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About Angaroth

  • Rank
    Junior Member
  • Birthday 01/01/1970
  1. Chaos stormed about him, the vanquished prophet slumped at the top of the stairs, the pooled blood begining to flow down. Howls of orcish rage, tauren bellows, the cutting silvery laugh of a sin'dorei skewering a gnome swirled around the still, gaunt figure. She was frantic, praying for more strength, throwing every glimmer of light in her empty soul into her falling brothers and sisters. Greebo watched as Tia tried and failed to keep her new Fabled Order friends up and he smiled, slightly, as they fell, one by one under the unstoppable horde. The cry rang out and the trolless Xarja began to twitch and dance as the frost loa coalesced in front of her and a crystal portal grew and opened. He slid to one side, to a spray of gems thrusting from the floor and began to focus on the tired, weeping paladin. One long thin arm stretched out and rested in the crook of two glowing branches. Talons curled into a familiar shape and purple streamers leapt out across the room and plunged into her soul. She spasmed and turned slowly to face him. The threads began to glow, pulsing in time with her heart, gleaming brighter and thicker as they sucked at her marrow. Time slowed to a crawl as he grasped and pulled the quintessence of her from the shell it was trapped in. Slivers and tastes of her crystallized into the pulsing shard in his hand as his talons twitched, plucking this, discarding that. Her edges had softened in the last year, a few small wounds healing but he needed exactly what he had driven into her, no more and no less. Her hammer rose, trembling and dropped as she tried to push him away, cleanse his blight with her holy energy but even as his wizened flesh steamed and withered their eyes met and she knew that, this once, he was too strong. Another weary hand tried to lift but was held down by a stabbing bite and his Felhunter happily devoured her spell. She watched helpless as his fingers twitched and wove - a memory of his hands, precise and delicate pulling a black thread through a black cloth, textures exquisite under her fingers. The pulsing light was fading now as there was less and less of her to absorb and the last shimmers settled into place on the thumb-sized gem in his hand. One last bright spark was swallowed by the Drain Soul and he stared as her anguished face turned away from him, watched as her body settled to the floor, crumpling like a puppet cut from its strings. Greebo nodded, once. A look of grim satisfaction crossed his face as he held tight to the shard and began to lope to the portal. A mistake had been corrected, a wrong righted this night. He stood next to Xarja's door and turned back for one last sweeping gaze across the room. Devastation and wails of dispair echoed around the lanky body as it turned away from the battle and stepped toward freedom.
  2. <p>I should send you q-tip slashfic</p>

  3. *who/what* Done and done. My little diversion was unnecessary and taking too long to arrange anyway. It was practically a stroll to wander through Darnassus, killing the sentinels and then perusing the tome for quite some time before sliding it, rain spattered, beneath my shirt, and heading back to Shattrath. The magister has his token and I should have my tabard. It still stings that the demon Greebo was deemed fit to wear it but I who bested him at every turn had to debase myself as an errand boy. Do I want to let this resentment fester within, sprouting into full flower and days of agony when they are in my power? A decision to be made later, when the balance between instilling fear by example and making use of a valuable tool is more clear. Still, it will make for pleasant day dreams.
  4. *who/what* It seems that rather than past and current evidence, what the magister will require before he vouches for me is some sort of dog and pony show. It is annoying and distracting and pointless but if it is what needs to be done to further my integration into this rabble then it will be done with a gap-toothed smile, such teeth as remain gleaming with pride and happiness. In truth no man rules alone for no man wields power beyond the reach of his fingers. What is needed are allies to act in my interest even when I am not present. Whether or not they act out of fear or greed or, gods-who-abandoned-us forbid, love is irrelevant, merely that they do act. And the wearing of the tabard is the next step in the upward trajectory.
