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Fhenrir posted a topic in Nether LegendsFhenrir Phoenix is a tauren warrior that has served the Horde for over a decade. His staunch and unwavering commitment to fighting both the Alliance and the other threats from around the world has earned him the title of Lieutenant General. In the past, he struggled to find who he was beyond his duty. He has since settled into a (mostly) content personal life, with many close allies and a caring partner. He is generally ornery and humorless, but lets his guard down around those closest to him. But now... Fenny Cranksplat, in: "A Piece of Cake" One of my earlier memories is about a cake. It was at my birthday party. We were outside the house, sitting at a public bench in the park. Dad didn't invite anybody that wouldn't pay for their own food, so there were only Cranksplat family members watching when he brought out the cake. Crappy graying grass under the bench crunched with each of his steps, and he nearly slipped on an oil stain. But when the cake came down, I was thrilled to see it slathered in pink frosting and oozing some kind of chocolate sugary filling. Dad sliced a piece for me and set it on my plate. I must've had the biggest, fattest, happiest face an eight year old goblin could have. Then my older half-brother, Rigo, snatched my plate and started eating. I started bawling. "D-d-daaaad!" Dad slapped me in the back of the head. "Shaddap. I look like a cake dispensary?" I sniffed and watched my brother eating my chocolate oozing pink cake and was about to lose it again. "Pushovers don't eat," Dad said. Nearby in a pile of junk, I saw an old bent wrench. I wiped the snot off my nose, grabbed it, and beat my brother to a pulp. "Dat's my boy," I heard Dad say while I ate the rest of my reclaimed cake. After that, Rigo went to go live with Mom. Dad knew I was a fighter. When I was gettin' big enough to do proper work, he bought me my mech-mace. Well, he said bought, but it had an inscription on the handle that read "Love, Your Little Corkscrew." The spinning gears on the head looked kinda stupid, but they were supposed to make it 42% more Aerodynamic and 69% more Ouchy. "If you wanna keep eatin'," Dad told me, "ya better make dis a worthwhile investment." I worked my butt off every day with that thing, and by the time I was old enough to make myself useful, I went and got myself a job for the richest goblin I could find. Some jerk who counted coins at the bank needed some muscle to keep thugs out. "I... see. What makes you qualified to watch our gold, Mister... Fenny Cranksplat?" the banker asked as he read my resume. Well, it wasn't really a resume. It was a paper that I wrote "Hire Me" on, cause they said I needed a resume to apply. "I'm gonna level with you, buddy. Everybody in line out there bashes heads, probably about the same as I do. But," I dropped my mech-mace on his desk. "You don't have to pay to arm me. That's less risk on your end, cuz if I die or my stuff gets stolen, you didn't pay for a copper of it." The banker tilted his head and scratched his chin. The next day, I was working for the guy. I scratched my butt and leaned into anyone who looked funny for eight hours a day, and I was making more gold than Dad ever did. I had to crack a few skulls, but that was the way of things: either He probably resented me for it. Well, no, he definitely resented me for it. The old dope tried to rob me after I'd stashed up a couple months of pay under my pillow. I woke up one night face to face with him, his hand literally clutching my bag full of gold. "Hey," he said casually, sweat pouring down his forehead. I slept next to my mace, so I had it available to bash his head in. I woulda felt bad, but he kinda asked for it. By trying to steal my stuff. Nobody at the mortgage company really asked questions when I took over payments from my old man. They were still getting their gold, so they were happy. After a year or so working at the bank, I got approached by a guy in a shady outfit with a shady agenda. "Meet me in the alley down the block by the weird-smelling dumpster tonight. Got a job that'll triple yer pay." Didn't trust him for a second, but gold is gold, and my ladyfriend cancelled our plans for that night, so I went and checked it out. Flickering street lamp just outside the alley showed me the shadow of the guy waiting for me; the flabby, spidery shadow. Trade Prince Gallywix himself came out to meet me: maybe this really was something. He also had maybe a half dozen guards - that I could see, at least - surrounding him. "Hah, he actually came, boss!" one of them squeaked in an awful twang. "That he did," the Trade Prince said through his bouncing jowls. "So, your name is