Xyrian Rev3

Information

• Player: haZei

• Character Full Name: Xyrian Duskwalker

• Character In-Game Name: Xyrian

• Associations: None

• Race: Blood Elf

• Class: Demon Hunter (Rogue)

• Age: 1,400

• Sex: Male

• Hair: Black and spiked away from his face. He cares little for his appearance, for a Sin'dorei. Often has a small goatee if he doesn't get around to shaving.

• Eyes: Once fel green, now gaunt, mutilated sockets hidden behind a blindfold.

• Weight: 143

• Height: 6'1

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armour: Wears simple leather trousers, lightweight and flexible, as well as similar boots. The armour is made for evasion and fast movement, not protection. He occasionally wears leather straps around his hands to protect them from damage during long use of his glaives. He always wears his blindfold.

Other: Almost always seen carrying the customary glaives of a Demon Hunter as well as two pouches on his belt, containing bandages and herbs. He also has a money pouch.

Personality:

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Dark, brooding and stoic, Xyrian's past has shaped his current personality. He channels his anger and sorrow in to wrath toward the Legion and the Scourge and rarely dabbles in other matters. One of his primary traits is regret; he hates himself for permanently exiling himself from the world to fight the Legion. While he has chosen to fully embrace the change, his bitterness towards himself is apparent. Fortunately, his hate toward the Legion overshadows this trait.

Xyrian's view on other races is purely based on personal experience, the natural superiority of his race being lost to him. His rare visits to settlements have forged his dislike for Goblins, and he still retains his hatred for the Alliance; though he respects the spirituality and wisdom of the Night Elves. He respects the Forsaken's determination and spirit, but has a natural aversion to them due to their undead state. He cares little for the Trolls and Tauren, having dealt with them little in his life. He has a fair amount of respect for the Orcs, due to their races' similar experiences. He hates his own kind with a fiery passion.

Xyrian finds pleasure only in retribution. He is fanatical in his hatred toward Demons, and is instantly a threat to any that would deal or otherwise ally with them, even destroying Uncorrupted Warlocks and Necromancers, due to his experience with what he knows they become.

He does appreciate companionship and friendship, for it is rare that he meets those who accept and respect him for what he is. He is generally kind and charitable, and does not hesitate to help the needy, for he believes that his quest not only revolves around destroying the Legion, but aiding those that they have harmed.

History:

Born to a lower class family of labourers in Silvermoon City, Xyrian's parents struggled to keep afloat financially, but were truly devoted to each other and were happy in the small, cramped room they lived in. Xyrian was brought up being told that Nobles and Mages were better than he was and that he lived to do the jobs that were beneath them. Knowing nothing else, Xyrian was fairly indifferent about his life. While he was not happy, his simple life was not damaged or broken by any great tragedy.

Around his teenage years, Xyrian began showing talent for combat in both martial and magical paths. His parents had no way to finance courses in the arcane arts and Xyrian's talent was wasted. They did, however, buy him a sword with which to practice. He spent much of his free time practising swordsmanship, either on his own or with some of his friends. He soon cast aside the call of magic and focused on becoming a swordsman.

Xyrian's studies went well. He was clever and physically fit and a general high achiever, which gave him contentedness in himself. Soon after he came of age, he was forced to find work. Enlisting himself in the army, he fought to defend Quel'thalas from the remnants of the Troll empire and other threats. He became quite the combat expert, being raised in rank more than once, but was never a capable leader. He earned himself a fair wage and was content to purchase a house out in the woods of Eversong and live in peace as war died down for the High Elves.

After a few years, Xyrian sought a mate. He spent many years along, but on one of his many travels in to Fairbreeze Village for supplies, he spied a fair looking woman not far from him. Valyra. While Xyrian was no charmer, he found himself getting along well with the lady. Suffice to say that he began to court her, often meeting in a lush, enchanted clearing in central Eversong to talk and spend time together.

It was not long before they married. They scheduled a small, private wedding in the same clearing they would often meet in. After the celebrations they went back to live in Xyrian's well earned house. Many decades they spent in happiness together, even having two children which lived happily with them.

Twenty four years ago, at the time of the Second War, Xyrian was not part of the token army. Though, when the Orcs broke through and burned much of Quel'thalas, he joined the fight and helped drive them back. He was a silent supporter of forgiving the Humans; though he did not voice his complaints and stayed true to his nation.

