Syraline

Information

Player: Zarquon

Character Full Name: Syraline Syru

Character In-Game Name: Syraline

Nickname(s): Syr

Association(s): Lordaeron, The Church of Light.

Race: Human

Class: Priest

Age: 27

Sex: Female

Hair: Black

Eye: Gray

Weight: 133 lbs

Height: 5'6"

Appearance

Syr's garments tend to be tailored towards practicality rather then actual appearance; in times of war and when battle rages she would usually be motionless and hence robes tend to hinder more then aid in most cases. On the other hand, when official functions require her presence or when the Church is held in session, then she would usually be found in the simple, austere robes of the priesthood.

The Kul Tiras Expedition to Kalimdor led by Jaina Proudmoore during and after the Scourging of Lordaeron left none of the refugees unscathed, and Syraline was no exception. During Grom Hellscream's betrayal and Jaina's unlikely alliance with Thrall, Syraline accompanied a squad of footmen which was tasked with the destruction of a lumber mill vital to the Fel Horde's wood supply. During the attack, Syraline and her squad was ambushed when misinformation resulted in the unforeseen arrival of an orcish patrol unit, resulting in a heated skirmish. Although reinforcements from Thrall's army arrived in the nick of time, Syraline was left with a devastating wound down her left cheek, blinding her left eye and resulting in a permant scar running down the length of her left cheek.

Personality

Alignment: Lawful Good, wavering towards Neutral Good. As far as Syraline is concerned, the law serves as a guideline that she would follow, and she had followed all her years, but nonetheless, she grudgingly admits that many a time the bureacratic chain of command prevent swift actions when swift actions are needed. Hence, there are many situations in which she would bend the law a little, simply to provide the most efficient healthcare to her patients or to those who need it.

Perhaps if the river of time had flowed the another way and Syr's life and family had not been shattered by the thunderous roars of war, she would persist in the vaunted cheerfulness that she possessed as a young girl. As it was, however, smiles come only periodically to this weathered survivor, mere shadows of a more peaceful time that now only exists as a fading hope within the reminisce of thousands. She had seen too much, and dare not hope, no, dare not even hope for thehope that she would live till her venerable years, and hence she approach each day with the solemn expression of one who had escaped the clutches of death far too many times. As a priestess of the Light, she is determined to do her very best till her dying breath to alleviate the sufferings of those around her, even if doing thusly would place herself at risk. The truth is, what makes her apathetic about her own death, what held such vice-like grip over her very soul, is guilt. Once, many years ago, she had fled. Once, many years ago, she had let down those who depended on her. Due to both her ultimately altruistic nature and her participation in the Reign of Chaos, she tend to keep her judgement to herself, and much like the esteemed leader that once led her and many others to what they believed was certain death, she holds a benign attitude towards orcs and their kins. She strongly abides by the Three Virtues of her faith; respect, tenacity and compassion.

History

It is oft believed by sages of old that the birth of one during particular times hold great significance and import over said one's life. The spring equinox, a lunar eclipse or even the first and last days of a year. Eager mothers carry their newborn child to their frequented priests, requesting consecrations and blessings for their beloved child, their eyes gleaming with hope and tears as they dreamed of great lives and glorious destinies for their child. Perhaps these sages of old and their beliefs that had endured through the passage of time were right. In the year 598 of the King's Calender, 8 dreadful years after the opening of the Dark Portal and the Fall of Stormwind, the tides of darkness smashed against the Alliance army upon the shores of Lordaeron and the horns of war were sounded throughout the realms as massive juggernauts of iron and wood collided with sands. Syr's father died upon the shores of Lordaeron, one of many thousands that sold their lives for the Alliance as the howling tides of orcs pounded the buckling Alliance army, his broken corpse twisted by the cruel apathy of an ogre and flung into his own comrades. The day young Syr made her first cry, half the continent away, the cries of the dying echoed her's.

