|Age||207 in elven years;
between 45 and 50 in human years
|Eye Color||Vivid emerald|
|Skin Color||Pasty pale and leathery.
A few mean scars cross over here and there.
General Info Edit
Name: Fel'Thranas Solblight
Age: **207 or so (Somwhere between 45 and 50 years old in human years)
Race: Blood elf
Gender: Male, though often mistaken for female when he's feeling extra special or had one too many to drink.
Class: Merchant/Warlock (He'll never admit the latter to your face tho)
Faction: Horde/Steamwheedle Cartel/Consortium
- ((Please note: Age is still being played with, still trying to figure out a few estimates and calculations))
Fel'thranas' frame/build is tall, thin and grizzled. Unsightly scars litter his body, though most of the time they’re kept beneath cloth. His callused hands are kept beneath fingerless gloves. He sports a jagged and deep scar that runs from the outer corner of his right eye and down the side of his face, over his high cheek bone and to his chin. A thinner scar cuts his lips across the left side. Over all, he seems older than he is. His skin is leathery, his face gaunt. A few gold rings cling to his long, boney fingers and a earring cuff wraps around his right ear lobe, also gold. His silvery hair has only the slightest hints of blonde remaining, but grey can easily be seen at the roots. When not bound up in an unruly pony tail, it's a stringy cascade of crimped silver. He does a better job at keeping his beard trimmed than keeping his hair tamed.
There’s always a strong smell about Fel. Old spices mixed with sandalwood to cover the barest hint of something burnt and sour, like brimstone. Usually Fel’thranas struts around in his Arcane Robes, his Deathchill cloak swinging loosely around him. With it, he wears dark shoes and dark, fingerless gloves that hide the shiny burn marks from imp handling and other darker practices. On his better days, or when he’s had a drink too many, he’ll prance around in vivid pink or purple dresses. His voice is a deep, purring baritone. If you really wanna stamp it with a physical description, think dark velvet.
Fel'thranas is usually very polite, joyful and charming. His deep, baritone voice rolls easily with chuckles and laughter. Over all, a great guy to have a drink with. He's not usually picky about race or career choice since, as he puts it, gold is gold and a buyer is a buyer and without the buyer, there is no gold. Thus, he doesn't discriminate to easily. Admittedly, he does frown upon the thought of rolling in the sack with Forsaken and Undead and finds it disgusting and unsanitary. As cheerful and kind as he seems in public, Fel’thranas does carry a darker shade to his joyful personality. His heart is as black as his void walkers, his mind only on gold and greed and himself. He has no problem with torturing and killing if it means he can get his way. Of course, he never shows this to the public face.
Fel’s story starts with a Quel’dorei man named Mikael Brightflare. He was a good man, a mage of the arcane and obsessive about his studies. He never married, though he did court a few women of different houses here and there. Young, well groomed and a good friend, Mikael was well liked and well talked about.When Quel’thalas fell to the hands of Arthas, Mikael was just like all the other elves. Devastated, in withdrawl, gasping for the flow of power again. He was among the first few to jump to Prince Kael’thas’ side and follow the first pilgrimage to Outlands. It was there that he realized his horrible, horrible mistake.
By the time the elves reached Netherstorm in their conquest to claim the lands, Mikael snapped. His growing substance abuse to try and deal with the new company of demons and Naga had over taken him. His recklessness grew as he switched his studies to the darker arcanes. The day Mikael finally broke down into hysterical sobbing, he was nearly killed. The lead of his platoon had deemed him useless and ordered for him to be fed to the warpstalkers. A fellow arcanist named Rythan stepped forward and saved his friend (and partner, as neither had much luck finding women in their time in Outlands) He brought Mikael to work in the Nethermines instead.