  5. He rode hard over the bridge and quickly left the road, angling off to the side. He was grateful that for all its shortcomings, his corpse no longer had a beating heart that would be deafening him and setting his limbs a-tremble with the fear he struggled, and failed, to master. He was half-way to Lakeshire before he dared to pull on the reins and stop the cursed Dreadsteed that answered only to the name of Fluffy. He yanked hard, but the demon had the bit well between it's teeth. With a whinny that let him know that he was not in charge, his mount turned and began to course it's way back through the rolling wooded hills of Elwynn Forest toward Goldshire. He approached from the north, wary of the screaming that was disrupting the midsummer celebrations. He saw a dancer running toward the small shimmering form of The Inquisitor and unleashed a stream of fire oh so delicately tuned to burn the flesh slowly, causing maximum pain. The stumbling figure collapsed at her feet, a few drops of fel-fire splashing on the hem of her robe and sizzling for a few seconds before guttering out. Her shoulders shifted disdainfully as she muttered something about expecting him to fail again. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew that the daggers of her words were to be accepted, welcomed, until such time as the roles were reversed. With a false air of insouciance he said "He might not have, Inquisitor, but you of all people should know that I have a particular knack for extracting myself from these situations." As usual, she ignored his glib words, focusing on the task at hand and paying attention to him only when her keen battle sense let her know that he was stumbling at a task. His face hardening as he berated himself for continuing to treat her as human, as female, he dismounted and strode over to the guards in front of the inn, leaving her to finish off the revelers. "Phuuzum nal hamru. Nal!" he shouted, making a circular gesture as the fel-hound shimmered into view. Eagerly the demon leapt forward and began to slaver and bite each of them in turn, gathering them into a panicked circle of hacking blades. One by one they began to fall as the bolts of shadow streaked over the desecrated fire until the last one, realizing that the demon was not the greatest threat, turned to run toward him and, raising his sword arm high, collapsed in a bloody heap as Phuuzum tore his entrails out. Angaroth stepped over their corpses and entered the inn, anger and blood lust seething within him. He remembered the scorn of the Stormwind guard the first time he visited, he felt a vulnerability between his shoulder blades as he waited for a dismissive command from the Inquisitor. Vision already clouded with corporeal decay turned red and he began to cast shadow-bolts about wildly, striking at anything living in the room. The hapless townsfolk shrieked and died as the fel-energy and the demon hound ripped them into soggy piles of barely recognizable flesh. As the last scream faded, his rage began to subside and he looked around in satisfaction at the carnage he had wrought. Tilting his head to one side to admire a particularly artful pattern of blood spray on the wall he heard a slight scrape of wood on wood. Phuuzum too, sensed something and began to growl at a seat along the wall. Angaroth realized that the bench was hollow and, smiling, wandered toward it. Throwing the cover open, he saw a young woman cowering within the cramped space. He reached down to caress her pale skin, her warm tears splashing his talons. He quickly seized her by her jet black hair and hoisted her small body high into the air with inhuman strength. Eyes of cornflower blue stared at him, wide open, unseeing. Eyes of a shade he had seen on another small woman in Old Hillsbrad, eyes missing now, hollow sockets and ichor replacing the blue of a summer sky. "Don't worry my love, this will only hurt a very great deal. Your life isn't a failure, it is your whole race who fail." Her body began to twitch and dance in his grasp as he began to delicately unwind her soul, draining it into his palm one day, one layer, one kiss at a time. Her flesh shrivelled slightly as her essence coalesced in a glowing matrix, her screams hoarse and weakening. He drove his taloned hand deep into her belly and sickening purple glow of the spell trace begin to gleam from the wound, from her mouth, nose, eyes. The noise she was making rose several notches, a keening wail that would tremble on the note as he twitched his fingers. "How does it feel, my sweet? Do you like it?" There was no sanity left in the thing he held to answer him so he crafted her answers for himself instead, listened to her plead and beg for more, listened to her stumbling apologies and promises to behave. He imagined her in robes similar to his own, kneeling before him, abject, he imagined her reaching up ... "Are you quite done yet?" she sneered from behind him. The last motes of life settled into place in his hand and the body twitched and was still. The glowing energy drained away, her life not potent enough to crystallize into a shard. He flung the slender form away and turned to face her. "Far from it, Inquisitor, far from it. But there is always another day. And Menethil Harbour calls, does it not?"
