Karthok

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About Karthok

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    Junior Member
  • Birthday October 20
  1. Karthok

    Trouble in Shaelietown.

    “Rifles. Always rifles.” Faelenor hit the back of Karthok’s skull with the butt of his rifle. Karthok grunted, rubbing the back of his head and otherwise unmoving. The pain was minimal at best, compared to the biting shreds of shrapnel and lead imbedded in his body. Nothing serious, though the assassin wasn’t in the best of positions to properly assess his physical health. Three guns were pointed at him from three different distances. He could make a run for it, take the rifle at his head, throw it at Arath’dorei and be out of sight before Cobrak could land a decent shot. He’d have to leave his tools behind with the elf however. Karthok raised hus eyes from under the darkened cowl. Shaelie was being tended to by the Rayfeather priestess, undoing his hard work. “Will bring something instant next time, kill quietly and quickly. Gorgrond flytrap extr-” Karthok ceased his inner thoughts as a Kodo-tranquilizer shot into his arm. He sighed. “I hate you people.” The Orc muttered as he slumped over. When he woke up, he was in front of the Grim base in Tirisfal. He was also completely bare except for the tattered remains of his chewed clothing. The grunts standing guard didn’t seem to care, unblinking eyes kept on the horizon, waiting for threats. Karthok was still bleeding, slowly. A bag containing his things had been dropped on top of him. “Foolish of them.” Grunting, the assassin got to his feet and ripped the bag open, throwing his damaged weapons and vials out into the woods. “Need blast resistant gear for open combat. Aquire it from beasts of the Firelands.” Tearing the bag in half and tying it around his waist as a makeshift loincloth Karthok strode into the Garrison, niether flaunting nor hiding his mostly naked burned body. Finding his bunk and footlocker, Karthok took out a spare set of gear, writing tools and a piece of parchment. He wrote one letter and sent it without any marks of where it came from. The recipient would know. Karthok patched himself up, applied bandages and stitches where needed nefore slipping into his faded leather. He placed his medical tools back into the footlocker and retrieved a map with candles. The Orc set the candles and unrolled the map of Dragonmaw Port at the far end of a table in the Great Hall. An assassination must be prepared.
  2. “Rifles. Always rifles.” Faelenor hit the back of Karthok’s skull with the butt of his rifle. Karthok grunted, rubbing the back of his head and otherwise unmoving. The pain was minimal at best, compared to the biting shreds of shrapnel and lead imbedded in his body. Nothing serious, though the assassin wasn’t in the best of positions to properly assess his physical health. Three guns were pointed at him from three different distances. He could make a run for it, take the rifle at his head, throw it at Arath’dorei and be out of sight before Cobrak could land a decent shot. He’d have to leave his tools behind with the elf however. Karthok raised hus eyes from under the darkened cowl. Shaelie was being tended to by the Rayfeather priestess, undoing his hard work. “Will bring something instant next time, kill quietly and quickly. Gorgrond flytrap extr-” Karthok ceased his inner thoughts as a Kodo-tranquilizer shot into his arm. He sighed. “I hate you people.” The Orc muttered as he slumped over. When he woke up, he was in front of the Grim base in Tirisfal. He was also completely bare except for the tattered remains of his chewed clothing. The grunts standing guard didn’t seem to care, unblinking eyes kept on the horizon, waiting for threats. Karthok was still bleeding, slowly. A bag containing his things had been dropped on top of him. “Foolish of them.” Grunting, the assassin got to his feet and ripped the bag open, throwing his damaged weapons and vials out into the woods. “Need blast resistant gear for open combat. Aquire it from beasts of the Firelands.” Tearing the bag in half and tying it around his waist as a makeshift loincloth Karthok strode into the Garrison, niether flaunting nor hiding his mostly naked burned body. Finding his bunk and footlocker, Karthok took out a spare set of gear, writing tools and a piece of parchment. He wrote one letter and sent it without any marks of where it came from. The recipient would know. Karthok patched himself up, applied bandages and stitches where needed nefore slipping into his faded leather. He placed his medical tools back into the footlocker and retrieved a map with candles. The Orc set the candles and unrolled the map of Dragonmaw Port at the far end of a table in the Great Hall. An assassination must be prepared.
  3. Karthok

