Appearance

Physical Description

What was once a human man stands clear over six feet tall with some minor measurable bulk that creates his frame. Once fair skin has slowly drifted into a pale silver, and his blue eyes have dimmed immensely into a murky grey. Though his hair and beard has kept hues of its dark black origin it continued to whiten, though he combats it with black dye, giving him a strange salt and pepper mixture. High cheekbones frame a thin smile hidden by his beard, upon a body that has been increased in strength with its unholy power.

Undead; Large wound on his torso and neck.

Facial Features

A Black and Pepper Beard

Identifying Characteristics

• Scars
A long gash begins its descent from under his jaw down the right side of his neck that would pierce through his torso. An obvious strike that would render any normal creature of his kind dead is visible from his neck that does little to cover. Left unhealed as a walking corpse, it would be a gnarly wound that would give even the most talented healer pause.

• Burnt Flesh
His left hand has deteriorated heavily into a skeletal appendage that is slightly blackened, where it ends at his wrist a black burn could easily be visible upon the flesh. Usually, he keeps a glove at the ready to hide the appendage if requested. Though normally he has it out and easily visible for all to see. Uncaring for those who make look at disgust with it, he finds it rather amusing really when people react to it.

Physical quirks

• Dominant Hand - Right

• A stiff posture that is always upright and at attention.

• Keeps his right arm usually rested upon a satchel as he roams.

• Though he cannot feel it. He scratches his beard almost out of habit when in thought.

Apparel & Accessories

Clothing

Adorned in a and a mixture of his more religious equipment and fine tailored clothes that has become tattered and repaired several times to keep up his original appearance, he could almost be mistaken as a living man from the back. A black coat extends near his knees that frames a well-made vest with an almost paisley ornate pattern upon it that is a mixture of dark green and black and a collar that still hold tight at the bottom of his neck. And black pants that have tattered along the heels and dress shoes that have several smears of dirt upon them held beneath a dark leather belt. A short stole is visible at certain angles between the coat and the vest of a dirtied white turned grey, with golden embroidery. As if seeking to keep it safe beyond the damage it has endured. An item he brings out on rare occasions of ceremony. There is little in the manner of armor that adorns his form if any at all. Even during times of battle. Though he does carry a shoulder cloak with him when necessary, either for his own amusement for when he wears or specific environments that call for him to use it.

A leather satchel that straps over his shoulder rests on his right hip that has been weathered by water damage and time through other ventures. The pages have already begun to brown and yellow with age. It also carries several other smaller items in other pockets such as incense, holy water, and if a stranger may need it. Jerky. Within his coat he keeps a small pocket watch that belonged to his brother Edward, engraved with his initials he has kept it for several years and with hardship can only get it repaired within goblin towns with the tinkering involved.

Johnathan has bludgeoned foes before when it’s required of him. A steel hammer fit for the size of a human rests within his belt with a minimal brass ornamental design. Anyone who uses weapons of war often would note that the blunt thing has gone through much. Stained across its face with slight reddish hue marks it. It carries no name, nor does he consider it incredibly notable besides as a tool of self-protection.

Special abilities

Field Medic(Warfare), Agriculture, Cooking, General History, Religion of the Light

From an early age Johnathan was already set within the framework of the Church of the Light. And, even in death, he keeps to his religion. Though at times the power it grants can pain him greatly, his faith has never wavered. Either as a reward for his faith or perhaps his forceful personality Johnathan became a strangely welcomed individual among the living as his power has kept several alive in the previous wars upon Azeroth. Distancing himself from his Forsaken brethren as the light is of little meaning to them, he has usually regulated himself to aid the living. Not afraid of getting into a fight, he uses his gifts as both a weapon and a shield for those on his side.