This was no better than being fed to the warpstalkers as the conditions in the mines were horrible. Most died due to the high exposures of the Nether and the constant laboring. After a month or so of seeing his friend slowly withering away, Rythan changed tactics and helped Mikael escape. The plan was simple: Soulstone Mikael and kill him, then drag his body away and higher some Ethereals of the Consortium to pick him up. It works. Mikael Brightflare died in the Nethermines due to unknown conditions. His body was left to feed the twisted wildlife of Netherstorm. The Ethereals picked up the body and helped to restore him when he awoke.
Rythan disappeared, his payment to the Ethereals unfulfilled.When the man that was once Mikael awoke, he changed his name and assisted the Ethereal’s in their fight against the Ethereum. Debt repaid, the Sin’dorei now named Fel’thranas Solblight moved to Shattrath and began a trading business in Alchemy and Herbalism. He recently returned home with the hopes to spread his business and find new sources of power to feed from.
((This is for the RP Writing Contest. I just wanna say tho… so far three of the entries, including this one, are Outlands based. Apparently people miss BC! I know I do!))
The man I saw looking back at me in the grainy surface of scrap metal was hardly the man I use to be. I was still tall enough that I had to take a few good steps back from the full length mirror to see myself fully. And I was thin, but perhaps merely saying thin would be an overstatement. My gaunt face was like a skull, my weathered, scarred skin stretched like old leather across hard wood. My eyes, vivid Fel green from substance abuse and the darker arcanes, were sunken pin points where eyes should be. My hair, oh my long, beautiful hair, so silky and gold, now lay as a cascade of stringy, matted silver.
This will not do.
I don't remember much of the past day or two and I try my best to forget the nightmares that still plague my dreams from the past months. Or where they years? What I do remember is waking up in a soft, comfortable yet oddly shapped bed with a bandaged being hovering over me. The arcane-inscribed cuffs that had been squeezing my ankles and wrists had been removed. I was safe, found and rescued by creatures called Ethereals. We seem to be getting along famously thus far, the Ethereals and I. Not too much chit chat but rather talk of business. They brought me to safety, I suppose it's only right to repay them.
However.. I can’t say I agree with their tastes in business. I find it rather harsh to be frank. I would have had no trouble counting out coins or something droll like that but….
My eyes graze over the towering monstrosity before me. If I had any faith, I would have been praying to the Light or whatever that it wasn’t active. However, I had none and instead just cowered behind the chuck of metal imbedded in the rocky soil. Fel Reavers, no thanks indeed! Well, at least I wouldn’t be fighting it head on, just these little buggers called Gan’arg.
I saw one jittering about the foot of the Fel Reaver and winced. Even with the cowls these creature were hideous and the smell.. Ung.. That’s one thing about the powers of the Fel energies; they reeked! And with this place filled with nothing but the Burning Legion’s minions and their contraptions, the area was a land sink of smell and decay. Well! At least they won’t smell me or my Imp. It took a few seconds and I was worried that the light show of purple runes slithering from my hands to the ground would give me unwanted attention but it didn’t and in the end, I was left with Garlop perched on my shoulder, leering at me.
In my opinion, the only difference between Garlop and a Gan’arg would be their weight. They’re both hideous bastards and I don’t care for either of them that much. Feeling seems mutual for my Imp as he regarded me with a suspicious look and chattered something in brooding demonic. His tail lashed irritably before wrapping gently over my shoulders like some rat-tailed scarf. I cleared my throat as quietly as I could and pointed to the closest Gan’arg.
“Those little buggers have Nether gas.”
“You’re telling’ me..” Garlop murmured dryly. My lip curled in disgust.
“I meant they have it in a container, dolt. We need to get those containers and put them into the fuel tank of that.” I hissed, now jabbing my index finger up at the in-active Fel Reaver. Whatever pigmentation my Imp might have had beneath his coating of graying fur probably paled. He looked between me and the Reaver a few times before trying to clamber off my shoulder and make a break for it.
That’s the funny thing about contracts. Well, specific ones. In this case, I’m the master and he’s my tool. I have his will and there’s not a sodding thing he can do about it. Grinding my teeth, I slammed some power down onto him and a force like an invisible hand suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the tail.