  6. *thousands of words* A memory. A figure, huddled, hulking, cowering, towering. A tall, well-muscled man, a dashing figure in flowing robes, tears and snot streaming down his handsome face. Crouched in a corner he peers through the glowing portal and watches as the brave magisters are cut down drained killed devoured. A small hook-fingered figure behind a looming horned one take steps towards him as the spell fails and winks out. *who/what* I know her. She was the one in the stairs. She hides her past. I doubt that there is room for blackmail, but knowledge is also power. This should be a lever to lift myself up. I should thank her. I learned more of myself that day than any other before or since. She would be pleased to know that because of that day I was given a week's rest. I traveled south in the heart of winter and killed the blacksmith. I dragged the body to the edge of town and heard in the spring that he had been killed by wolves. Phuukun was disgusted to hear that he was confused with a dog.
  7. *who/what* I must say that I was very surprised. I thought that acting required some form of empathy, emotion. Apparently not. A flawless performance, there are tear stains on my robe. The satisfaction of knowing that the fool was suffering within must be balance with the certainty that she will devise a fitting torment. And there is no void to be filled. Certainly the fight against Leotheras proved that. She muttered something about proving herself more than capable of dealing with the matter. I held my tongue and did not mention that while she was dealing with her inner demons there was a battle being fought against the real foe. I grow more comfortable in this corpse and if I had a nose, the sweet smell of success would be growing ever so slightly stronger. *thousands of words* Blank gaze, ruined face, empty eyes staring up. Tears forced from corrupt glands streaming down a face, a small mouth rounded in perfect pleading. Thin arms, sharp claws, clasping for strength. *thousands of words* Tiny hands, razor talons craddling, rocking, stabbing, threatening. *thousands of words* Thin lips, sneering, a hint of disgust at the bile they had been spewing. Green flame dancing in the dark, trying to burn the memory of a means to an end.
  8. <p>Ah! Reg on TNG! 3rd sign of the apocalpyse</p>

  9. *thousands of words* Scattered corpses, heavily armoured, crushed and crumpled. Slumped figure, twisting and pulling on withered hands, scowling face, eyes rapidly darting back and forth, seeking escape. *who/what* That went well. Only half of them died. Curse this weakened flesh. I wear it like a costume, a dancing clown, heavy shoes, tripping over myself. She deserves my thanks for driving him out but she will get my curses for writing to the script to this farce. Power that flowed so smoothly when I was alive stutters and jerks, thoughts ooze through this corroded flesh. I have exchanged a non-existence for a crippled one. The one redeeming feature is that this lawless horde is free to delight in whatever they want. We shall see what we can make of that.
  10. Always seem to be too many damned First Legion types around for *my* taste ( which, admittedly, tends in the fresh raw bloody carcass direction). Also? We Forsaken are the ones with Cannibalize. I demand an apology.