Mentality

Personal history

The Second War

Shock was his first reaction as he watched the tides of boats reach the shore. He had never experienced war time, but his calling moved him to quickly aid those seeking sanctuary from what they named the Horde. Malnourishment, Scurvy, Unattended injuries, a mixture of bodies that he had to relay to loved ones who could be saved or have passed led to days of mental exhaustion. The Light served him where it could, but whenever a mouth came that needed food was sated, or an injury that needed healing was mended. Another awaited the clergy and doctors working to the bone until assistance from the inner kingdom could arrive. The event was scarred into his memory as he can still recall the bells ringing upon their approach from the towers. Though the war went on. Johnathan never found himself as a paladin upon the fields, fighting among the Order of the Silver Hand. Instead, he was relegated to mending the wounded within military medical camps. He had seen the creatures they fought, and he thought them demons seeking the world's end. Creatures that could cleave men in two, he became well versed in the damage they could inflict upon a man. As a healer and mender, the war was a mentally strenuous time for him as he had seen the hundreds of wounded floods through the roads back to safety that left his care. And the graves he had to pray over, for those they could not save. Mentally he hardened from the experience. Though visually still happy and proud as the war had ended. When pressed years later by his family or friends on the experience he would refuse to speak on it. He had lost his brother Edward to the war, the eldest of his brothers had joined the ranks of the Alliance military willingly. And whether he had seen his corpse… he would grow even more silent.

Johnathan has grown many years by the time the Scourge was created. Already past his thirties, he had risen to prominence among the church. A traveling scholar, teacher, and as a personal hobby. A gardener. But to his family, he was still the farm boy who once laughed at his father’s accidents upon the farm. And would visit them often, with a large family came the creation of his respected brothers’ farms and his sister’s marriage into or creation of their own personal businesses. Though with his clear no-nonsense personality, and moral standpoint he found himself almost the voice of reason within his family. And when within Andorhal, he would make a point to visit each of his siblings and parents throughout the week and check-in with their daily lives.
There was only one that really worried him. Katherine, his younger sister had grown strange and almost absent-minded when he was around, married into a prominent tailoring family she was usually overjoyed at what creations she could make with her husband. Though as the months went on, she was cold and almost bitter as her husband was suddenly away for several months and she was with her older brother Fredrick more often by his farm. And even heard on some nights they spoke with strange people, which brought further concern.

One family dinner, mid- Johnathan’s fasting he began prayer for them on to be present as tradition called him. She outright cursed his religion and demanded they seek another path. That he was leading them astray. Both angered and concerned their father in his old age demanded she leave, till he fetches her later. Johnathan perturbed, would seek to know what had driven her to such blasphemy if not simple insult towards him he would later approach the household of his brother as her shop was empty… if not all Andorhal seemed strangely silent at night. However, much was not right… he found the farm strangely eerie as the barn doors were left open with something quite visibly having been dragged through the dirt. And the house itself looked like it was broken into. Running he would open it to find his younger sister Katherine to meet him readily as almost welcoming. Confused he demanded to know what was happening as he yelled at her through the doorway, wanting her to explain her reasoning but more importantly the state of things. Only for her to look past him as he saw Fredrick… no a monster carrying an axe that he then heaved unto Johnathan. Surprised and shocked he found himself easily wounded as he was forced to look into the uncaring eyes of his brother. And the gleeful eyes of his sister as she cooed, he would join them again soon enough.

As he awakened from his stupor of undeath, free from the control of the Lich King he found himself again. Confused, as if forced awake from a pleasant slumber as reality dawned upon him slowly. Like his fellow countrymen, he awoke into the new hell as he roamed the Tirisfal Glades. A monster… still in his torn robes of the priesthood as memories trickled back. He could not help but wander back to his home, every village, and farm in ruin along the path as the woodlands suffered the malady that mirrored his ruined form. And his home had long left the temple of comfort he saw it as. And more alike the slaughterhouses of the trade districts of Tarren Mill or the fishery of Southshore. Limbs useless in what foul creations that could be made littered the roads and bloodstains long dried draped the steps of houses like a carpet welcoming the wandering corpse.

He found himself not alone, the “unawakened” he coined them, still wandered slightly confused. Allowing him to wander the homesteads of his family and parts of the village itself. None of his family were here, whether to take that as a curse or blessing he was unsure. Possessions that weren’t taken that he could hold he would quickly take with him as he wandered to the tailor shop of his sister. Even though he doubted he’d find her he wanted answers, and as expected it was empty. Howling with contempt as he found he would soon bludgeon the closest undead he found with a steel hammer, left behind by whatever guard one roamed these streets. Eager to vent his frustrations, his home, his life, his family. Were ruined and scattered.

The gardens he cared for desecrated into some malformed hive of ichor and wood, and he dared not even look to the building he taught in. Many of these people were his charge, his hope and sanctuary from memories that haunted him. These houses were holy regarding the idea of life itself. He was a shepherd, and he whether he had any power to have stopped the massacre or not. He was one among many at fault, at the rot was supposed to be his to watch for. And now it festered not just in his home, but him. And as he struck each monster that came towards the noise, his undead form granting him unhuman strength demanding retribution to the ones that tore his life away. The Light he had clung to returned in a holy strike that made him flinch as the once soothing sense was now a beautiful pain.

