Zethon

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Information

Player: Krilari

Character in-game name: Zethon

Character name: Zethon’Aril Eburi'osa

Nickname(s): Arbalist

Associations(s): Silvermoon City (Exiled), Church of the Holy Light (Formerly), The Blood Knights

Race: Blood Elf

Class: Hunter

Age: 499

Sex: Male

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Fel Green

Weight: 152 Lbs

Height: 6’1”

Skills and Abilities

The Holy Book - Using his previous life as a pastor to fuel his new following, Zethon utilizes Light and Shadow magic granted by faith in order to activate most of his spells.

Appearance

Lean and agile Zethon poses as a fairly athletic man, though bears only fractions of the usual elven grace. Two observantly narrow eyes sit in the midst of his visage, pressing an overall neutral expression. Golden locks of well-tended hair flow down from the crest of his brow, slicked back all the way until it sits along the midst of his back. Tanned skin makes up the most of his complexion, though there is a large exception for the front of his person. Billowing out from his person is a pocket of sickly, discolored skin that runs from the crest of his torso down to his abdomen. Cursed by flames the flesh takes to an unsightly range of colors that spans from red to purple and anything inbetween.

Wrapping up all of this is a set of chainmail armor, it’s make not so much for elves but the stouter and bulkier humans. Despite such it suits it’s purpose well, hiding away the most of Zethon’s form from prying eyes.

Personality

The benevolence of a priest tied with the instincts of an arbalist all tempered by the dramatics of Silvermoon’s politics is what leaves Zethon’aril where he is now. Every action and every word is chosen carefully, weaving a fragile web of lies and half-truths to keep his history as far away from him as possible. Most of his darkened thoughts are hidden well behind a veil of smiles and humor, putting out a rather friendly appearance to those around him.

Overall the preacher puts out a rather meager air around him, drawing well away from the public eye lest there be the slightest opportunity for a quick joke or a sly slip.


History

By the time of Zethon’aril’s birth House Eburi'osa was already one of great wealth and influence. From the youngest years of his lives he was groomed and pampered, every want and need met at his whim. Through the impressionable years he was introduced to the royalties of nobility, the graces of wealth and intellect, and the influence of raw power. All of such were provided unto him by his parents as he was to be the house’s own scion son- the one destined to rule the house with the same steel gauntlet that was passed upon him. However not all would go as planned.

Not far out if his childhood Zethon would not take to the grand halls of the Magistry nor the training fields of the Farstriders. He was not destined for the great collegiums or the terrace of a tradesman. Despite all of his parent’s best wishes Zethon’aril took to the vocation of the priesthood, following faithfully beneath the Holy Light’s teachings. Fresh into the world he would take to the rather zealous task of preaching to the masses, drawing them into the following just as he was.

The touch of a skilled enchanter was rare to have even in the magically-inclined city of Silvermoon. Rare dusts, gems, magics and more left the profession more for those who could afford it’s graces. Those unfunded enough to do the deed themselves were forced to purchase from those who could and thus is where Eburi’osa steps in- Specializing in the craftsmanship of magical instruments. Such a practice would be taken up by the young man, though not from his own will. Instead he took up the art to appease the will of his disapproving patron.

Years would come and go and slowly the boy would find himself becoming a man, and thusly worried with the troubles of such. Once again, despite his holy following, he was pressed into the preparations of assuming the household’s head as his elders grew even more and more so. Days once spent in the joy of the forests were once more spent in dark halls as if he were simply living the life of a school child. However, not all hope would be lost during these times as a small spark of a Light would keep him afloat. Love was a mysterious thing to the priestly man, even more so as his arcane-addled gaze started taking to another of his church- a human woman.

With only a few years worth of courting the two were wed by Zethon’aril’s own authority, refusing to make a public spectacle out of what his family surely disapprove of. Hidden well away in the Eversong Woods the both of them managed a rather peaceful life, excluding Zethon’s constant dabbling with the noble life and it’s pecking worries. Though, all in all the lessons of royalty would pale in comparison for the pains to come.

In the blink of an eye House Eburi’osa transformed from a prosperous trading house to a collection of traitorous wretches. A scheme by the elders of his house fell through, leaving all bearing the name with a mark of shame. One that would not be washed away easily. In the heat of a midsummer night a number of the house’s rivals took to Zethon’s house, engulfing it in flames and with it the heir of the house. Or at least so they thought. In the madness of it all Zethon was able to flee from the wreckage with his wife and children, though he was an elf and conjured a much stronger vitality than the other two. Before his very eyes all he worked for in life was burnt down and the poisonous smoke took all he loved not long after.

The three would be buried along the nearby hillside.

The politics of the nobles soon turned the world against him. Brother, sisters, uncles, aunts; Anyone bearing the House’s name was jailed or exiled against their will. Zethon himself was forced out of the woods he once grew up within, that he once loved. Fleeing south he would eventually take refuge in the human city of Lordearon, the birthplace of his lover. In the time that followed after Zethon would be plagued with moral conundrums- Whether to steal his next meal, fight for the right to take refuge beneath a few buildings, to die a man most holy or live the life of a scoundrel. In desperation he pawned off his holy text, trading the elegant elven tomes for a sizable crossbow along with bolts to match. Robes of silken weave gaze away to rough arms that hardly matched a form like his.

He had come too far. He fought.

Arming himself would only do so good, however. Leather could not be eaten, bolts could not be roasted nor could a crossbow be sautéd. Despite practices with a bow he continued to live mostly a beggar’s life, at least, that was until the Scourge came to rise up against the mortals of Azeroth. With fleet feet Zethon once again managed to stave away a quick death, though a coward’s retreat. Through the woods of Lordearon and eventually Eversong Zethon fled, managing to keep only a day’s pace ahead at the best. Even in a time of war he was well-aware of his own exile and the likelihood of his death if he neared the city. Instead he took to the wilds of Eversong, narrowly avoiding the Scourge as it’s shadow coated the city and sundered it in two.

In the months that followed Zethon crept into the city amongst the chaos of calamity, mending and praying where he could do so best. Though, sad as it was for him to see, most prayers were spent as departing rites. The stay within the city, however, came to be more trouble than it was worth. The constant influx of demonic crystals caused the entire city to reek of the magics, effortlessly poisoning the once-priest with demonic powers to sate his burning addiction.

Since the fall of his people, Zethon has dedicated himself to the destruction of the Scourge no matter the cost to himself. Places now grimly named Ghostlands and Plaguelands were to be his home, though the ventures there only proved to be a testing ground for the true challenges of Northrend. All about he ventured through different camps and squads going under nothing more than his first name, managing as far as Zul’drak with the Argents before Arthas finally fell beneath the weight of his own sins. Such, however, doesn’t mean that his work is over. With crossbow in-hand and a faith tested by tragedy Zethon’aril makes his life as an auxiliary soldier to whoever will take him, so long as they give him Scourge to hunt.