Angaroth

[Greebo]

Full Name: Angaroth Arnursson
Nicknames:
Date of Birth: 28 summers before the opening of the portal
Age: 30
Race: Forsaken
Gender: Male
Hair: Black, clean, brittle.
Skin: Pale, melted, brittle.
Eyes: yellow. sickly pulsing yellow. an occasional iridescent sheen
Height: tall, but heavily stooped. a shade under 6' when bent, he would be 6'4" alive
Weight: 135-145 lbs, dry weight.

Physical Features: Lean, lanky, stringy, strong, taloned, elastic. Stripped, bare, exposed, preserved, dry, crisp, flaked.

Place of residence: The Filthy Animal.
Place of Birth: A small fishing/farming village on the Howling Fjord coast.
Known Relatives: Assuming they are still alive, the usual horde of parents, cousins, and siblings. A large family.

Religion/Philosophy: Peace through Annihilation. Power to the powerful. Power to the Forsaken. Power for Angaroth.

Occupation: Dread mage
Guild Rank: Warbringer
Known Associates: Until recently his constant companion was the corpse of his succubus. She has not been seen in some days and he is now followed by an exceptionally annoying and mouthy imp.
Enemies: The Alliance. The Burning Legion. Anything and everything that stands between him and the Throne of Worlds.

Favorite Foods: Fresh humanoid skin - crispy or raw as the whim takes him.
Favorite Drinks: Bourbon for want of anything stronger. Applejack for choice.
Weapons of Choice: Corruption and flame

Dislikes: Being confused with or compared to others who may once have looked like him.

Special Abilities: A delicate hand with needle and thread. Very rarely used now, and certainly never for vanity's sake.
Positive Personality Traits: Sentient. Inquiring. Patient.
Negative Personality Traits: Tunnel vision.

((
Played by What Famous Person: Peter Garrett
Theme Songs: Sleep Now In The Fire - Rage Against The Machine
))

Pre-History:
It is within a few weeks of the opening of the Dark Portal, the attention of Azeroth is elsewhere. A party of humans on the high tundra is trudging over frozen ground as they seek to open a new trade route. A late spring wind is howling over the barren waste before them, blowing the last shreds of the passing storm south. You can imagine a fist of experienced adventurers escorting an unruly caravan, woolly kodos [sic] dragging laden sleds, the merchant master yelling out contradictory orders to his many sons and hirelings, his shrew of a wife complaining about a missing hairbrush. The priest is deep in conversation with the mage as they pass through a field of glacial boulders, two warriors striding in the front, keeping a wary eye out for bands of marauding lemmings. The warlock is sulking as usual, the flames on the hooves of his dread-steed keep melting through the frozen swamp that they travel over, making the footing treacherous. The rogues who step from behind the rocks have the priest bleeding and dead within seconds, the mage lasts little longer. One of the warriors falls to rain of arrows from hunters and the large one with the shield holds out for almost a minute against a swarm of lesser attackers before collapsing under the shear weight of numbers. As the caravan crew are butchered and eaten, 2 druids take off after the fleeing warlock. In short order he is overtaken and snared, trapped and panicked in a net. To his surprise he is not killed outright but rather he is stabbed with something that looks like an insect stinger. The first thing that the creeping poison paralyzes is his throat but his limbs quickly follow and, his eyes wide open, he begins an endless silent scream as he realizes that something far less pleasant than death is in store for him.

We lose any sense of time passing, the world passes in a blur until a flickering and fluttering resolves into 7 tall black candles, guttering with the foul ingredients mixed in with the rendered flesh. He is chained face up on a large granite slab. It is not covered in intricate runes singing praises to dark and dead entities, it is not carved with deep runnels stained and crusted with the blood of thousands of sacrifices. This is not a temple to gods, it is a workshop, the power the here flows not from some absent spirit but from the tall figure who wanders from a bench against the wall to subject and back humming a painful and unearthly melody. She holds up a small alembic that contains a slowly swirling viscous glowing mist. After pondering for a few seconds, examining it closely, she turns quickly, strides over to the bound subject and with a smoothly violent motion she draws a blade from within her robes and drives it deep into his heart. His body arches, his mouth jerks open and she smashes the vial into it. The mist oozes into the body, melding with the flesh. A few glimmers of light trace the path of the mist through the body, the candles flicker and go out. The room is completely dark except for two pairs of glowing yellow eyes.

A faint whisper of badly formed words: "what have you done?"

****
there is silence, darkness
there are black bars that burn when they are touched
shards of sound, glimmers of light drift down from ... somewhere
time is passing but nothing is happening. trapped, drowning in someone else
in cold, release, for one glorious night, release
but always the iron hand draws back, imprisoned
****

The black mist, the black cage bars fade. He stumbles out from nowhere to nowhere, sensing something closing behind him. His eyes open and he sees again nothing but mist, but real mist, cold on his skin, a pale sun barely reaching the grass he is standing on. An angry figure is before him, full of danger.

Post-History
Angaroth has worked hard to insinuate himself into the Grim, into a position opened by the spirit Greebo. He loathes the year of possession he suffered under, the smiling tolerant amusement for the weaknesses that the wretch exhibited. The cool indifference of others once friendly is especially galling but must be suffered.

[Thrysta]

Such a capacity for amusing himself...
Such limited lethality.

Perhaps if the opposite were
true, he would not be prey.

I am curious.
When this one makes a terrible
mistake that leaves him wide
open...

...will it hurt her?

I would like that very much.

I will leave the intellectual
posturing to the warlocks...

...it makes them so very
fucking predictable.