Mayhap the scales of fate are indeed fair, and what was taken from one becomes eventually balanced by what is given to one. Or perhaps the tantalising sweetness of life served only to accentuate the stark bitterness of death. Her widowed mother survived the second war only to die soon thereafter from grief, but recognising the sacrifices that her parents had given to the Alliance and the valiant effort of her father, the Church of Light took her under it's wings as an orphan child, providing her with basic education and a home to speak of. Hence, from young, the Holy Light had already placed its mark upon her, and it's influence in her life. It was simply life's eventuality then, that Syr would grow up to be inducted into the Church of Light as an acolyte, then eventually becoming a lay priest at the age of sixteen. A scarce year later, her devotion and compassion were recognized by the Church, and she became a priestess of the light.

For most of her life, the misfortunes of fate had but lightly touched her with the gentle caress of a falling feather, taking away those that she needs and cherish, but leaving her unharmed. In the year 617 of the King's Calender, 25 years after the opening of the Dark Portal, the whimsical fates finally strung her upon a dance of survival, as the Scourging of Lordaeron began. Serving her years in instruction in a small village situated upon the outskirts of Hearthglen, she and the small community remained relatively isolated compared to the rest of the world, and hence when the first waves of undeath slaughtered its way towards the village, the only warnings they had were the sudden silence of it's nearest trading partner. Hastily the men gathered arms and erected barricades, the womensfolk and children hurriedly gathered in preparation to flee and seek refuge elsewhere. They knew not what they faced, and hence an atmosphere of fear descended upon the once-serene community.

And Syr, Syr stood with them, but yet in the face of death, who and what was she to deny its inexorable march? As those clawed down by the mindless ghouls rose once more against those whom they once considered friends, something within Syr broke, and she made the fateful decision that would haunt her till this very day. As the hapless screams of her friends rose around her, the smell of cinder and ash strong in the air, she broke and fled.

She knew not where to go or what to do, nor even her exact location, as she ran tearfully into the dark glades of Lordaeron in the dead of night, the only illumination provided by the ghastly pale hue of the fading moon obscured by clouds. Her flight was assailed by whipping branches that roughly scoured unprotected skin from flesh, uncanny roots that formed malevolent obstacles that landed her flat on the ground countless times, but still she fled on, crippled by saturated fear. Finally, when dawn breaks, ragged and worn, she arrived in the town of Hearthglen.

To her, the Holy Light had always served as a tool for Good, and utmost amongst all the ethos of good was the ability to alleviate and negate the sufferings of others. The mere thought, the mere idea of the Holy Light being used as a weapon, for whatever end even if it would result in good, was simply incomprehensible to her; oh, she had heard of the paladins of course, but yet it seem such an improbable tale that she had simply dismissed those as rumours. Yet, to see the Prince, to see the son of the King himself, a person whose legendary deeds she had but heard in bardic tales and hushed whispers, to see -him- standing before the gates of Hearthglen, the Holy Light bathing him in all of it's radiance as the undead creatures shrinked from him. . .It was simply spectacular. The Holy Light had always been thought to come from oneself, through the practice of self-meditations and conformation to the Three Virtues, and hence something within Syr flared upon watching her own Prince fighting for his people. It gave her strength, and she joined the ranks of those desperate yet undoubtedly valiant defenders as they held the lines at Hearthglen, shedding sweat and blood as they stood unwavering before the hordes of undeath. His Prince needs her, needs all of them, to fight for him, and so she silently promised that she would, whatever it took. Some wishes are best ungranted and some promises are best left unfulfilled.

Stratholme. When right and wrong blurs into an incomprehensible mixture of darkness, sometimes even the Holy Light cannot illuminate the right path, so what could one young, disillusioned and thoroughly frightened woman do in the face of such choices of mercy? Syr did the only thing she could, the only thing she was taught to do; she followed her Prince. What occured in Stratholme was written in the annals of history, but what she did there only she knew, and it blighted her innocent soul till this very day, every scream, every plea, every word haunting her dreams and waking hours. As a counterpoint to the darkest of days however, the pinprick of light shines brighter to the denizens caught within from the edges. On the same day that the Lady Jaina Proudmoore of Kul Tiras announced her decision to leave Lordaeron for Kalimdor, Syr left the Alliance army meant for Northrend and joined the Kul Tiras Expedition force to Kalimdor.

