Mjorn

Information

Player: Waffenbaum

Character Full Name: Mjorn Bloodstone

Character In-Game Name: Mjorn

Nickname(s): None

Association(s): The Ebon Blade

Race: Dwarf

Class: Death Knight

Age: 55

Sex: Male

Hair: Black

Eyes: Glowing

Weight: 160lbs/72kg

Height: Standing at 4'2"/129cm, Mjorn is just under average height for a grown dwarf. He is aware of this, and rarely stands close to taller dwarves as to not draw attention to the fact.

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: He most often wears a carefully planned mix of lavish robes and finely-crafted plate armor, all of which is meticulously kept clean to a point where some might consider it slightly obsessive.

Other: He is remarkably soft-spoken and articulate for a dwarf, possessing a pleasant voice which, if it was not for the eerie hollow bellow brought on by death, could be quite suited for oration. He has no trace of any dwarven accent whatsoever.

Personality

Mjorn is, in only so many words, an awful person. He is greedy, self-indulgent and has a superiority complex which he barely manages to contain for his own sake. Although he was already a difficult person to his peers before his transformation into a walking, talking extension of death and decay, said introduction to unlife did little to lighten his stern, unpleasant attitude towards others.

To what few friends and relations he has, he will be courteous but cold. Always calculating, always scheming behind the blue, burning orbs that was once a pair of eyes as green and deep as a purely cut emerald. To anyone that invokes his ire, he is as friendly as a cobra poised to strike at any exposed Achilles heel. Though when faced with someone obviously much more powerful than himself, he tends to sheds his proverbial snakeskin to reveal the cowardly worm inside. When bravery does indeed occur, it will in most cases be to serve a specific (and usually profitable) end.

History

Mjorn was born into a wealthy dwarven house, in which politics and underhanded dealings went hand-in-hand with the mastery of the hammer and metal, and although Mjorn was sharp both in tongue and thought, his snide and overbearing attitude only served to rub many a member of his own family the wrong way. Wherever he saw a chance, he seized it, whether it was an open position or an exposed throat that caught his eye.

His climb for power ended with the culmination of what ought to have been his finest moment, instead turned into a scene of humiliation and betrayal. Oldest son of the family as he was, he was summoned with his brothers and sisters to the deathbed of their father Mordim. Here Mjorn eagerly awaited the final moments of the old man, and to be named the next ruler of his house.

When all were present, his father spoke with a voice burdened by age and sorrow alike; “Mjorn, my son. Though you are my rightful heir, and though your eagerness to rule cannot be called into question.. I have decided that you are unfit to care for this house and its possessions, both material and otherwise.”

At this time, Mjorn had sprung to his feet to protest, face contorted in indignant anger. But his father simply raised a gnarled hand and bellowed, in a voice such that Mjorn could not help but keep his silence; “Your actions, my son, have always been in your own best interest. I have no doubt that rule under your yoke would not stray from this unfortunate path, and I will not allow you to lead us all to ruin and dishonour over vanity and self-serving ideals. It is.. my last wish and command that you shall never be allowed to take control of this house; lest you be banished from our bloodline should you attempt to do so. Now I have said my piece in this matter, and I implore you not to question my deliberation. Know simply that I do this, because it must be done.”

Mjorn could hold his seething rage no longer; he rushed at the bed and grasped the old dwarf by the neck of his death gown, shaking him violently to the shock and horror of his surrounding family. He screamed, yelled and churned his verbal bile at the frail figure before him as the outcries of “Stop him!” and “Madman!” grew louder behind him. Firm hands then took Mjorn by the throat and hands and forced him from the room. Just before his world grew dark from a well-placed knock on the skull, Mjorn would till the end of days swear that he saw a smile on the lips of the old man as he calmly made his way into the halls of his ancestors.

Locked in his quarters, Mjorn awakened every bit as furious as he had been before his subdual. He broke chairs, overturned tables and threw age-old silverware at doors and walls. As he tipped the large oak bookcase and saw it crash to the floor with a roaring rumble, he found his energy spent, though the anger still burned inside him like red-hot needles under his skin. He sat on his bed for what seemed like hours, plotting the individual death of each member of member of his house, in his mind seeing himself tearing out their eyes and pouring liquid silver into the sockets for good measure. When he had also exhausted his imagination with all manners of cruel torture, he stared at the books that now lay scattered before him.

Perhaps it was simple chance which had caused the books to spill in such a way, but as a few words caught his eyes in a book that now lay open on the stone floor, he reluctantly picked it up and began reading. It was a book he could not recall having seen on the bookcase before. Heavy, ancient and bound in dark leather it was an imposing read both in its looks and contents. Mjorn read the words on each page hungrily, nary looking up as the door was unlocked and food was brought to his room by a nervous servant. Fully engrossed in the book, he learned of the lands beyond the sea and the promises of power that lay dormant within them. “Northrend” he heard himself whisper as each consequent page was turned, and soon there was nothing left. His mind was clear now, his anger gone and in its place a wicked feeling of schadenfreude in the knowledge that when opportunity arose, he would leave to find these powers. And when he did, he would return either to claim everything that was his by right, or to see it all burn.

These powers would be his, he swore, no matter the price.