“You’re not going anywhere.” I snarled through gritted teeth. Garlop whimpered and curled himself around my ankle, resting on the top of my foot and enabling himself to hide beneath my robes. Tch. And people thought I was cowardly. I turned my attention to the Gar’ang. Bloody Fel these things were thick, didn’t even hear my spat with Garlop.
“Can’t you do this one by yourself?” Garlop whimpered from his safety spot. I shook my foot a little and tried to nudge him to the Gan’arg.
“Just for being an impudent little git, you can go first.” I snapped. Garlop whined and pulled at his long, bat-like ears in irritation.
“Ahhhh! Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay…”
A second or two past and then his hands alit with an orange-green fire. A tiny ball of flame struck out there after, it’s aim straight and true. The Gan’ang screeched in pain as the ball of fire scorched its arm and it turned, priming a bomb and charging for us. It was my turn to squeak in surprise and I dove to the ground as the small bomb landed on the other side of the scrap metal and exploded with an ear-pounding bang. Garlop shrieked and threw another ball of fire in partial panic, partial forced order of will. I got up from the ground and charged raw Fel energy into my hands.
That’s another thing about Fel energy. Smell aside, the power it held was intoxicating, like an endorphin, a drug. Its power coursed through me and I felt a shiver of pleasure from the power, like I could do anything I wanted. My Chaos Bolt, charged with heated Fel flames, left my hands and slammed into Gan’arg, sizzling away some of its cowl and right arm. It howled in berserker anger and agony. Orange flames left my hand, cursing the nasty little demon’s flesh with a blanket of pain and fire. More fire left my hands, snaking the ground and blasting the creature off its feet. It let out one last yowl as its flesh became charred and blackened. Finally, it fell silent and went still.
Garlop, however, didn’t seem to notice. He flung another ball of fire and instead of hitting the previous target, it zipped over the corpse and straight across the field, right into….
“Bwaaa!!” Came the rumbling cry of insane rage. If anyone through the Gan’arg were out of their mind, their superior’s, the Mo’arg, were mindless savages. They had no problem with pain and the angrier they got, they became strong and more savage. I’d almost say they had one up on Anglia, my succubus, with how masochistic they could get. All for power I suppose, Anglia just liked being slapped. It was quiet disturbing.
As always, when a situation has to go down hill, it has to go at a barreling “oh crap” rate. Along with the Mo’arg, three other Gan’arg heard their overseerer’s bellowing and followed at his heels, bombs primed and ready. I reached down, picking Garlop up by the scruff of his long, gray mane and looked to the corpse of the Gan’arg. With how charred it was, I would say I over did the kill a bit and if there was any Nether gas on him, it was gone now. Unless this one didn’t have any to start with; my other guess was the stuff was explosive. I should have kept that in mind before. Only one thing left to do now.
I ran. Well, as best as I could without tripping over my robes and my Imp clinging to my face like a wet leaf. I definitely knew my imp was screaming in hysteria; my ears were ringing in pain from his high-pitched wailing. I felt screaming wasn’t the most appropriate thing to do for this but I couldn’t blame him too much for doing it. Surprisingly, Garlop wasn’t able to cover my vision and I looked past his horns for cover. The soil exploded in a trail behind us, leaving columns of dust to rise as a cover as we retreated to a cliffy overhang of rocks. I dove into the shadows of the overhand and knelt behind the mount of rocks that held the over hang up.
The ground stirred and rumbled as the Mo’arg thundered towards us. He stopped a few feet away from our hiding spot and looked around, sniffing. The drill for his left hand whirled, keening a high pitched squeal that rivaled my Imp’s whining. I hit Garlop smartly upside the back of his head and he fell silent. The Mo’arg clacked his metallic pincers that was his right hand and bared chipped teeth in our direction. Then he glanced over his shoulder and barked something in demonic at the three underlings that had followed him. They grumbled and turned, marching back to their spots.