    Cupcakes for Children's Week

    The wind howled through Orgrimmar. Zeppelins continued to operate through the evening, the goblins switching out crews at the twelve hour mark. Guards exchanged salutes as others took over, groggy and tired eyes being exchanged for sharp, fresh ones. The smell of the bakeries and the forges died down, replaced with the crackling charcoal of braziers and fireplaces as citizens retired. The streets were empty, save for the odd vagrant or pair of guards on patrol. A vulture’s cry cut through the night’s air. It seemed that the busiest place in the city was the orphanage, all the children bouncing around their beds, giddy with excitement at the prospect of being taken out with a brave adventurer and seeing the world. The matrons desperately tried to contain the orphan’s happiness, and their own as the children were only this elated for such a short time in the year. As a few were wrangled into their cots, the others eventually settled down and the room quieted to giggling and whispers. The matron’s read for a while before laying down themselves and falling into a tired, well deserved sleep. A clank rang out. A small one, quiet, but close. Close enough for worry. Mazoga opened one of her eyes. She was older than the other kids, in her late teens, older than any of the adopters wanted. The little ones looked up to her, she protected them from each other, gave them toys when she could, took care of them as much as any of the Matrons. She peeked around the room, no one else had stirred. Quietly as she could, she slipped out of her blanket and stepped over the sleeping children, making her way to the doorway. She stuck her head out around the corner, scanning the area, there was no one out here… wait. She peered into the darkness by the rock wall that made up Orgrimmar’s upper level. Sitting in the shadow by the orphanage, an orc sat, hunched over and knees pulled to his chest, a torn cloak around his body. “Oh fuck.” Mazoga thought. She swallowed nervously, she had never had to deal with a vagrant before, especially not one that was obviously a veteran, judging by the make of the cloak and the artificial limbs. “I can do this, it’ll be fine, I’ll just ask him to leave nicely.” She stuttered, getting a determined and brave look on her face. “Hey, you can’t sleep h-” He leaped at her from the darkness, wrapping the cloak around Mazoga’s face. The cloth had clearly been soaked in something prior to this, breathing in the chemicals she slumped over unconscious almost immediately. ------------- Karthok dropped the sleeping orc into the center of a newly refurbished cell. The rock and earth that once lined the walls, ceiling and floor had been replaced with reinforced steel. The heavy iron door stood out as darker from the rest of the room, made of harder, more resilient metal than the rest. There were no windows or cracks in the ceiling, no light sources inside the cell. A small, neatly folded bed had been placed in the corner, the sheets freshly cleaned and pillow fluffed. Leaving Mazoga there in the dark Karthok stepped out the door, closing the latch and locking it behind him. He stood straight, walking through the lightless corridor past a dozen other cells identical to Mazoga’s. Some of the others had doubtless waken up by now, pounding on the doors, crying, screaming. Not that he could hear them, all of the cells had been soundproofed, not even the most sensitive ears would pick up their cries. Coming to a laboratory, Karthok’s imprisoned members of the Royal Apothecary Society continued to work frivolously as they completed their most recent batch. The orc grabbed the forsaken he had put in charge by the collar and lifted him upwards, bringing the flailing deadite to eye-height. “Is it ready for distribution?” Karthok spoke calmly, though a fire burned in his eyes. The Apothecary stammered, trying to find words for his torturer. Sighing, Karthok dropped the stuttering forsaken to the ground. Quickly standing up and brushing off his robes, Dismas bowed deeply. “Yes sir. The poison is our most potent yet and, per your instructions, it has been mixed with the plague. We only need to mix the substance with the sweets and it will be ready to send out.” Karthok grinned wickedly behind his mask, squeezing the forsaken’s shoulder with his iron hand. “Good. When they’re prepared, have my spies deliver our gifts to all the orphanages not within Horde territory, as well as Sanctuary and Borrowed Time. With any luck, they’ll blame the Shadowblade.”
  4. Karthok