As his bloodlust calmed and he wandered back into the shop. He would dress in the clothes found within and make his departure from Andorhal for the last time. Adorned like any normal man, he would join his fellows in Lordaeron as they became the Forsaken.

As Johnathan joined his Forsaken brethren he was in shock with the worlds reaction towards their current state of undeath. He found himself at odds with her perception of humanity, and was unsure of what to do. As the Forsaken rallied to take the fight to the scourge, to which Johnathan wasn’t opposed. He found himself hesitant towards their immediate allies.

Within Undercity he found himself uncomfortable as he witnessed an unearthly creature stand beside their leader. Varimathras stood at the one of the leadership roles of his people, a Demon. To him, the epidemy if all the Light stood for. And as the work to remake their kingdom began, he put himself as distanct as he could from the demons gaze. Working amongst others he would join in the efforts to retake Silverpine Forest as the Scourge still had a foothold outside their capital’s borders.

Finding the light of little aid in healing is companions, he instead found it as an effect offensive tool against the scourge. These were creatures of nightmares, and the Forsaken were here to right this wrong where in life they had failed. He set himself with raiding parties that traversed the dark woodlands, as both a healer and soon, slowly a bloodthirsty zealot as they thinned the ranks of an endless horde.

Though he never did see a member of his family, either a blessing or curse. The purging of the Scouge gave an easy distraction from his constant worry. Soon though, word spread among the raiding party that the Forsaken leadership had entered the Horde.

During his time during these excursions, he made allies who had a similar mindset at the time. One such was Marcus Dawngraze. A huntsman who made his career as a fur trader for several years within the woodlands. And aided their cause greatly in tracking down the rogue groups of scourges that littered the land. Johnathan had a respect for Howard he seldom had, as he treated these hunts with both the fervor of their compatriots but the tact that still remained in the man that once was.

The words stung Johnathan like a blade, as confusion sat atop of the flames of renewed hatred. He never believed such words would enter his ears, they would parlay with the savage creatures that wracked the world, and those that they knew have had no love for their kin. Why? He stubbornly asked his fellows, why would they trade one murderer of a lord, for one who did the deed twice over? Answers came, none blew the clouding memory of a wounded soldier he couldn’t save from his mind. Necessity was the only one that halted him from smiting the very heads from his undead brothers and sisters who supported the idea. If they were to fight the scourge it would be a losing battle with themselves alone, and even now whispers of other dark creatures began to wander through the woods.

Regardless, the organization of ranks among the Forsaken were forming. As the Banshee Queen as their de facto leader, he saw little choice then as voices outweighed his greatly. As the months went on he would have a lapse of faith in his quest to find any of his family, and as threats loomed within the woodlands he was forced to turn his attention away from his quest as the Scarlet Crusade had come. Undead hunters he heard, but with the power of the light at their back.

Marcus himself seemed curious about this subject as well, when he heard of the tactics used he would tell Johnathan it wouldn’t be so different than their hunt. And despite his religious views they were monsters, just some had a bit of themselves more than others. This gave Johnthan pause, at this time Johnathan had changed, and he recognized it. Though even so the light answered his wrath upon the traitors and victims of the scourge alike. Simply, he didn’t understand why the Light would sanction harm against them. To him, the freed undead were in the right. Trying to retake their home even if the living were repulsed, such a thing should heal in time. He disbelieved their words, and left the woodlands himself to seek out the truth. Asking Howard to join him, he agreed. Wishing his own curiosity sated.

Arriving once more to Tirisfal Glade, this time with someone he felt comfortable speaking with more than the rest of his kin. Howard and Johnathan joined Forsaken who had formed some sort of watch along the roads. The scourge still roamed this place, and the tales of the Scarlets was not something easily missed by them. With Johnathan’s rare use of the light, and Howards tracking skills that have been sharpened as of late, their offer of aid was readily accepted.
Taking a track of the reports of missing Forsaken, Markus was able to summarize a general large area where these men and women were wandering the woodlands. Both had encountered those of their kind who carried heavy sentimentalism. Usually those who broke free of their curse and regained their mind would always seek what seemed like their greatest foundation of safety. Their homes, regardless of how destructive circumstances would tell most.