Xyrian's two children became of age soon after. His first born, a boy, took up the mantle of a Farstrider and was sent north to train with them. His daughter followed his mother's path as a tailor, staying with Xyrian and Valyra.

Then came the Scourge. His people chaotic and unprepared rushed to defend their homeland, they did not fare well against the hordes of undead encroaching upon Silvermoon. Xyrian joined the defense just south of his home, at the border between the Ghostlands and Eversong Woods. Unfortunately, the High Elves could do little to quell the destruction being wrought down the Dead Scar, and the ravaging Undead quickly made it's way through Eversong, destroying both his home and the sight of his wedding. Xyrian was heartbroken, but continued his fight.

As the dust settled in the last refuge of the High Elves, Xyrian immediately sought out his family. He could do little in the way of crossing the Dead Scar, but after a week's time their bodies were reported in. They had died with the long strip of forest, wiped out by the encroaching scourge after they had felled the first gate. Xyrian was bitter, and heartbroken. His shock quickly turned to rage and the only thing he could direct it to was his own kind. He blamed them for the supposedly indestructible elfgates being destroyed, and he blamed them for the death of his family.

Xyrian's happy life was turned upside down and his personality shifted with it. He became utterly depressed for many weeks, barely speaking or eating and drinking. Recovery was slow but sure, and he began to regain his strength and his mind.

Soon came the return of the Elves from Outland. He partook in learning how to absorb fel and became a Blood Elf like any other. It was not long before Xyrian began to truly come to terms with his loss. He began to despise his people's corrupt, unfair social rules. This was made only worse by the addiction he had to come to terms with, and regret and bitterness tainted him, hating what he had become. He began to blame not only the Blood Elves, but himself.

Imposing upon himself a self-exile, he took what little possessions he had left after the destruction of his home and travelled south by Dragonhawk to the jungles of Stranglethorn. His destination was clear to him: Felwood. His mind blurred and tainted from tragedy and self-hatred, he sought out a Goblin Mage greedy enough to transport him to the Demonic forest.

Upon his arrival in Bloodvenom Post, he immediately began his search for a Demon Hunter to train him. Asking around the small settlement, he heard only rumours of the mythical warriors, but one thing was made clear: he was in the right place to find one. His failure led him to try a different route in his desperation. He ventured out in to the lethal wilderness and began to actively look around for a tutor. He would battle any aggressive beast or satyr, his rage and hatred for Demonkind fuelling his blade. Weeks passed, but eventually he stumbled across a Demon Hunter, a Kaldorei by the name of Cianis.

Xyrian remembers the night well. A thick layer of fog blanketed the dark forest. The air was deadly still and an unpleasant chill crawled it's way up his spine. He stood on the cliff edge that overlooked the tainted vale of Irontree. He wore only trousers and boots, his chest open to the elements. He carried his simple, steel blade in one hand and his gaunt, tired eyes scanned the area. The sickly, bubbling green pools of tainted liquid were motionless, ironically tranquil in such a chaotic land.

The still night left little motion to make a sound. An eerie quiet hung over the area, and it was not long before the clashing of steel upon steel began to penetrate the calm silence. Xyrian whirled around, attempting to pinpoint the source of the noise. To the east, on the same curved ridge that he stood upon, a battle raged. Too far away to truly be able to decipher the noises, Xyrian quickly darted forward and sprinted toward the commotion. The sounds of blade on blade grew louder and bright green and orange light flashed between the opponents. As he neared it became clear what he witnessed. He came to an abrupt halt. A Demon Hunter, truly, battled a Satyr Warlock and his demonic minion. Xyrian could only watch in awe of the grace that the Night Elf employed to combat his foes. He quickly came to his sense and rushed in to join the fray. The Night Elf seemed to not even notice him as they quickly dispatched of the foes together.

