Vorandril
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
| [[Image:|300px|]] | |
| Vorandril | |
| Player: @Vereaux | |
| Origin: | Magic |
|---|---|
| Archetype: | Scrapper |
| Security Level: | 10or higher |
| Personal Data | |
| Real Name: | Vorandril |
| Known Aliases: | Coldbringer, Lichborn |
| Species: | Undead human |
| Age: | Hard to say |
| Height: | 6'7" |
| Weight: | 260lbs |
| Eye Color: | blue/green |
| Hair Color: | black |
| Biographical Data | |
| Nationality: | - |
| Occupation: | - |
| Place of Birth: | - |
| Base of Operations: | - |
| Marital Status: | Widower |
| Known Relatives: | None living |
| Known Powers | |
| - | |
| Known Abilities | |
| - | |
| Equipment | |
| - | |
| - | |
Contents |
The Fall and Rise of Vorandril
The following is a torn up journal entry from an extremely aged leather bound book. No seal is visible on the cover and its only identifying feature is the fact that the corners are protected by small iron caps. Flipping through the pages, the reader would be mostly disinterested in the monotonous entries of farming, killing of a sheep, buglars finally being caught... A simple peasant's journal...
But if one persisted and got halfway through the journal, there would be an interesting revelation within.
"Summer growing season, entry 15-
Today was a warm day, hot enough that Mitchel had to cut short his working day lest he be taken by the heat and fall unconscious. The Regent is apparently worried that our crops will not survive and will die out. He is concerned for what that will mean for his money. His pompous ambitions of wealth are tiresome.
Around mid-afternoon a traveler arrived in town, asking for a place to stay. I have offered the elderly man a room in my home. As I write this he sleeps soundly nearby. While we ate our dinner, he asked about the Regent. I was wary at first that this was the Regent's idea of testing loyalty. But after the man assured me against this I told him the truth.
He asks if I would have the stomach to take up whatever arms I needed to cause change in this world. He spoke of the inequality of our kingdom; of how the peasantry are oppressed and tred upon by others who simply have a different parentage.
Thel'zan is right that it must change."
Judging from the entries Thel'zan stayed in the town for quite some time. And began a slow but thorough process of inciting a small rebellion against the regent. No one really noticed that the lowly Regent had been replaced by Thel'zan, who began using the name and title of "Father Inigo Montoy". Though, it would seem that Vorandril the farmer was quickly indoctrinated into the Cult of the Damned. He did not follow their fervor for Ner'Zhul as a god (like they seemed to portray him), but rather supported his cause whole heartedly.
The journal notes that the ex-farmer moved from the small village, heading to another town where he successfully spread the word of the Lich King. But when he moved to another village, he could not have known that the local lord was paranoid of his people, and had spies within the taverns.
The final entry reads:
"Vorandril was hung until dead for his treason against the crown of Lorderon. Let any who read his lies and blasphemies against the light know the punishment for such actions! May the light of King Terenas reign supreme!"
Then the handwriting changed suddenly as another took the pen to note the events which continued afterwards.
Years later, after the Third Great War, Vorandril's eyes opened... He took up arms for his True King again with a glee that startled his enemies. The runes along his blade glinting and glowing with their unholy joy as he did his King's bidding. He commanded the Frost Wyrms to rain their icy death upon the scarlet crusade! How could they not see what was happening? In death, all would be equal!
The city fell quickly, and brutally. All that was left was to face the incoming army and lay them low like he had done to so many crops before, he would reap them and allow them to know what they needed to see.
Then Tirion Fordring came... And while Vorandril lie there, barely able to lift his body from the ground, he saw as the Highlord betrayed their King, and gave his mighty blade to the paladin, who wounded Ner'Zhul with it! Even as Vorandril wanted to avenge this injustice, he could not. When the Lich King fled, Vorandril mourned inside that he had been left with these traitors, but even as Mograine enacted a plan to take Acherus from the Scourge Vorandril knew that if he was to rejoin his King, he would have to play along.
After venturing to Northrend in an attempt to rejoin the Scourge, Vorandril met up with the death Knight Thesarian. After climbing to the top of the necropolis, Vorandril's dead heart rose in his chest as he saw his King approach, only to be again dismayed when Thassarian cursed at Ner'zhul and damning Vorandril from rejoining the Scourge by affiliation.
Vorandril would like to slay Darion Mograine and Tirion Fordring more than any others. And his contempt for Thesarian steadily grows with every Ghoul that Vorandril must slay.
For now, Vorandril bides his time; hoping for a day when he may rejoin the scourge, but each day that passes, his hope diminishes and he fears that some day he will have no hope left.
And the uncertainty of what he would do after that is the only thing he has to fear...
Vorandril's Inexorable March
A newer entry, in a similar penmanship to the original had been added to the journal. The strokes of ink were more smooth and showed a sureness behind them and a much stronger hand than had written in it before.
I'm long past having abandoned the scourge now. The Lich King was too weak and passive which allowed his downfall, but I shall show a patience he lacked. He overlooked the benefits of undeath's immortality and so for now I shall bide my time and do my best to surpass my creator. With the campaign in Northrend over and done with, I spent a large portion of my time in Dalaran and flying with Obsidian to try and claim a new home for myself, culminating in "aquiring" a necropolis from the Scourge in Zul'Drak.
Things were quiet until a few months ago when the Sundering ushered in a new and rather prompt war. Neltharion and his minions aparently intend to destroy my world... Seeing as I have plans for it, I'm working with a group of other capable individuals to lead small counter attacks against their strongholds to kill off their leadership and reserv troops both in Blackrock Mountain and in what they call the Bastion of Twilight. So far my hands have claimed all but Cho'gall's head, the head of Nefarian, the overgrown Chimera and whoever that damned blind dragon is. But they shall meet their death soon. Now if only I'd managed to glean how to make more advanced dead from a lich during the war in the north.
