Aschwin Blackmoore

These are the biographies of The Grim members.
User avatar
Khorvis
Member
Posts: 1745
Location: Lincroft, NJ

Aschwin Blackmoore

Unread post by Khorvis »

Full Name: Aschwin Blackmoore
Titles or Nicknames: Ash
Age: 32 years (Year 593 by the King’s calendar)
Race: Forsaken (Human)
Gender: Male
Hair: Ashen Grey / Green
Eyes: Hazel, smoldering
Height: 6’ 1”
Weight: Emaciated
Notable Physical Features: Blends into the shadows unnaturally. Jaw replaced with metal hunter's trap.

Place of residence: The wilds of the Northern Kingdoms
Place of Birth: Blackmoore, Alterac Mountains
Known Relatives: Anselm (Greatfather - deceased), Percival (Father - deceased), Galinda (Mother - deceased), Magdalen (Sister - missing)

Religion/Philosophy: Traditionally, the Church of the Holy Light. In practice, a combination of ancestral worship and animism.

Occupation: Hunter, farmer
Guild Rank: N/A
Known Associates: Witherbark Trolls
Known Nemesis: Anduin Wrynn

Special Skills: Tracking, foraging in the most desperate of climes, and salvaging.
Positive Personality Traits: Loyalty to kin, competitive
Negative Personality Traits: Bitterness, distrust of organized life, fatalism

History Before The Grim:

“The packleader takes his fill, little lord.” Greatfather intoned with a waxing smile beneath a wizened beard.

A clink of dishes and a tin chalice. “Not without due proffered to his liege, old one.” Father bowed his head over a meager potion of venison. The words, often spoken over supper, rang hollow and repetitious.
Thanks be to the Light and the Crown.

Aschwin’s eyes skittered over his father’s plate… and his own, near empty but for the promise of hunts to come. Timidly at first, but with fortifying malice, he mimicked Greatfather’s grimace. The youngling’s gaze arose across the windowpane with the howls of wolves not far from the Blackmoore.

Born less than a year after the old Horde tore a swathe through southern Azeroth, Aschwin came wailing into a House long in decline. Sworn to Alterac and its inept Lord Perenolde, Blackmoore dwelt in the twin curses of haunting obscurity and malingering loyalty. The tides of darkness swept over the shores of Lordaeron, but little a hair would be turned on the fates of the family’s fortunes, were it not for the urchins called Frostwolves.

A freak gale and the chance encounter with an orcish hunting party left Aschwin fatherless. Greatfather would call the death a mercy. The House mourned, but not longer than the Light might demand.

Now charged with the protection of his listless mother, the aging patriarch, and an invalid of a sister, Aschwin turned to means less noble. ‘Wildman’ he would be decried by neighbors that slowly disappeared or died off in the great plagues that gripped the northern kingdoms. Taking to the forests and coaxing an affinity for unseen paths, survival became the new hallmark and motto of Blackmoore. The years drifted by and the tiny estate fell out of mind, and off the maps...

The call to battle came to Aschwin like the estranged note from a long forgotten lover. Fight for the Alliance and for Lordaeron! Take back what is rightfully ours! Wrynn’s siren song conjured distant memories within his heart - this was what his House had been awaiting. Holding on to their last shred of humanity, loyalty to the Crown had finally won out.

Aschwin arrived at the walls of Lordaeron with the Alliance host. His human compatriots looked at the mangey hunter askance, but he had grown oblivious to the niceties of his race. The same could not be said of his regiment. As the Blight washed over their flesh, blood and screams poured from their horror stricken mouths. They perished in droves, falling to the earth and clutching at the sky.

At the center of his rank, Aschwin stood unscathed.

Wonder and awe quickly melted into terror, and madly he fled to the shores of Lordamere Lake. Wiping away the vermillion ooze from his brow, he knelt before the placid waters and saw in his reflection the truth. Death had already taken him some time ago.

The mirrorlike quality of the lake rippled away with a gusty disturbance. Aschwin glared skywards to catch sight of the flying Sirena, fleeing the ruins of Lordaeron with the King who had left him for dead.

Forsaken by the Crown. Forsaken in the flesh. Blackmoore’s eyes smoldered as he arose, ghosting back into the pines and mountains.


History In The Grim: To be discovered...
Image
Post Reply