There was always a faint hope that someone they knew would have had the same thoughts. This sadly made them easy prey to both this Cult of the Damned and the Scarlet Crusade. And a danger to the watch as well, there was so much territory to monitor most stayed to the roads.

Reports at this time were few, any information would be worth something. After a few weeks of information gathering with the others they both decided it was worth it to investigate east of Brightwater Lake. With Johnathan still a cleric of the light, the confirmations he could give would be valuable to understand what they were up against in the early onset of this threat. Joined by others of the watch they set off on their scouting mission.

However, it wasn’t too soon as they approached the territory that they were hunted themselves. They were quick and precise as two of his party members fell quickly to two mounted soldiers adorned in the red they named themselves after. With little choice as they had could not outpace the riders they relied on the thickets to slow their tack. But this was expected, Howard had come to the realization that this was a trap that corralled their prey into such a tight place. They had little choice but to make a stand.

It was slow, but Markus’ knowledge on positioning those talented with crossbows or blades to counter their tactic gave them some even ground. Johnathan, who’s magic was of little aid to help his allies In terms of wounds was pressed to used them as he had grown accustomed to with a more hostile fashion. Even still as the party came to blows with the forces surrounding them, it was a madness he hadn’t seen in years. Their form gave them a hardiness he had grown use to but hard barily noticed, wounds that did not crack bones or sever limbs were barely noticeable to him. But as he brought him hammer down, the only winces of pain that cold be heard were from their pursuers, any sound from their hunting party was more of surprise or cursing if they were felled. Johnathan would hesitate however, these were living people as he noted the blood splatter beneath his very own hammer.

And during that moment he would bring his hammer up and look to an injured Scarlet that was skulking away from the battle, his leg injured he wouldn’t make it a day. And so, as if a phantom from his past life had come back to retake its form. Johnathan would rush towards him and grab him by the shoulder and bark an order at the young man. His voice he noted had become rougher than it once was, but still the piercing growl was there. The battle had frayed by then. Both sides had taken heavy casualties, and the distance from one ongoing fight and another was a safe distance from each other he would have a small chat.

However, to his dismay, if not growing annoyance the young man bathed Johnathan in terms of wickedness names and sacrilegious terms he found the young fanatic beside himself when he even offered to take him prisoner and halt his death. The light burning aground his hammer, gave the young man even more reason to throw insult. Growing impatient, Johnathan would scowl at him before using the power to coerce answers from him. Expecting it to soothe the young one instead he barked out in pain and in some struggle Johnathan could not exactly understand. But it seemed by what holy words were said by him instead made the light conjure some internal struggle in him.

Surprised and distracted he didn’t hear the dismounted horseman till it got too close, the sounds of distant struggles masking the hoof beats till they got nearby. Only saved briefly by a crossbow bolt of Markus’ who had been watching the struggle from afar. His train of thought completely ruined he would turn his attention away from his prisoner as Markus approached. Questioning what to do Markus said they were the victors, or at least appeared to be. The scarlets numbers were thinned over the thicket and with their loss in number even now the horn call to retreat could be heard.
Their discussed was severed however, both distracted in their conversation they never say the bolt being readied as Marcus fell before Johnathan. The strike was true, and powerful in nearly severed the forsakens head clean off. Turning to what he believed his source he found the young man several yards away, his back upon a tree and a crossbow that had been tossed from it original owners hands leaned flatly against his broken leg.

Anger bubbled then, as Johnathan approached to quickly for the tired fanatic to ready another. Grumbling at the forsaken still with name calling and curses that would have earned his hand already if Johnathan was still living. Cracking his hammer against the already torn leg, the fanatics pain being heard from his yell of pain, his crossbow thrown aside. Johnathan would curse back at the babbling man, one hand mended the pain while the other brought down justice meant.

Eventually he had had an audience, those that had survived found Johnathan hard at work. And easily stomached the shrieking. Eventually, he would turn to them and barked an order he knew he had no rank for, but easily enough they agreed. That hour of judgement he had dispensed, earned him a tittle. The Butcher of Tirisfal. And as the man was dragge away to their undercity, others within the capital saw use for his abilities.

“The Butcher of Tirisfal”. A tittle he felt in name only, perhaps. His ability to keep the living alive proved too valuable to those who commanded his people in the shadows. With most of his kin killing their prisoners eventually, deriving them of information sorely needed. Upon his return he was offered a position, still wrathful and full of spite he gladly accepted.

