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About Altherion

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  • Birthday July 21

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  1. "The dead are not what you should fear. Indeed, the restless and the living are our primary concern." He frowned once more as the wooden door creaked and then fell, the long rotting structure falling apart. With a boom, the door slammed into the ground, echoing throughout the tower. At their entrance was a small chamber, with a spiral staircase leading upwards to the spire. Their vision was dim, several unholy candles bathing the void in a sickly green glow. In addition, the air hummed with magic, giving a feeling of unease. Now and again, near the candles, she may see vermin and insects skittering about. There was likely some food source or another within the tower, supporting the theory that it wasn't as empty as perceived. As a large rat skittered over the floor, it passed over a trap door, once which likely lead deeper within the tower. After the echo of the door's fall finished, Rosepha would hear noises coming from the depths, as well as above. "I do believe we are not alone." Murmured the Death Knight as another gust of wind wrapped about the tower. The wails of the wind joined with the rustling of others, before the dark was broken by a flash of purple light. Behind them, a small portal opened, steel bars forming over the former doorway, trapping them within. The Death Knight unsheathed his axe as footsteps hurried down the wooden stairway above them.
  2. The boards nearly crumbled from her light touch, sawdust spilling towards the ground. The inside of the tower seemed mostly quiet, save a deep, far off humming of either magic or machinery. If she pried further, the boards would come easily undone, leaving the door hers to open. Altherion leaned in closer to the tower as another gust of wind hit them. The keep let out a series of creaks and groans, and as the uneasy Gilnean heard the noise, she may mistake it for a living being within. The specters, as well, were riled by the wind. They began to come closer and closer towards the duo, roused from their stupor.
  4. The tower loomed menacingly above, a blemish upon the coastline. The ruin was comprised of old stone, hastily taken from the surrounding Grizzly Hills. Wooden boards crisscrossed the exterior, forming a long set of spiraling staircases, jutting towards the apex. One set, however, branched off towards the sea, likely to lower levels buried within the island. The architecture was clearly Gilnean in style, cobbled together as it was. Crowning the structure was a series of altars and rune carved spires, still humming with abandoned unholy energy. Another tide of wind had begun to buffet them. "Come. We had best arrive before the storm." The Death Knight had given the command, and without fear of rebuttal, had begun to make his way towards the tower. Between the duo and their prize was a series of rough hills and cliffs, the edges lined with tattered camps. These camps had once hosted the Wolfcult, a group of Lycan worshiping humans that had defected to join Arugal. In their quest for power, they had given their species, as well as their sanity. Now, all that was left of the outside portion of Bloodmoon Isle was rot. Bodies littered the formerly trimmed pathways, now broken with corrupted flora. The state of affairs was similar to that of the plaguelands, as was the fate of all regions bathed in Necromancy. Rosepha would hear a loud snap as Altherion's obsidian boot crushed an old skull. Fragments of bone shot out to the sides, only to vanish into dust. Despite their tenuous allegiance to the Scourge, Altherion felt no remorse for the Cultists. These were, after all, the bones of Worgen fanatics. The true Scourge knew the only real power came from Undeath itself. "Gilnean. You would not know the history of this place. Despite it being the continuation of your heritage." He murmured, guiding them around several misplaced traps. A few still bore chunks of limbs, human or otherwise. "Hunters, like yourself, once settled the Grizzly Hills. Their would-be settlement is evidenced with the Amberpine lodge." As the Death Knight and Admiral neared the citadel, the assortment of tents became more organized. Larger tents of Wendigo fur slouched beside empty cauldrons, weaponry and cutlery discarded across the grounds. Books were strewn about the abandoned campsite as well, joined by scrolls of religious propaganda. The corpses that clutched tight to the materials were skeletal, their flesh stripped long ago. Some bore armor, while other corpses bore fur, reminiscent of Orc shaman. These upper reaches, once filled with the upper echelon of the Wolfcult, stood barren of life. "These bodies, however, are not the remains of simple trappers." He frowned. "This cult devoted itself to becoming...like yourself. Spoiled. My liege, however, saw a purpose among the filth. He resurrected the Archmage, using the Wolfcult to the advantage of the Scourge." As the Knight lingered to look over the ruin's exterior, oddities materialized. Spirits of the former inhabitants seemed to taunt the edge of their vision, arriving and fading with a flash of soft magic. Altherion was unphased by these specters, for they seemed to be more curious than harmful. The Death Knight paused before the entrance to the Shadowfang tower. As their presence had apparently begun to stir old magic, he strode towards the doorway. The main entrance waited immediately before them, an old oak door, firmly shut and boarded over. To their left was the first wooden stairwell, though this one led down, towards the sea, likely to some lower level of the tower. "Choose a path." Altherion said, turning to gaze upon his perceived Minion.