Fanny, right?" "Fenny." "All right, Fanny, here's the score. My boys say you got a night shift at the end of the week. You're gonna look the other way, for about two hours or so." "Why am I gonna do that?" "So ya don't have an affair with tha fishes tomorrow," another guard said in a leathery growl. I pulled the mech-mace off my back. "You wanna rumble?" "He's strapped!" the first guard shrieked. "No need for a rumble," the Trade Prince cut in. "It's bad for business. Tell you what: you do what you're supposed to, triple your pay." If I was loyal to one thing, it was to the coin. And a Trade Prince was worth way more than any random banker. His diet alone was probably worth more than my house; Gallywix had more chins than I had fingers. "Guess I won't see you later." The heist came and went, and I ignored it like I was supposed to. Once they were gone, I didn't even finish my shift: the bank was gonna know who to blame when their gold was missing tomorrow. Soon as the sun was up, I was at Gallywix's place. "Here to see the Trade Prince." "Shove off, no appointments for today." "He should be expecting me." "He ain't expecting you." "He ain't expecting a certain guy getting paid for a certain thing that wasn't observed last night?" The guards exchanged looks. "Be right back." One of them left, and I was left staring the other guard's ugly mug for just a bit too long. I was getting suspicious. Finally, the guard came back. "Go on in." So I get to the Trade Prince, hanging out in his spider tank thing. I had a sinking feeling when I realized just how much of an oily smell that thing put off, and how much noise it made when he moved around. Didn't notice either of those things in the alley. "You hinted at something out at the gate?" Gallywix said. "The job," I prompted him. "Ah, yes. Fenny Cranksplat, correct? The AWOL guard?" I was screwed. "Maybe. Listen, Trade Prince-" I didn't even get to finish my sentence. I woke up at the bottom of a trash chute. The only source of light was a square opening about three floors up. A goblin around my age poked his head through after he heard me shuffling around. "You awake? You must be the dumbest burglar on the whole island." "I didn't burgle anything." "Sure, sure. Hey, nice mech-mace, Little Corkscrew. Worth just enough to keep you out of cement shoes." They were gonna sell my mace. "I'll kill you!" I tried to climb up, but I couldn't get up the walls. They were coated in some kind of oil; or I hoped it was oil. "Clean up the whole place and we'll see about getting you a promotion!" "Screw yourself!" I shouted back. "Just think!" he called as he threw something into the chute that obscured the only source of light. "You could be "Lieutenant Garbage!"" The source of the shadow smacked into my face: A big piece of pink chocolate cake.
Full Name: Skrix Hobblemop Date of Birth: 10 Years BFD Age: 36 Race: Goblin Gender: Male Hair: Red with Black streaks Skin: Green Height: 3'11" Place of residence: Kezan Place of Birth: Undermine Known Relatives: [Pending] Occupation: Self-proclaimed Techno-Mage, Tinker Group/Guild affiliation: [Pending] Enemies: Likes: Gold, Gadgets, Books Favorite Foods: Freshly Charred Fish Favorite Drinks: Ice Cold Milk Favorite Colors: Red, Black, Blue Weapons of Choice: Arcane magicks, Engineering Tools Dislikes: People who do not pay up, Squidgoats, GNOMES Hobbies: Scrounging through books from Dalaran, tinkering with gadgets, infusing arcane magicks into technology Physical Features: Skrix pretty much fit in with every other goblin in Kezan. He was short by most other humanoids standards. His flesh was a dark green. His large ears looked as though they were tattered and torn. Along the left side of his neck were scars and burn marks. On his left hand, three of his five fingers were metallic replacements. His left leg was nothing but a nub up to his hip; a prosthetic leg replacing the lost limb. More often than not, he was wearing light robes, down to his feet to hide the handicap he sustained through the Third War. Special Abilities: Nothing beyond a normal Goblin Mage Positive Personality Traits: Resourceful, inventive Negative Personality Traits: Loves to talk, Rambles on and on about nothing. Often changes subject in the middle of a conversation. Misc. Quirks: Has a terrible limp Theme Songs: History: Skrix was number seven of twenty-five children born into the Hobblemop family ten years before the opening of the Dark Portal on the Isle of Kezan in Undermine. And with such a big family, he found himself crammed into a five room home deep within the bowels of the goblin metropolis. Needless to say, no one got any privacy in this family...which lead to question just WHERE his mother and father got the time to HAVE twenty-five