Simply speaking he was an assistant to a torturer of the undercity. Taligan, who had already made it his profession in life. One who could pry information as quickly as cutting a flower, but he proved too efficient in killing it seemed. His rare ability was sorely needed as Taligan had grown more unstable in undeath. Truth be told, he felt Taligan was more deserving of the tittle than he. The chambers beneath the rotting canals were filled with tools that had likely already seen much use even before the scourge for whatever dark deeds were needed by the kingdom.

Even still, he preferred the dark corridors to what he had seen above. The Grand Apothecary halted him in his tracks when he had seen it. Grand was a word for it, yes. But eerily to similar to the creations of their once masters that it caused the undead much uncomfortable thoughts. And so his ward was more akin to a hospital he had worked in during times of war. Most of his patients groaning in tiredness as he relieved their pain, others slowly begat madness. And during their dark days within cells, despite seeing the torturer it was he that was marked the monster. And so it spread, he was the Butcher of Tirisfal, using heretical magics to bind the living back together.

He rarely participated in the torture itself, mostly handing tools over to Taligan. Or giving reports to either him or their commanding officer of their “Patients” mental state. But strangely he became the face of it all. And had grown to some small popular legend he found when he walked into the taverns and places of conversation. Though most easily didn’t know they were referring to him or Taligan, in fact the madness sprung from the mouths of the tortured and soldiers who loved telling tales practically fused them together as one entity. The origin tale of the battle in the woods, and the fusion of sadistic torture and healing created a monster he found more notorious than either of them.

He had learned of course in Taligans presence, and even had grown accustomed to the sights beholden to him. Torture to Taligan was an art, Johnathan simply saw it as a tool. At times Taligan wasn’t present, Johnathan had been taught what Taligan thought was necessary in his absence to do it himself. Though, to Johnathan such physical torture simply gave him more work, he found himself far more capable in the mental department of such tasks.

He would string out long conversations instead. The idea of having once of these scarlets atone to him of all people seemed easily as torture to them as any. Though it was rare, usually with the younger ones he found it happen quickly. At times they would rather speak to him in their cells rather than see Taligan. To them he was better than the metaphysical “Butcher”. Those that hadn’t gone mad yet atleast, so much so that he had asked for a guard to be posted near the war to report any information they would divulge. And those that did divulge would find themselves rewarded by him, freedom was out of the question. But food and clean water was rare in the Undercity, and to some of them it was a godsend just to eat warm bread or soup not made of the innards of demonic dogs.

And so for several years he kept to this task, his hatred of his enemy still at his heart after losing a up and coming friend and ally. At being able to heal again settled what nerves he had, even if it was for such blasphemous mongrels.

After several years within the dark, he was approached by a forsaken captain. Reassignment? The stern face was unamused. Begrudgingly he had slowly accepted their place within the Horde, though he still had his reservations. They told him that a new ally was in need of aid, the elves of the north were to join them but at the trade of military help. Sighing, he wondered if he had gathered as much as his masters wanted. His hatred had slowly cooled into simple disgust, as the… excitement? Had recently worn away during his time with Taligan. The name of the Butcher was rightly Taligan’s at this point, Johnathan thought. Though he would find in the future there may be those who remember him to be the origin of that tittle.

Soon he joined a small regiment assigned to the Ghostlands, deep within the scourge territory he atleast mused he would return to his frenzy he once had against the scourge. When they made landfall however, he found himself perplexed. It resembled the state of his home years ago after the fall. But the woodlands here were beautiful in a twisted way. As his commander and the blood elven one spoke, he surprisingly didn’t find himself upon the battlefield. Instead in what was once a town, where the elven wounded were being treated. For the first time in several years of being the monstrous voice of vengeance, he was caught off guard. He was here to be a healer?

He almost didn’t know what to do at first. There was an obvious disgust towards him within the large building that accommodated the wounded. In fact this was one of his first reactions where he had to willingly approach the living in a non-hostile manner in years. It was strange…. For the living elven here, a creature that resembled what they were fighting, was to be among their caretakers. For his fellow forsaken who knew of him within the regiment, The Butcher was now a man who cared for the living. And for him, it brought forth old memories as he recalled his training, and like a revenant acted like a strange imitation of himself before his death.