Recently the Guardians of Hyjal have attampted a counter attack against the Firelord, and met with a counter attack by a single foe. She slew many of their druids as I was arriving and with the help of Malfurion and Runetotem we pushed her away but any forward momentum had already been lost. Then the fool malfurion sends me to ASK her what she intends to happen with the mountain... I understand that the man is hopeful, but she has scorched half of the mountain, which it took us calling an ancient to repair, and he wants me to ASK how she is doing.
I had intented to let my mace be my method of communication but had no way of escaping from her entanglement, which caused the near loss of Runetotem. The druids seem to be idiots led by fools, since Runetotem would have remained unharmed had he only left me. While my survival is appreciated, it was a mistake on his part...
By the Shadow I wish the Ebon Blade were here... Perhaps I will write to Baron Sliver and Duke Lankral from the Shadow Vault and petition them for aid. I would ask for Thassarian or Koltira, but it seems they are ALREADY HERE and as usual too busy prancing about the Alliance or Horde to DO anything effective. They're being outperformed by some Damned gnome in a green hood and a fancy toothpick of a sword!
We could use the aid of the competant Death Knights in the molten front. The onslaught of fire elementals is not as unsimilar to a wave of Ghouls as I'd of originally thought and in fact a wave of ghouls would make a wonderful defense against the attacks I think, and perhaps Amal'thuzad's frost magics would suit this place.
Regardless of who I would prefer to be here, I'm stuck with helping these druids for now... It should soon be my watch for going out into the front to wreck more of the elementals, and so I leave one final thought;
I must remain patient. When the oppurtunity rises to strike down this Fandral Staghelm, he will not live long enough to flee from me...
The patience of Death
Again, the flow of ink across the dry paper was smooth. Purposeful. Strong... Determined. The journal was nearing the end of its pages now. A full tome of tactics to battles often won, with so very few turning as defeats. The Death Knight known as Vorandril had compiled an entire memoir of his accomplishments both on the fields of battle and off. Condemning evidence for some and embarrassing truths for even more. But at most it showed the mind of the man... The thing that had held both pen and sword and mace and words with a talent and surgical skill that would have made Vorandril the Man cringe in disgust.
There are so few pages left. And yet there will be so much time to write more and more. To immortalize the peasant who had Fallen and came to true power. To remind this world that the strength of an ideal, of a desire, will drive a force harder than any whip or cruelty.
This started as a journal. An autobiography to what should have been my future generations. Over these years I've come to a point in my existence that I no longer have any progeny counted among the living. No true Heirs to pass my name. No loved ones to leave profitable or worry free lives for. This boon has served me well over these short years.
From the fall of the Scourge, to the slaughter of deranged apocalypse cultists, to the manipulation of those who would call themselves Faithful, this boon has served me well. Had I been a fool such as Thassarian or the daft one Koltira, I would have failed so long ago. So many of the ones I had called Brothers have fallen to fruitless battles to uphold morals that no longer apply to us that I see what now has been the culmination of our efforts.
These fools wish to fall into shadows. To finally be "free" of our gift of undeath.
Slowly our numbers dwindle.
We fall in battles mandated by a man who swore to one day see me and mine destroyed. I would commend Wrynn for the cold cruelty of it all were it not so subtly played for our usefulness. Why send the Light when the Shadow will do all that is needed to ensure victory? I see what would be a useful ally in him if he were not so much the source of this world's problems. Of MY world's problems.
To this end I have hung my armor and swords for now. A time of patient waiting lies for me as I must become more than I am to one day bring this world true peace. Tyranny runs rampant. Oppression over the very foundation of this world's varying societies causes it to reek of infection and corruption. It is the Inheritance we were given by the Titans themselves. A need of Hierarchy. A need of Control. To control one's brother and their peers. To ELEVATE one's self above others that they might respect and bend knee to your authority.
Long ago I felt I was to be the catalyst of change. I believed I could mold this world as I am. As I was. And for that I was wrong. In my pride I overlooked Pride as my only weakness and now I must cast that aside or I too will fall like so many others who were raised by the Lich King's own hand.
We were equals. BROTHERS, unified in purpose to bring others the equality we enjoyed. None of us were elevated beyond another with exception made only to aknowledgement of capability. Capabilities that were not used to segregate ourselves but instead to function more cohesively. To allow us the glory of a shared victory.
But that was so quickly stripped away. Like a goblin's laboratory toy. Piece by piece the whole fell apart until it no longer held a function except to decay further into uselessness. This is what the Scourge has become. What the Ebon Blade has devolved into.
I will not lose sight of my purpose. Of my desires.
This world will be saved, and I know now I cannot do so alone. She will come to see the wisdom in what I must do, and I will not ask for forgiveness since none will ever be forthcoming.
I cannot save this world of its tyranny alone, and so others will be brought into the fold. Taught how to battle without sword or magic, and with that we shall win this war that no one knows they are fighting. And everyone is already fighting it. Time is as much my ally as it is my tool, and I will show my disciples how to wield it as both cudgel and scalpel, and as we rebuild our form and our purpose their capabilities will augment mine, as I will augment theirs.
We shall be whole again.
And this world shall know purpose. Equality. Freedom of prejudice. And eternal purpose and free will in undeath.
The long wait
The scripture continued on and on. Mostly noting of discoveries from reading magical tomes, and experiments on hapless homeless individuals. Describing more and more Vorandril's growing powers of magical might. But it seemed his focus was as much on other schools of magic as it was on necromancy. As one neared the end of the thick book an entry stands out-