As the fight came to a close, Xyrian turned to the Demon Hunter with his mouth open to speak, but found him already beginning to leave without a word. “Wait!” The Kaldorei stopped in his tracks and turned his head horizontally, his muscled chest slowly rising and falling after such a battle. Xyrian swallowed down his nerves and called out once again. “I need you to train me!” A long pause. The silence deafened Xyrian as he stood and watched in impatience. The moments felt like years. Only a short, mocking laugh came from the Elf who began to walk once again. His barbed glaives dripped with black blood and his deformed body casting a long, dark shadow as he walked in to the sunset. Xyrian was not ready to give up so soon. He broke in to a run. “I said, I need you to trai-” His words were cut off as the Hunter whirled around, his glaives touching the sides of Xyrian's neck before the Blood Elf even knew what had happened. He gulped, staring at the other Elf with eyes widened in disbelief and fear. A guttural, feral growl had replaced the Night Elf's voice. “What makes you think you are worthy?” Xyrian was taken aback. His face fell as his emotions did. He realized that he wasn't worthy. What had he done? Fought in wars? He was no master bladesman. Even his conviction failed as he thought in that long moment.

But the pure hatred inside Xyrian was not going to be cast aside so easily. His face resumed it's stern, cold mask and he retorted, his bright gaze meeting the Hunter's. “I will do anything to make myself worthy.” The Night Elf's cold, hardened demeanour did not move for a few seconds, the razor sharp tips of his glaive still held against Xyrian's neck. He let out a deep, quiet growl from inside himself before he whipped away his blades and sheathed them. He turned and began walking in the same direction as before. Xyrian stared dumbly for the moment, regaining his posture.

“Come.”

Xyrian began by proving himself as convicted. Cianis was a cold, harsh and unforgiving tutor that clearly believed Xyrian would fail, and in some ways it was apparent that he wanted him to. He would spend hours upon hours attempting menial and frustrating tasks which required the utmost concentration yet held no interest for Xyrian, such as cutting wood in to perfect cubes by hand. Xyrian did not complain once, for he was set on his task and knew that to speak out would be to fail the test.

It was not long before Cianis gave Xyrian the task of training with his own glaives. The Hunter returned one day, with a pair of simple iron glaives, old and battered. Xyrian took them and began to train with the weapons in silence, welcoming the much needed change. He spent many months doing this, often lasting weeks without uttering a word or leaving his clearing.

Cianis spoke rarely, and when he did it was worth listening to. Xyrian was finally given his wish around a month after their first meeting.

“It is time.”

He stood and began to stride, it was clear that his destination was set out. Xyrian hurriedly followed, satisfaction welling up inside him. Thoughts of grandeur and excitement began to arise, but were quickly pushed back down. He knew what he was getting in to.

They walked for but a few minutes before Cianis stopped, drawing his warglaives. Xyrian dropped in to a combat stance out of reaction, thinking it was some kind of duel or test. But the Hunter simply held the glaives out to him, his face emotionless. Embarrassed, the Blood Elf straightened and took the blades, eyeing them over and feeling their weight. He was not used to the larger, heavier glaives but gave a nod without complaint. Cianis eyed him for a moment, before speaking once again, his voice sending a nervous shiver down Xyrian's spine.

“A stone's throw east. Dispose of the threat.”

Xyrian only nodded, turning and making his way east. As he walked through the dark, foul forest he thought about himself, about what he knew he was going to do. A pang of anxiety ripped through him, making him pause. Was he truly ready? Did he want to make such a sacrifice? The Elf shook his head and continued on. He was set on the commitment and valued only retribution in his life now.

As he neared his destination the sound of large feet clashing against the rocky ground began to be heard. He quickened his pace, dropping in to a jog. He could not yet see his target, but he could hear it beyond the veil of growth that stood before him. He took one deep breath before bursting in to the clearing, glaives drawn.

The scene that stood before him was one of horror. Multiple Elven corpses were fresh to the ground. Blood lay spattered across the fresh bodies and in the centre stood a lone Fel Guard, a colossal polearm in hand and magical fire burning in the other. It looked to Xyrian, and in the moment that their eyes met the Elf's fear washed away and only burning hatred remained. He snarled, darting forward with practised speed. Blow after blow was exchanged between the two, the Felguard offering more than a dangerous opponent. Narrowly escaping death, Xyrian managed to parry a blow from the Felguard's massive weapon, but the glaive shattered. The Blood Elf, staggered backward, searching around for some kind of weapon. The only thing at hand was a simple steel dagger. He took it up and continued the assault, desperation fuelling his blades. Xyrian's unrelenting attacks eventually paid off and he stood, staring at the defeated, panting form of the Demon, a small smile creeping it's way on to his face.

“You did well.”