children. Regardless, life went on as normal. Skrix found himself under a Tinker mentor within the first five years of his cramped life. By the time he reached the age of 13, he had managed to learn all he could from his mentor and con enough people out of their money to find himself a single room apartment in the downtown area of Undermine. The young tinker quickly began to make a name for himself, creating gadgets to help out with every day life. And more often than not, the creations would last JUST beyond their warranty before collapsing upon themselves. The one room apartment quickly began to become crammed with his daily work. Three of the four walls had become lined with piles of nearly useless metal, gears, wires and endless amounts of books. His skills did not go unnoticed as he was quickly hired on as a mercenary for the Second War, thrown out onto the battlefield as a novice mechanic and explosive engineer, finding himself strapping kegs of explosives onto his far too eager friends. They chose their own fate, right? So he didn't mind helping out those who sought to suicide themselves into the faces of the enemy. ...Besides, they often left their possessions to him if they had no family. So why the hell not?! During the Second War, Skrix found himself stationed, occasionally, within the walls of the Horde controlled Stormwind. During the rare lulls of battle, Skirx had found himself digging through the libraries, having originally been looking for rare texts that would bring him bags upon bags of gold. Instead, he stumbled upon Arcane texts from the libraries of Dalaran being stored within the Library in Stormwind. Skimming through a couple of the books, he found the destructive powers that the Arcane had could possibly be even more potent than the gun powder he slapped onto the Sappers backs. The Second War came to a bloody end. Skrix and the other goblins of the Steamwheedle that had been hired out as mercs had managed to slide away from the terrible aftermath that followed, making their way back to Kezan. And Skrix did not leave empty handed. His bags were packed with various books on ley-lines, arcane powers and the mages of the Kirin Tor. Over the next couple of years, the goblin had managed to open a larger shop in the metro region of Undermine, hiring himself a few helpers of his own and raking in the profits. In the back of his shop, however, he had begun to not only study the arcane magicks of the mages of the Kirin Tor, but he began to practice, subtly and foolishly. Loud explosions and smoke would often pour out the back of the engineering shop. One incident involved the burning down of his shop and the surrounding three buildings before the flames were contained. Nearly all of the books he had managed to snatch up from the Second War had been turned to ashes. But, before Skrix knew it, he found himself back out on the battle field in the Third War. This time, however, he was ready. With his knowledge of the mechanical workings of the siege weapons that were used and his still novice skills in the Arcane arts, he teetered on a fine line between self destruction and sheer genius. He had begun to fuse various arcane runes and spells into the weapons and zeppelins that him and his fellow goblins created. Within the workings of the devices, he would scratch in enchantments into the shaped iron, enhancing the durability of the weapons and the potency they carried. However, so much power can be a terrible thing. Skrix found himself working by one of the zeppelins, working steadily upon the cannons when he slipped up and used the wrong rune. The result was a 200 foot crater that threw him and his fellow engineers deep into the woods surrounding the work site. The next thing Skrix could remember was waking up in Kezan, strapped to a bed, his left leg completely missing and wrapped in bloody bandages, his left hand missing fingers and a terrible burn scar that ran down the left side of his body. Needless to say, he ached something terrible. Time passed and the Third War came to an end with Skrix already back home, running a newly built shop, hobbling around on a crutch, yelling at the hired help. The free time he had after the shop was closed for the evening was spent in the back room, tirelessly working upon a prosthetic leg to replace the one that had been blown off. His left hand, he had already managed to rebuild three fingers to fit in the place where the others used to be. But, despite the handicap he now had, he was happy. Life was good. War had finally ended, he was running his shop, much more successful than before. He managed to squeeze in a little time here and there to head down to the tavern and woo the goblin ladies with his tales of the Wars. Things were finally looking up!