Syr served as a priestess dedicated to healing the wounded during her tenure amongst thousands of other refugees and soldiers under the leadership of the Lady Proudmoore, her eyes often haunted and her expression perpetually downcast. One might, in these current times, find that curious or mayhap even awkward, but yet to the thousands of dispossessed and homeless refugees, it was a common sight, although Syr found solace amongst the communal desperation of the expedition. She managed then, to devote all her energy and thought to a single purpose, a single goal, slowly improving her arts of healing upon the fields of battle, attached to the idea that perhaps she could atone for her previous sins eventually and hence dedicating all her effort into aiding others. Till this day, she remains proud of the fact that she had killed not a single living mortal ever since the Culling of Stratholme, instead depending on protecting her allies and healing the wounded, performing with distinction in Kalimdor.

The fates, however, remained unkind to Syr, as would be proven at the base of Felfire Hill in Ashenvale, for it was during that fateful battle where the Lady Proudmoore and Thrall worked together against a corrupted Grom Hellscream that Syr lost her left eye. During an attack on a vital lumber mill of the Fel Horde, Syr and her squad were ambushed by a patrol due to both a miscalculation and misinformation about the timing and route of the enemy patrol. Thankfully, or cruelly depending on perspective, a squad of orcs from Thrall's Horde was sent to reinforce Syr's squad due to the potential difficulties of the mission, and this lucky caution bought the lives of Syr and a dozen over other men. Nonetheless, Syr was grievously injured during that battle, her left eye permanently blinded by an orcish axe that cut down the length of her left cheek. On the other hand, it must be noted that if she had not been recuperating in the expedition base, she might be crushed to death when the first infernals began to fall.

Regardless, Syr survived and recovered in time to join the grand alliance in the Battle for Mount Hyjal, which actually served to end whatever depression her injuries might have caused her; it is pretty hard to cry over having an eye blind or having an ugly scar running down the length of your cheek when you might not live to see the next day after all. She fought valiantly, or desperately, against the hordes of undeath and demons, on the verge of breaking and fleeing countless times as every moment was seemingly a fight for her life. Yet, she stood, and she gained some strength from the fact that others stood with her, and by the Light she survived the fall of Lady Proudmoore's base. Of course, there were two others. At the end of the day, however, Syr survived amongst the bare thousand or so humans left, a scant percent of the original number that had left Lordaeron.

The fates should have been kinder to her after that, but Syr had one more obstacle to cross. At the end of the Battle for Mount Hyjal, Jaina Proudmoore established the Theramore Isles, and Syr was one of the first few settlers who lived there. The peace lasted for a short time; a bare respite as she sought desperately to go through the events of the past year and come to terms with the fact that all she had once took for granted had been shattered. In the year 620 of the King's Calender, 28 years after the Opening of the Dark Portal, Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore arrived in Theramore with the grand armada of Kul Tiras. Once again, Syr was dragged into an inevitable conflict, fighting desperately for her life as the Grand Admiral's ostensible hostility resulted in a combined orc, troll and ogre invasion of Theramore. When upon the death of the Grand Admiral and Jaina's command for her forces to stand down, Syr was the first to happily throw her staff away, take out a wad of bandages from her backpack, and begin to heal, her expression resigned.

After the Horde's invasion of Theramore, Syr simply had enough. She resigned from the Kul Tiras army, rejecting the offer to accompany the Might of Kalimdor to Silithus, and then rejecting the 7th Legion's offer to accompany them to Northrend again, instead retreating, broken and wounded, to the center of the Church of Light, Stormwind. Till the time of this writing, she had stayed in the Cathedral of Light for almost five years, although she travelled out frequently on travelling assignments to various parts of the world to compile an encyclopedia of sorts for the Church, she being chosen for both her uncanny ability to survive hostilities, her distinction in the arts of healing, and consequently her diplomatic abilities in not getting herself prematurely killed. At the time of this writing, her most recent assignment was to Booty Bay, doing a research on the faith and beliefs of the goblins living there, which came to the disappointing conclusion that the only faith they have are in things that can be weighed, counted and spent.

For all that she had a few scarce years of peace, however, she remains broken inside, and it remained evident every night as nightmares break the tranquility of her sleep. Her only wish now is not glory, power, riches or anything, really, but simply peace. She has an idea, unfortunately, that if past records are an indicator of future possibilities, she would get nothing near what she wished for.