  5. Clad in a nearly black set of plate armor, Altherion stood juxtaposed to the brilliant green shores and cheerful morning skies of the Grizzly Hills. His armor, formed in part to mimic the lords of the Scourge, was testament to his devotion. In all things, this Death Knight favored the old ways, the ways of a destroyed nation, the ways of a long dead Master. Utmost in his purpose was the defense of the true Lordaeron, the preservation of the legacy of the damned. This was why, as he regarded his progeny, a moment of human emotion swept over his long dead countenance. Frustration, not at this Gilnean in particular, but at the strange blood that coursed through their veins. Obviously, the Gilnean curse, the Worgen curse, was what caused her resistance to his will. On his own, he had never been powerful enough to raise a tainted Gilnean to serve. Instead, through subjugation, comprised of beatings and threats, he had managed to craft a broken mortal. Instead of a perfect, unwavering member of the damned. Instead of a powerful, utterly loyal soldier. At every turn, it had seemed, his efforts were stymied. From the centrifugal machinery of the Blackwing, to the Scourge and Forsaken plague methods, he believed he had studied all he could to shatter the curse. His study, however, had discounted what the Knight regarded as the ravings of a lunatic. Shadowfang Keep had long been abandoned by his quarry, likely claimed by the Forsaken. Some help they had been. A dismissible, futile search. Instead, the Death Knight and pawn had taken their leave of Draenor and moved directly to his favored continent. Northrend, of course, would hold the answers to the Knight's search. Not the Shadowmoon Clan, not the squatters of the Undercity, not even the fabled Book of Ur had offered help, save a common description of the beasts. Archmage Arugal, crazed as the Death Knight believed, had apparently formed several of these beings. A combination of his kin, the Death Knight, and his enemy, the Worgen filth. A slanderous waste of resources, poured into a worthless nation's festering remnants. Or so Altherion had thought of all the fur boasting Undead, until this Minion. This Minion would have him go against his traditional belief. An exception to the rule, to his hatred of the coward nation. This Minion would serve. It had been over a year since their initial insult, since Altherion's retaliation of torture and mental manipulation. Past that stage, the typical victim would have been turned. Every Minion was granted the gift of damnation, the gift of equality. Yet this one denied him. Long had his patience been tested, but perhaps he was nearing an answer. After all, this was no longer a personal matter. This was a trial of will, a trial of intellect. As Altherion looked past his Minion, towards the crumbling ruin of Shadowfang Tower, and the surrounding hovels of Bloodmoon Isle, his frustration calmed. A wind so cold as to only originate from Northrend rolled off the sea, rousing the banners of the old Wolfcult, of the Scourge. Far out on the ocean, another late winter storm began to challenge the otherwise sunny day. A thought came across his mind, reminiscent of the old, frozen voice of his Master. The Gilnean shall serve. All shall serve.
  6. Ignoring my previous post, I would like to clarify. Heroes of the Storm is barely like League of Legends. There can be many buildings made of the same concrete. But your home isn't the same as a prison. It's what's on the inside that matters. Heroes of the Storm is barely about laning, and focuses on objectives. This objective focus forces large team battles. The lack of items and reduced time at spawn ensures continued, easy access fun. While on the surface, this is a more casual experience, the skill-shots and timed aspects of each Hero's skills are very reliant on the player being exceptional at the game. Particularly with the new Hero ranked league, and the upcoming ranked league. Also, the community seems to be better. Sure, it's no where near as large, but it's no where near as toxic, either. My closing statement; fuck you lenah lol noscope quickshot xxx smoke weed erryday
  7. the best romance is between altherion and altherion
  8. x why is it always the heroes that return and never my evil pals
  9. <p>I'll never change the profile picture. Never!</p>

  10. Anything to make my communication with Lenah less prevalant
  11. <p>what are you</p>