    The Clickening

    Karthok Upon Selection: "Karthok Deathrage, at your service." Click: "Yes?" "Lok'tar." "Orders?" "Payment will be required." "Anything for the Horde." Excessive Clicking: "This will cost extra." "Do you enjoy the smell of flaming flesh?" "You should know, my sister is the kind one." "Kor'kron torture techniques are... effective." "This will not be forgotten." Ordered to Move: "For the Horde." "On my way." "I will be there momentairily." "Scouting for danger." Ordered to Attack: "They will be flayed." "No survivors." "The wolves will need food." "A shame there will not be time to use my tools." "I will make the most of this opportunity." Taunt: Karthok stands straight and tosses his blade in the air. "Come then, I needed a new rug." "My blades are hungry. Best not keep them waiting." "You're not worth what I'm being payed." Joke: Karthok lobs a severed head in front of him. "What is the difference between a baby and an onion? No one cries when you chop up the baby." "Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Life is cruel, and harsh. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up. Man bursts into tears. Says, But doctor... I am Pagliacci." Death: Karthok tears off his mask and spits out blood. "I will be waiting for you." He then falls onto his back. Alternate Death: If Karthok is killed by fire, he ignites completely in flame and whispers a threat to his killer before sitting down on his knees and remains motionless as his skin crackles. Rebirth: "The contract has not been completed." "Fetch the hounds." "How will Cobrak react, I wonder."
  5. Karthok

    Character theme songs.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urV8MIcLDFk Drunken Whaler- Karthok
  6. Karthok

    Cobrak

    "He's a bit of a bastard."
  7. Karthok

    Karthok

    Name: Karthok Deathrage Nickname(s): The Butcher, Stormreaver’s Hound Age: 22 Race: Orc Clan: Warsong Class: Assassin Affiliations: The 37th Infantry, the Kor’kron Special Possessions: His remaining limbs? Occupation(s): Spy, Assassin, Leatherworker Known Languages: Orcish (and a couple other ones but since Orcs can only speak Orcish unless they’re Mages I guess he only knows Orcish) Skills: Good at stalking, apprentice leatherworker, pretty decent at murdering folks, expert kidnapper and torturer. Combat Tactics: Tends to stick to the shadows, attacks with quick precise strikes aiming for unarmored and vulnerable areas, applies debilitating poisons to his weapons, will blind, pull hair, spit, bite and “cheat” by any means possible, expert with daggers, throwing knives and swords. Likes: Torturing people, gathering information, stalking, hunting, dogs, Death Knight Metal, steak, onions, rain, snow, night, Dislikes: Two-headed dogs, fire, Blood Elves, Tauren, sunny days, demons, Deadshots Pet Peeves: People who eat with their mouth open. Phobias/Weaknesses: Terrified of fire. Physical Description: Karthok’s a bit shorter and skinnier than most Orcs, standing at 6’2”, weighing in at 250lb. He’s twenty-two but looks older, mostly because of the scars and the horrible burns covering most of his body/face plus the metal teeth. Karthok’s eyes are blood red and usually conveying the look of a madman. A tattoo of a skull burning with blue fire and a knife in it’s forehead inscribed 37th is on his right upper arm. Usually armored in black leather with various slots for knives and the like. His left arm is completely made of blackrock iron because you know, it has to be a stealthy artificial limb. The same goes for his legs which are iron from just above the kneecap down. Personality: Karthok doesn’t have much of a moral code. He doesn’t have any problems with killing or torturing people. Karthok generally seems like he’s examining whoever he’s talking to or interacting with. He’s crazy, he can act kind, sweet, caring. But in reality Karthok is a homicidal maniac who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Brief History: Karthok was born a year after the Warsong retreated into the caves after the Second War. He grew up with his older sister Shokkra, his father Azilrog and his mother (insert orcess name here). He took the style of the rogue, preferring to take the route less traveled by Orcs and especially his family that comprised solely of Warriors and a handful of Hunters. He butted heads with his father frequently until Azilrog left one day, becoming a hermit in the mountains. Karthok and his sister later joined the military, becoming part of the 37th Infantry.