Full Name: Sir Edgar Matrim Hornridge
Titles or Nicknames: Boneslave
Age: 80 Azerothian years [since human birth] / 2 [since reanimation]
Race: Forsaken
Gender: Male / indeterminate
Hair: None
Eyes: Brown in life, now missing, with two red pinpricks of light in the sockets
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 98 lbs.
Notable Physical Features: Gaunt, emaciated, and rotting
Place of residence: The Grim Halls, Khorvis's campaign tent, and occasionally the Hornridge
Place of Birth: The Hornridge Hold, in the mountains between Alterac and Arathi
Known Relatives: All deceased
Religion/Philosophy: Obedience
Occupation: Bodyservant
Guild Rank: Minion
Known Associates: Khorvis Bloodstar, Sethinus Riftwind
Known Nemesis: Doorknobs
Special Skills: While wholly weak in will and ambition, Edgar's relationship with undeath makes him exceptionally adept in the realm of shadows and decay. In exchange for a defined sense of self or will, Boneslave moves with the primal force of death as a fish does through water. Comically, this attribute is only ever employed for the most mundane of tasks, including the insurmountable task of washing Khorvis's unmentionables.
Positive Personality Traits: Loyal. Honest. Trustworthy. Self sacrificing. Abstinent.
Negative Personality Traits: Attaches too easily. Incapable of the creativity for lies. Lacks ambition. Fails to care for his remaining flesh.
History Before The Grim:
Sir Edgar Matrim Hornridge descended from a long lineage of Alterac nobility, noted for their unabashed cowardice and dumb luck. The Hornridge, as the family estate was called since time out of mind, straddled the hazy border between Alterac and Stromgarde, high up in the Arathi mountains. Nominally a vassal of Alterac's Perenolde, the Hornridge remained in oblivious seclusion, enjoying the minor profits of some few copper mines and a steady trade in trollish souvenirs. Indeed, local legends pegged the Hornridges as indecent miscegenists, mixing their noble bloodline with trollish dalliances. Whether or not these rumors contained any truth is unknown, though the Hornridges did exhibit a tendency towards a certain hunchbackedness.
Miscegenation aside, when the Horde marched through the Dark Portal and set aflame the nation of Azeroth, Edgar Hornridge, now in his sixties, took a keen interest in all things orcish. Cartloads of rubbish bearing clan symbols and other Horde fetishes were transported to the estate, where Edgar descended into a perverse infatuation. Why could he not be more like these imposing, heroic aggressors? Years would pass with various wings of the castle being transformed to mimic the style of orc battlements, servants dressed in traditional draenic leathers, and even an old Edgar declaring "Mok'googah!" against a cousin, who curtly burnt the letter and cut off all ties with those mad Hornridges in the east. Edgar was only too happy to recall his small garrison of axe-wielding footmen from the mountain passes when Lord Perenolde sent out the order for the Horde's path to be made clear to Lordaeron.
Of course, fate would have the Hornridge end in the same manner as the old Horde, captured and detained by the victorious forces of Stromgarde. Edgar stewed in his keep, under house arrest as the Alliance soldiers mocked and defaced the precious orcish embellishments that the steward had spent years researching and emulating. Over time, the standing guard shrank ... shrank some more ... and then all together deserted the old mountain Hold, bored with the ramblings of the mad old Hornridge.
By then it was too late for Edgar to rebuild his stronghold into that ancient vision of greenskinned virility. The Scourge found a gaunt and bitter noble, bent on his false-throne of stag horns and pelts, glowering at the decaying intruders. Some would claim it more honest to suggest that Edgar arose from his seat and stepped forward to join his undead brothers, already among the Scourge's ranks, rather than the violent normality of the plague. That of course would be absurd - Sir Edgar Matrim Hornridge was ripped limb from limb and carted to the slaughterhouses of the Lich King's demesne.
History In The Grim:
Post-Shattering, below the Ebon Hold, Eastern Plaguelands.
Khorvis rummaged through a rubbish bin some several meters in width and depth. Up to his thighplates in gore, the smell barely seemed to reach his nostrils. Or else the months spent in Nerubian tunnels had completely frostburned his olfactory capabilities.
"Phaw! There must be some skull in this mess left by that icy goatsucker... something with a speck of life! Do you be certain that your little friend can craft a decent servant out this garbage, elf?" Bloodstar continued his tirade, though it was swallowed by the clanking of bony joints against the saronite walls.
Leaning his spine against the same barrier, Sethinus Riftwind waited impatiently outside of the dumpster, inspecting the leather tooling of his gauntlets. "Yea, yea, you great, green monster. Ain't no thing - two whispers to the dead, spit over your shoulder, and kiss a scourged whelpling's arse before you smash the damn thing over the corpse's head! That's how they say ol' Lich man did it, leastwise." The blood-elf glanced over his shoulder, quizzically. "Hurry it the fel up, would ya? Bloody leapers could be back any minute..."
A note of triumph erupted from the corpse pile, as well as an avalanche of dismembered members. Khorvis held aloft a fleshless skull to the dim light of the overcast sky, so near the Forbidden Sea. Within the cranium still struggled the last impressions of whatever unlucky soul was buried at the bottom of the charnel house, confirmed by the uncanny unhinging and snapping of the jawbone.
An exhale of irrepressible joy whispered from Edgar's skull. He looked down upon the massive orc and a swelling of exultant giddiness bubbled up in a disembodied heart, felt only as one does a dreamt memory.
So perfect, this aggressor. A worthy master.