As if stirred from a slumber, the unmerciful undead began to find himself doing things he hadn’t done in years. He noticed an elven garden that was long is disarray, and when given a reprieve he wound find himself staring at it unconsciously at times. The elven guards would nickname him the “Scarecrow” as they noticed it and didn’t trust this behavior. And as he stood in his quarters one night, he found himself opening a tome that hadn’t seen light in a long time. And for the first time in undeath, he prayed in private.

As the months continued the small elven garden that had landed itself in it’s sorry state was recently plowed and what grey dead dirt that was within it had slowly been moved out for what living land may be beneath. Rest was not something he did anymore, and when his shifts had ended he wound be seen here. In fact with the slowness of it all, no longer an assistant to Taligan nor anyone for that matter. Unless a commanding officer of either kind spoke with him directly, he would be found usually as the constant face of the ward.

A Month of silence had bored the cleric, and so he drove it home to speak with his patients. Even if they had come discontent for him, that would quickly change when they wound find themselves able to fight again sooner than later against the scourge. Despite their haughty nature, and perhaps their age compared to him. One of the elves would jest that he acted more like a elf that he gave off, his stoic status of always looking either disgruntled or impatient with some of their perceptions of him. Almost made some of them feel as if he was the elder here.

That wasn’t to say there were still those among his patients or the guard that still acted hostile towards him when given the chance. But his results proved otherwise against insults or mistrust levied against him. He was furiously work driven, and those that could walk that looked out into the gloom liked watching Johnathan work in his small field. To them it reminded them of a time once was as much as it did him. He had learned to farm when he was young, and this hobby of his became more soothing than he realized that others took notice. To the point where returning elven soldiers would bring him presents, seeds from the lands that still lived to see if he was successful.

Johnathan wondered if he could be considered old now, as he was sentimental about the garden more than he had been about a lot of things that seemed to unphase the undead. And as the year continued he felt a bit more active that he gave himself credit for.

Johhathan looked sadly at garden, he cursed to himself he swore was so close to growing something when the report came in. Again to be reassigned, this time to the North. When pondering if he was going to silvermoon he found himself surprised. He was needed in assistance with experimentation with a weapon conjured by those apothecaries within the Undercity in active duty trials within Northrend. But the reasoning it was gave him further pause, a declaration of war by all of the free people and creatures of azeroth was levied against the Scourge. Noting several places were apparently attacked in Kalimdor and here in the Eastern Kingdoms… he had noticed a spike in casualties lately. But constantly being in Forsaken territory had blinded him to their actions outside of the Ghostlands.

And so once more as he arrived from the boat upon the far eastern shores of Northrend, and was quickly brought up to task. A disease, they were trying to make a disease of some kind. Seeing the Vrykul has their closest threat he simply reaffirmed himself it was a weapon against the them. As they were his applicants. Simply his task was to purify the disease until he coundn’t. Confused he would question why, but all he got was a sharp response of duty and the such he wondered if they had mistaken him for some starry eyed recruit. But he did what was asked of him, it was hard at first. Really hard, but with time he found the doses could be mended. For several months all he did was wait days for a new applicant to be placed in a cell, beaten to the point of being docile and for him to mend it. Until one day as he worked on his task he was surprised during his words of prayer to find the giant already dead… and slowly rotting. As soon as he gave the report he was resigned immediately. Not even given a chance to question this task as he was flown to Dragonblight where the Scarlet Onslaught had made landfall. An officer had a file on him apparently and stated flatly that the Butcher was needed. There were prisoners awaiting him, and he was needed.

Refuting that was Taligan gave them no pause, they had his record apparently and thought he was up to the task.

Again, he found himself in a strange position as he resumed the mantle of the Butcher. He had no qualms with the task when it came to the Scarlets, but he found himself asking them to give him what he needed. And they could avoid his work. At first not relenting, he was forced to use his trade, but when finally one broke before him before he even lifted his poker. He found his forsaken brothers and sisters were not as forgiving when he asked if he would be a prisoner as he found the young man’s corpse upon a Meat Wagon. There was a hidden anger that stoked at Johnathans dead heart, that he dared not reveal. He knew how backwards his kind had become, and perhaps he was naïve after being away from Lordaeron for so long but at the first moment he granted mercy he was denied. And his feelings towards his own kind became mixed and worsened at the expedition north continued.