The panting, bloody form of Xyrian turned, his body riddled with cuts and burns. He eyed his master, slowly regaining his breath and hold on the situation. Coming to his senses, he was both happy and surprised. Cianis had complimented him. The Night Elf stalked his way to the defeated demon and forced him upward.

Standing together in a small, dark clearing. The air was still, windless, and an unpleasant chill crawled it's way up the Blood Elf's spine. A thick layer of fog coated the forest. Xyrian held the dagger, dripping with the blood of the Felguard. Cianis turned to Xyrian, who turned to meet the Hunter's gaze, his face a stone mask of preparedness.

“There is no turning back.”

Xyrian only nodded once and clutched a nearby branch to steady himself. Then came the pain...

The Blood Elf screamed in agony, his fist closing so fast it crushed the branch in to splinters. The pain burned his entire being, fire ripping through his veins. He fell to one knee, blood cascading from where his eyes once were.

Cianis merely watched.

~

A small pot of ink rested on the log near him. Cianis worked silently and calmy, his work being perfectly accurate. The markings were impossible to follow, changing at every turn. Thick and thin, curved and straight. The markings of rage were being imbued on to him.

~

Many months passed. With his new sight and abilities, Xyrian was a powerful force, yet one he was not fully comfortable with. Feelings of regret and self hatred assaulted him regularly, yet he knew he had no choice but to finish his trials and embrace his new self. He was ready to undertake his final trial: remove the threat of a corrupted Demon Hunter.

Cianis told him of his bounty. Another Kaldorei, who had given in to the Demon inside himself and become what he sought to destroy. They began their travel to the frozen wastelands of Northrend to hunt him down. The Hunter had last been seen in the chill peaks of Icecrown, hunting the remnants of the Scourge.

It was in the Valley of Lost Hope that they found him. He tore through the undead, slaying multiple ghouls at once with ease. His blades roared with fire and his shouts with rage. Xyrian approached, dagger in one hand and glaive in the other.

“Your time has come to an end!” Xyrian shouted at the Hunter. He paused, halting his attack and turning round to eye the Blood Elf, his chest rising and falling slowly. He gave only a sneer, before he burst in to a charge, his glaives cutting through the air as he jumped toward the novice. Xyrian slid to the side, before he pushed forward and stabbed forward with his dagger. Parry, counter. Dodge, counter. This continued for what seemed to Xyrian a timeless endeavour. His muscles began to tire, as did his opponent's. Their blows became slower.

Xyrian realised he could not win in a simple battle of skill, so he used his one advantage to it's full potential. The corrupt demon Hunter had no control over his power, no restraint. Xyrian began to fall back, forcing him to attack at ranged or be easily predicted. The Hunter began to launch balls of green fire toward Xyrian, who dodged attack after attack. The Hunter roared in frustration, dropping his glaives and bringing up his hands, prearing a final, volcanic strike. Xyrian finally acted, rushing forward and bringing his dagger forward to meet the corrupted's stomach. A sharp intake of breath was heard, and the fire dissipated from his hands. All he could do was look down at the wound, then back to Xyrian before the hand of death pulled him from this world.

Xyrian looked up to his Master, but saw nothing. He had already left. Xyrian swallowed deeply, before smiling to himself. Taking a deep breath of the cold air, he closed the eyes of the fallen Hunter and began his trek back to civilisation, allowing himself some pride in finishing his task.

Now he stalks through the most affected areas of Azeroth, Northrend and the remnants of Outland, doing his best to remove the threat of the Demonic Horde.

Skills and Abilities:

Physically fit and robust, able to withstand harsh conditions, due to his survival skills and experience with them. A master of first aid and non-magical healing, possessing knowledge about plants. Possesses typical Demon Hunter abilities:

• Engulf Blade: Temporarily enchants his blade with magical fire, causing extra damage to enemies.
• Immolate: Surrounds himself in flames, causing damage to anyone that would attack him in close range.
• Mana Burn: Drains an enemy spell caster’s own magical reserves and damages them in the process.
• Drain Demon Soul: Leeches the lifeblood of a Demon to heal himself and restore some energy.
• Tainted Fireball: Launches a fel fireball at his enemy.
• Markings of Rage: His tattoos imbue him with the power to control his rage and let it out in a single moment using a word of power, allowing him to make a single strong attack. Can only be used once per encounter.