“Come out, tiny elfling.” Jeered the Mo’arg. For such bulky forms, their voices were annoyingly high pitched. He glanced down at my Imp. Why couldn’t the Burning Legion corrupt things with some manliness? Actually, scratch that… They do have some more intimidating demons to offer, I just didn’t like to use them that often. Well, if Garlop was going to be useless and simper at my feet, I may as well bring out one of my heavy hitters. I glared down at Garlop.
“Fine. You can go for now.” I hissed. My Imp blinked up at me and I could see the effort he was putting into to not show how happy he was to hear my commend; trust me, it wasn’t a whole lot of effort.
“You know, we've had a lot of fun together, it's been really special, but I think it's time I should--”
“Just get out of here!” I snapped. He vanished in a puff of sulfur, leaving behind an awful smell and the echoing remains of indistinct grumbling. The ground shuttered again as the Mo’arg stepped closer. I bit my lower lip had enough to taste the familiar tangy iron taste of blood. My fingers slipped into my soul pouch; A small bag made of Night elf skin that hung from my hip. I withdrew a cold soul shard and pressed it into the palm of my calloused hand. Murmurings of demonic and promises of souls left my lips in feint whispers.
Mo’arg must be as dense as their underlings. Not that I’m complaining but the Overseerer’s idling provided me with the time I needed to summon Krakgarth, my Voidwalker. The biggest misconception about Voidwalkers is that they’re dumb, bulky demons used only as a meat shield. The latter is true; Voidwalkers can take on more enemies and absorb damage better without complaining about it. They’re far from dumb, however. They’re creatures of the Twisting Nether, as are most demons, but they’re pure misery, pure anguish. Like their masters, they revel in the pain they cause, although theirs is more emotionally conflicting than a Warlocks.
Krakgarth breath a rattling sigh of discomfort. I shivered. It’s always like something ate away all the happiness around you when a Voidwalker was around. Uncomfortable creatures. But, I held my will tight over his and he obeyed my silent command as he shifted out from the shadows of the overhang and charged with a low, dry growl. The Mo’arg roared in delight at the prospect of a battle and met my Voidwalker in a charge. The two collided like bulls, limbs flailing and bellows exchanged.
I snuck out from hiding as well, readying flames into my hands. As before, the flames snaked their way from my fingers and engulfed the demon in a bath of agony. The Mo’arg roared but remained focused on Krakgarth. Good. More jets of flames and half a minute later, the Mo’arg was looking much like its crisped underling. I kicked one of its limbs to make sure it was dead. It was and I stepped away quickly. I wasn’t liking the look of the tank filled with Fel gunk on its back.
Fighting was always tedious for me. I hated the yelling, the blood and the chance of losing a limb or worse. Mind you, I still enjoy that sensation of power, that thrill of control, that with just a twist of my hand I could have someone on their knees, screaming in terror and anguish. But the chances of getting hurt or worse grow stronger with each passing minute and by the time I had collected the proper containers, a difficult feat to do with just a Voidwalker and shadow bolts, a few hours had passed.
I found out the hard way that not all the little buggers carried the Nether gas with them. A few times I ran into another Mo’arg and that resulted into something rather messy and quite fried. The littering of crispy corpses had brought me much attention and the struggle to keep up with my energy was beginning to wane on me. Tapping into my life had its consequences. I suppose that’s how I lost most of my dashingly good looks after all the years of secretly practicing the darker magics. But it was all I could do to keep my reserves of mana. I could feel the sticky energies of the Fel replace what health I gave up. I was going to smell atrocious for the next couple of days and Fel is not a stench that goes away easily, or covered up easily.
Something to worry about later I suppose. Right now, I had bigger concerns. I craned my neck back to try and see the head of this thing. No luck. I had thought perhaps trying to face it eye to eye I wouldn’t be so scared. Nope! I was ready to piss myself. Bad idea; never look up at Fel Reavers. I still counted my lucky stars they hadn’t activated this bloody thing yet. Krakgarth brooded somewhere by the toe of the Reaver while I patted down the Reaver’s leg, or at least what I could reach of it. Just as my fingers brushed what seemed to be a cap or some sort, I heard a soft hiss nearby. My Voidwalker growled and I turned to see an approaching Shivan.
