloody path through the Barrens on one campaign against the Horde. And not long after that, he discovered that his estranged unit who'd accompanied the Alliance Expedition towards the end of the Second War had all been killed in an Infernal attack fifteen years earlier, which led to him hospitalised in Ratchet after overdosing on only the gods know what.

It started fairly simple - as a way of paying off his debts to the doctor who'd treated him when he was unable to pay his medical bills outright. Fetch some herbs here, contaminate a rival physician's supplies there (such was Ratchet), then kneecap another debtor behind a shed and leave him to it. It didn't take a while before Harkin was trapped in a vicious cycle of owed favours and shady errands in and around the Cartel town, which kept him fed and drunk for a while but put his health constantly at risk. Even when he had enough money to leave, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

To this day, Harkin is working as a soldier for hire - which is what he prefers to call himself, anyway. "Thug" would be more accurate terminology. He's just one of many faces in the Cartel's crowd, each with their own selfish, misguided reasons to be a part of the most decadent society on Azeroth. Harkin's reason is a lot more basic than that of most: it's fun. His mercenary career soon enough led him to the fighting pits, and he's now in them as often as he can. The roar of the crowd, the blood crusting beneath his fingernails, the bags of coin he's handed after each successful fight... something about it all appeals to the self-centered glory hound within him that had been repressed by his time in the army. It's a damn good step above two-bit merc work.

Now, he has three main goals in his life. Here they are;

One, to attain a measure of riches, fame, or some combination thereof. Two, to live the rest of his days out comfortably, or to work towards doing so. Three, to ensure that his estranged child has a happy and successful life. Nobody in Ratchet knows where those packages of gold and letters are being sent to.

I'll let you figure out the order of priority yourself. Good night.