size=18]History/Story[/size]
History:
Warden Azraleth, Fiore’s necromancer. He was not always known under this name, nor was he even known at all. His true name was Warren Denever into an abusive family. Anette Sulvior, his mother, left shortly after his birth. The reason remains unknown, but to Warden had always seemed to be him, it seemed to him as though he had caused his mother’s abandonment. Her disappearance took its toll on his father, George Denever. The first five years after Warden’s birth his father just barely managed to keep it together with anti-depressants and intensive therapy. But soon he spiraled into abusive alcoholism and drug use. Not one day went by on which he wasn’t beaten, kicked or tormented. Over and over Warden’s father would shout “Why are you still here?! WHY?! You should have left with your godforsaken mother, you good-for-nothing brat!” After that it was all a slur of spit, tears and cusses. The neighbor didn’t do anything but worry about themselves. Warden could hear the children of other parents whispering in the shadows of parks and playgrounds “Isn’t that Denever’s kid? Poor thing…God save his soul…”
The surrounding he grew up in weren’t exactly nurturing. Constantly revisited by civil wars, famines and pandemics the small city state of Morigania was the harshest of places to survive in; only few places remained civilized. It was in these areas that Warden grew up in, however he was still not spared from the horrific scenes of starved and mutilated corpses or the smells of seared and rotten flesh. To this day Warden remembers these scenes more clearly than his most recent memory. At the age of 9 Warden was ultimately left alone in the city of death. A group of rioters broke into his small district of city and raided every house. Not that there was much in his old home, it was practically a run-down old shack with the bare minimum of necessary furnishing; most of the original wealth was lost to his father’s addiction. Still there was one thing the scoundrels could take – the life of his father. Warden watched in horror from under his bed as his father’s skin was slowly peeled from his living flesh. Agonized screams, pitiful pleas, useless shouts for help filled the small house…and no one cared. They began with his feet and slowly worked their way up, using magic too keep the screaming drunk alive. Hours passed… or was it just minutes? All sense for time was drowned out by the horror of his father’s death…
It was dark when the boy awoke. The screams had stopped and nothing came from the streets. Only the ominous glow of a full moon fell through the cracks of the building that was his home. Slowly the boy crawled out of his hiding spot and gazed at the body in front of him. The wooden floor was a dark color from the blood it had been soaked in. The boy continued to stare at the skinned man who was once his father; now he could see not just the violent abusive side, but every single fiber of the man’s being, revealed in dim moon light. Not a single tear did he shed. This scene seemed all too familiar. His everyday life had dulled his emotions to such a degree that sadness, happiness and anger had all become one and the same void. Emptiness filled his soul, his heart cold as stone.
Each year that followed was harsher than the one before. By this point Warden was 12 and the city-state was in ruins. There are no details as to how things escalated to this point, but many assumed it was the introduction of magic. But it all didn’t matter anymore. After the last fighter gave up their spirit a famine evestated the population. The streets were filled with even more starved bodies, cannibalism became a natural survival tactic, and murder became a simple habit. From the rotting bodies arose numerous diseases, each one mutilated the human body in a different and more gruesome way. Warden had barely scraped by all this time, but now he fell ill. He was unable to scavenge for food and started to starve, the disease attacked his lungs and certain muscles making breathing and moving were as good as torture. At the brink of death young Warden saw a dark wiry figure in long tattered robes. It held out a hand and whispered “Do not fear. Embrace it. Cherish it. If you do…I can save you…”
For the next 4 years Warden was raised in the necropolis, the home of all necromancers. The entity that had appeared to him was Verexes Azraleth, a teacher in the large necromantic community. While most necromancers prefer to refrain from leaving their safe haven, Verexes belonged to the few who wanted to bring necromancy out of its isolated shell. Humans have always despised necromancy and thusly also those who use it and over time the sentiment became mutual. Warden was and still is thankful for his rescue and almost fanatically learned from Verexes; his knowledge, his kindness and even his attitude Warden tried to imitate them all. The first year he spent with Verexes was riddled with nightmares of his birthplace. But soon he learned how to repress those memories and emotions and became a new person…or rather adapted his savior’s personality. Things seemed great and wonderful, but there is always an end to everything. Old man Verexes fell terminally ill; immortality is something he had given up for he believed that death should not be avoided. Every waking minute of his life Warden spent beside his guardian until he passed. It was at that moment that Warden set his mind on fulfilling the old man’s dream and became the only necromancer to wander outside of the necropolis, presumably for the rest of his life. His first destination would be the center of all magic in the world: Fiore…
RP Sample:
Another day, another opportunity to cause trouble for the city guards. Warden stood at the city gates of Magnolia, his 14th city to visit.