Shivan are the Priestesses and/or Military Chaplains for the Burning Legion. Despite their er… curves, which are provided from more than just the six deadly blades they usually wield, Shivan are zealots and extremely devout to the Legion. A driving heart for their terrible Burning Crusade. Er.. No offense to Anglia but if I have to ogle at a Demon I’d take a Shivan any day. Despite the six arms, they were quiet impressive. I’m still jealous that they can keep their skin so smooth, even in these harsh climates.
I had a good feeling that this Shivan wasn’t here to chat skin products with me though. A dangerous gleam sparkled in her Fel-green eyes. She bared her fangs and stopped a few feet away from us, her two most lower arms dropping to jut their blades into the ground. I figured it was their way of putting their hands on their hips. A coy smirk twisted her lush lips.
“So.. You’re the rat that’s been running around and causing all this trouble.” She mused. I offered a sheepish grin.
“It’s what I do best.” I replied, keeping my tone mockingly friendly. Well, I figured she wasn’t going to keep her blades in the ground much longer, may as well have the last word if I can. She sneered.
“Elfling, the only good thing your race knows how to do is die!” and she drew her blades from the ground, hurtling herself at me. Krakgarth intercepted and wrapped his thick claws around her leg, drawing blood. With a snarl, her blades turned and crashed down on top of my Voidwalker. Blue energy splashed as the blades sliced but my Voidwalker was resilient and held tight, bellowing. Time was now on a very fast ticker and I turned, fumbling to open the hatch. The awkwardly round containers of Nether gas were held uncomfortably between my knees and slipping. I swore and tore the fuel cap off.
Then I heard a sound that made a chill wash over me. Krakgarth gave out a guttural sigh as the blades tore him open and he vanished in a wash of evaporating blue, his bracers collapsing on the ground. I swore violently and ripped the cap off the first bottle of Nether gas, stuffing its opening into the fuel port. White, hot pain seared my shoulder and I roared in pain. That bitch just threw a bolt of magic at me! How dar-- Oh dear. My robes. That’s never going to come out, I swear.
I turned to face her, taking my fear and pushing it into a tight ball into my hands. It mingled with green energy and I tossed the Death Coil with all my might at the Shivan. Demons, despite their own intimidation factor, can be feared as well. They are, after all, still living creatures and nearly all living creatures know fear. She back peddled with a shriek of surprise and I turned to swipe the now empty bottle of Nether gas off the fuel port and open a new bottle, slamming its opening home.
The Shivan’s snarl of anger told me I had to pull another trick out of my sleeve and I turned to face her yet again, another fear spell poised at the tip of my tongue. I felt her blade graze over my by a hairs breath as I released the spell and an unnatural, ear splitting scream tore from my throat. My terrible howl left my voice box raw afterwards but it did the trick and the Shivan one again back paddled, her upper arms dropping their blades as she grimaced and slapped her hands over where her ears were.
The strong smell of churning Nether energy alerted me that the tank was nearly full and I quickly put the last container. I didn’t bother to check if it would say, I merely turned and hauled myself like a rabbit out of a snakes hole away from the Reaver and the Shivan. The seconds felt like minutes as the Shivan regained her senses and stormed after me, blades swinging wildly. It was the lack of the explosion that worried me more and I chanced a look over my shoulder. To my absolute horror I saw that the container of Nether gas had not stayed in place and only half of its contents managed to pour itself in.
Agony, a waterfall of physical torment and pain, shed over my back as the Shivan took my moment of terror to her advantage and sliced one of her blades down my back. The blade ripped through my robes but only sliced at my skin rather than bone, her reach not quite that far. It was enough to make me stumble and I tripped, losing my balance and rolling downhill a few more paces before slamming into a jut of rocks. I felt the familiar sensation of wanting to black out, to just let it be done and over with. Dark spots blurred my vision. I felt clammy, sick with fear and pain. Warm blood trickled down my back and I closed my eyes. The ringing in my ears was growing louder.