  11. You told me that you walked into a door. Or Gruul. I wasn't really listening.
  12. Angaroth


    Full Name: Angaroth Arnursson Nicknames: Who-the-hell-are-you-again? Date of Birth: 28 summers before the opening of the portal Age: 30 Race: Forsaken Gender: Male Hair: Black, clean, brittle, balding. Skin: Pale, melted, brittle. Eyes: black. oily black. an occasional iridescent sheen Height: tall, but heavily stooped. a shade under 6' when bent, he would be 6'4" alive Weight: 135-145 lbs, dry weight. Place of residence: that den of iniquity and squalor known as Shattrath City. if the phrase "wretched hive of scum and villainy" were not already used, it would be used here. Place of Birth: A small fishing/farming village on the Howling Fjord coast. Known Relatives: Assuming they are still alive, the usual horde of parents, cousins, and siblings. A large family. Religion/Philosophy: Peace through Annihilation Occupation: Dread mage Group/Guild affiliation: The Grim Guild Rank: Minion Enemies: The Alliance. The Burning Legion. Anything and everything that stands between him and the Throne of Worlds. Likes: Teasing her. Learning. Gaining power over himself. Gathering power to himself. Favorite Foods: Enemy flesh. Favorite Drinks: Bourbon for want of anything stronger. Applejack for choice. Favorite Colors: Purple Weapons of Choice: Corruption Dislikes: Being confused with or compared to others who may once have looked like him. Hobbies: None. There is always something more important to do. Physical Features: Lean, lanky, stringy, strong, clawed Special Abilities: A delicate hand with needle and thread. Positive Personality Traits: Calm. Collected. Inquiring. Negative Personality Traits: Tunnel vision, not yet fully comfortable with this shell Misc. Quirks: Played by What Famous Person: Peter Garrett Theme Songs: Sleep Now In The Fire - Rage Against The Machine History: It is within a few weeks of the opening of the Dark Portal, the attention of Azeroth is elsewhere. A party of humans on the high tundra is trudging over frozen ground as they seek to open a new trade route. A late spring wind is howling over the barren waste before them, blowing the last shreds of the passing storm to the south. You can imagine a fist of experienced adventurers escorting an unruly caravan, woolly kodos dragging laden sleds, the merchant master yelling out contradictory orders to his many sons and hirelings, his shrew of a wife complaining about a missing hairbrush. The priest is deep in conversation with the mage as they pass through a field of glacial boulders, two warriors striding in the front, keeping a wary eye out for bands of marauding lemmings. The warlock is sulking as usual, the flames on the hooves of his dread-steed keep melting through the frozen swamp that they travel over, making the footing treacherous. The rogues who step from behind the rocks have the priest bleeding and dead within seconds, the mage lasts little longer. One of the warriors falls to rain of arrows from hunters and the large one with the shield holds out for almost a minute against a swarm of lesser attackers before collapsing under the shear weight of numbers. As the caravan crew are butchered and eaten, 2 druids take off after the fleeing warlock. In short order he is overtaken and snared, trapped and panicked in a net. To his surprise he is not killed outright but rather he is stabbed with something that looks like an insect stinger. The first thing that the creeping poison paralyzes is his throat but his limbs quickly follow and, his eyes wide open, he begins an endless silent scream as he realizes that something far less pleasant than death is in store for him. We lose any sense of time passing, the world passes in a blur until a flickering and fluttering resolves into 7 tall black candles, guttering with the foul ingredients mixed in with the rendered flesh. He is chained face up on a large granite slab. It is not covered in intricate runes singing praises to dark and dead entities, it is not carved with deep runnels stained and crusted with the blood of thousands of sacrifices. This is not a temple to gods, it is a workshop, the power the here flows not from some absent spirit but from the tall figure who wanders from a bench against the wall to subject and back humming a painful and unearthly melody. She holds up a small alembic that contains a slowly swirling viscous glowing mist. After pondering for a few seconds, examining it closely, she turns quickly, strides over to the bound subject and with a smoothly violent motion she draws a blade from within her robes and drives it deep into his heart. His body arches, his mouth jerks open and she smashes the vial into it. The mist oozes into the body, melding with the flesh. A few glimmers of light trace the path of the mist through the body, the candles flicker and go out. The room is completely dark except for two pairs of glowing yellow eyes. A faint whisper of badly formed words: "what have you done?" **** there is silence, darkness there are black bars that burn when they are touched shards of sound, glimmers of light drift down from ... somewhere time is passing but nothing is happening. trapped, drowning in someone else in cold, release, for one glorious night, release but always the iron hand draws back, imprisoned **** The black mist, the black cage bars fade. He stumbles out from nowhere to nowhere, sensing something closing behind him. His eyes open and he sees again nothing but mist, but real mist, cold on his skin, a pale sun barely reaching the grass he is standing on. An angry figure is before him, full of danger.
  13. *Striding by, on his way to gather more silk, Angaroth steps heavily on the tome, driving it further into the mud. He affects not to notice, the rolling, lurching gait of a Forsaken makes it difficult for an observer to tell if he deliberately deviated from his path.*