Face Claim: Walter C. Dornez from Hellsing
History:
Warden Azraleth, Fiore’s necromancer. He was not always known under this name, nor was he even known at all. His true name was Warren Denever into an abusive family. Anette Sulvior, his mother, left shortly after his birth. The reason remains unknown, but to Warden had always seemed to be him, it seemed to him as though he had caused his mother’s abandonment. Her disappearance took its toll on his father, George Denever. The first five years after Warden’s birth his father just barely managed to keep it together with anti-depressants and intensive therapy. But soon he spiraled into abusive alcoholism and drug use. Not one day went by on which he wasn’t beaten, kicked or tormented. Over and over Warden’s father would shout “Why are you still here?! WHY?! You should have left with your godforsaken mother, you good-for-nothing brat!” After that it was all a slur of spit, tears and cusses. The neighbor didn’t do anything but worry about themselves. Warden could hear the children of other parents whispering in the shadows of parks and playgrounds “Isn’t that Denever’s kid? Poor thing…God save his soul…”
The surrounding he grew up in weren’t exactly nurturing. Constantly revisited by civil wars, famines and pandemics the small city state of Morigania was the harshest of places to survive in; only few places remained civilized. It was in these areas that Warden grew up in, however he was still not spared from the horrific scenes of starved and mutilated corpses or the smells of seared and rotten flesh. To this day Warden remembers these scenes more clearly than his most recent memory. At the age of 9 Warden was ultimately left alone in the city of death. A group of rioters broke into his small district of city and raided every house. Not that there was much in his old home, it was practically a run-down old shack with the bare minimum of necessary furnishing; most of the original wealth was lost to his father’s addiction. Still there was one thing the scoundrels could take – the life of his father. Warden watched in horror from under his bed as his father’s skin was slowly peeled from his living flesh. Agonized screams, pitiful pleas, useless shouts for help filled the small house…and no one cared. They began with his feet and slowly worked their way up, using magic too keep the screaming drunk alive. Hours passed… or was it just minutes? All sense for time was drowned out by the horror of his father’s death…
It was dark when the boy awoke. The screams had stopped and nothing came from the streets. Only the ominous glow of a full moon fell through the cracks of the building that was his home. Slowly the boy crawled out of his hiding spot and gazed at the body in front of him. The wooden floor was a dark color from the blood it had been soaked in. The boy continued to stare at the skinned man who was once his father; now he could see not just the violent abusive side, but every single fiber of the man’s being, revealed in dim moon light. Not a single tear did he shed. This scene seemed all too familiar. His everyday life had dulled his emotions to such a degree that sadness, happiness and anger had all become one and the same void. Emptiness filled his soul, his heart cold as stone.
Each year that followed was harsher than the one before. By this point Warden was 12 and the city-state was in ruins. There are no details as to how things escalated to this point, but many assumed it was the introduction of magic. But it all didn’t matter anymore. After the last fighter gave up their spirit a famine evestated the population. The streets were filled with even more starved bodies, cannibalism became a natural survival tactic, and murder became a simple habit. From the rotting bodies arose numerous diseases, each one mutilated the human body in a different and more gruesome way. Warden had barely scraped by all this time, but now he fell ill. He was unable to scavenge for food and started to starve, the disease attacked his lungs and certain muscles making breathing and moving were as good as torture. At the brink of death young Warden saw a dark wiry figure in long tattered robes. It held out a hand and whispered “Do not fear. Embrace it. Cherish it. If you do…I can save you…”
For the next 4 years Warden was raised in the necropolis, the home of all necromancers. The entity that had appeared to him was Verexes Azraleth, a teacher in the large necromantic community. While most necromancers prefer to refrain from leaving their safe haven, Verexes belonged to the few who wanted to bring necromancy out of its isolated shell. Humans have always despised necromancy and thusly also those who use it and over time the sentiment became mutual. Warden was and still is thankful for his rescue and almost fanatically learned from Verexes; his knowledge, his kindness and even his attitude Warden tried to imitate them all. The first year he spent with Verexes was riddled with nightmares of his birthplace. But soon he learned how to repress those memories and emotions and became a new person…or rather adapted his savior’s personality. Things seemed great and wonderful, but there is always an end to everything. Old man Verexes fell terminally ill; immortality is something he had given up for he believed that death should not be avoided. Every waking minute of his life Warden spent beside his guardian until he passed. It was at that moment that Warden set his mind on fulfilling the old man’s dream and became the only necromancer to wander outside of the necropolis, presumably for the rest of his life. His first destination would be the center of all magic in the world: Fiore…
RP Sample:
Another day, another opportunity to cause trouble for the city guards. Warden stood at the city gates of Magnolia, his 14th city to visit.
Face Claim: Walter C. Dornez from Hellsing