I swallowed and opened my eyes. It was just a nick. I should be able to handle this. I may not be a warrior but I still had my head on my shoulders and my limbs in tact. I could feel the energy of my Fel shield press onto the wound, restoring what it could of the cut. Another scar to the gallery of nicks and strikes that littered my body. I stared up as the Shivan thrashed forward, all blades poised to impale my into the very ground I lay on.
I shook my arm; a warm stone rattled away from its hiding place in my sleeve and I palmed it briefly, charging it with what little energy I had left before hurtling it at the Shivan. It bopped her on the forehead and she blinked in surprise, faulting. The smoldering stone landed at her feet and she began to snicker, something that quickly grew into a cackle.
“Is that the best you can do, elfling! Throw a sto--” She stopped and did a double take, staring at the stone. I grinned.
The skies above parted as a Fel-green meteor the four times the size of my head came barreling down at us. It slammed into the Shivan and I rolled over, biting my lip to not scream from the pain in my back and shoulder. The ground exploded into a column of yellow-green fire and dust, pebbles showering me as I lay facing the jutting stone with my hands over my head. The hot rocks burned my hands and ears, smoldering my robes. Shame too, I really liked these robes.
I heard the Shivan scream in her own anguish as an Infernal rose from the newly made crater that steamed from the heat of the Fel energies. I turned my head to peer out at the scene and winced. The Infernal had landed on the Shivan and literally made her apart of the crater, melting her once voluptuous form into the now charred ground. Her leftovers twitched one then went still as the Infernal stood on her remains. I felt bile rise in my sore throat and I turned away.
The Inferal loomed over me, awaiting my command. In the condition I was in, there was absolutely no way I’d be able to keep control of the creature for long. I twisted my will and silently forced it to turn and march up to the in-active Fel Reaver. The ground shook as it started off on its new course and I slowly sat up, my hand on my shoulder. As I recouped by the stones, I heard a satisfying crack and a bang that followed after. Smoke rose in great plumes of deep gray and green, the Fel Reaver’s limbs twitching wildly before falling off. The body collapsed with a the loudest bang of all and the Forge Base was covered in a waft of dirt and dust. I made my exit sage right before the Infernal could return.
“A job well done, Elfling!” Commend the Ethereal before me. I was beginning to detest the nickname ‘Elfling’ rather quickly. All the same, debts were paid off and I could be on my way. Even better news was I had grown to a new standing with the Constortium. It wasn’t as if I had dealt a final blow to the Forge Base but the havoc I did bring was enough for them to appraise me to friendly terms. I flashed a grin, hoping it would be charming but I was too tired to do much else. My body ached, my shoulder hurt and my back was killing me. I just wanted to go rest in a warm bed after a nice bath…
“If you could just sign the papers here as recognition for our business, we’ll be done.”
Papers? Sign? Oh bloody Fel! I’m suppose to be dead in the Nethermines! I mentally swore to myself a little longer before the papers and an ink-wet quill were shoved into my hands. I cleared my throat and nodded, my grin downgrading to a tight yet polite smile. A name.. I needed a name… Fel, I should have seen-- wait… Fel…
I scribbled in loopy handwriting a name I thought that suited me well. It was elegant, mysterious.. Or so I thought. I handed the papers back and the Ethereal looked them over.
“Hm. A pleasure doing business with you then, Fel’thranas Solblight.”
I nodded again and managed a stiff bow before making my way to the Inn.
OOC Information: Fel'thranas is indeed a Warlock but he will never, ever admit it to your face in public. He might if he's wearing his gear and has a pet out but by that point it's pretty damn obvious. Fel is also suppose to be a villanous character! He does not seek partnership or love but rather, he's a greedy, black hearted, backstabbing bastard who will gladly lead you into a false sense of security to use you as a tool. Again, not really something he'll say to your face or in public.