Johnathan felt relief as the Horde called upon his forsaken encampment to join them at the Siege of the Wrathgate. Those of his race that he with with he had begun make him wonder if they had gone mad, where once there was an ever-present silent force that he thought propelled their kind. There was instead a fervor he feared to admit he recognized. But there was no single enemy, in fact his comrades reacted with bitterness to everything that wasn’t their work. Uncomfortable, he strangely welcomed the change of pace that came with entered the Horde Encampment outside.

There was a fervor here among the horde races, as all sought to end the threat here and now. He wandered the Kork’ron Vanguard’s encampment by the cliff’s of the mountains. He found most of his kind absent, but to him it was a welcome change of pace. As his eyes fell upon the orcs, there was a bitterness within him at first. He had learned orcish out of necessity in recent years, but had barely spoken in it. And as the races of the horde mingled and prepared before the siege, he felt as if he had returned to the Second War. But, in a twist of faith he now walked among the monsters his people once thought myth or horrors. And to a minor self-realization that he put together so was he. And at that moment he truly didn’t know how to feel. Unsure if it was due to his forsaken form calming what little anxiety could be mustered within the priest, or if the Butcher felt at home. There was banter among soldiers, reports entering and leaving the encampment within seconds as he soon learned the Alliance and Horde were to commit into a united front.

As he watched them with wonder for the day, his deep thoughts were cut at the sounds of the horns of war. It was time, and he mustered among the others adorned in light leather armor as the Horde forces charged the accursed gate. As soon they joined the Alliances numbers, he felt as if the world had almost gone mad as the living of Azeroth stood beside one another as they pushed back the forces of the Scourge. He found that he couldn’t stop himself from grinning as their leaders call out the Lich King. It was time that a chapter of the world to be forcefully closed. And as the maw opened, he was far in the back but didn’t need sight to know the cold chill that swam through the living. He was here, he thought. But mere seconds later an explosion tore through the ranks in front of him.

It took much to shock the undead, but as a voice pierced through the air and spoke of vengeance, he felt something cold come over him. A traitor among the Forsaken Ranks? No, as the realization hit he was pained by an obvious truth knew he was once a part of an refused to admit. His people were no longer the doting citizens of Lordaeron and as the retreat was called as hell poured upon both the Alliance and the Horde. Johnathan chose to be among the first to return to his homeland as treachery infuriated the priest. And a madness that had nearly taken him, now turned his people against one another into civil war. Johnathan accepted that things could never return.

The Siege of Lordaeron had left a wound in Johnathan as his people once again warred against one another. The Betrayal stung deeply as it left a mark upon the Forsaken he soon realized may never heal. With the breaking of the Forsaken Traitors, and unsure he if he could trust his current forsaken commanders. The History he had garnered among their ranks was something he wished to set aside, at least for now. And elected to join a regiment of combined races among the horde. He found being shackled in the dark by his own hands prevented himself from speaking out before the Wrathgate incident, and he could only wonder if his fellows felt the same.

Serving under the combined regiment, he felt out of his depth for the first time as he conversed with several races. As they returned to Northrend the next several months were a grueling combination of politics between the Alliance and Horde requiring time costly spent to prevent them from going to battle among one another. He noted this Garrosh Hellscream certainly didn’t help with the conversations happening from the rumors he heard, but he appreciated that he stuck up for them. Now forced to come face to face with Tauren, Trolls, and Orcs he reacted to their mistrust mildly angered. However, as time went on he noticed strange habits of them all. Some he was sure would have required him to smite them if it weren’t a military setting as he watched dark magic, blood rituals, among other things.

Another forsaken who was within the regiment noticed Johnathan scowling at them, she came forward and questioned the priest. When Johnathan asked the soldier what he thought of these blasphemies and transgressions. She simply laughed at him. Scowling further he pressed her on what she thought was funny, were they not everything they once stood against? Regarding him carefully she would ask if the Butcher was not everything he once stood against. Torture, Zealotry, a creature- no a Monster. She knew him well, the thing they hid in the dungeons to scare away the Living.

Infuriated he would say he did these things out of righteousness. Traitors and murderers that didn’t deserve the Light’s mercy, he chose to be that creature to deter them, not be among them. She was patient as her smile became a sneer. And whom did he do these things for exactly? Himself- he could say so. But who gave him his prey and benefited from the information gained from burning the crimes from the living? He was silent as her smile seemed to crack her dried skin even further. It was clear who she implied, the very traitors that landed them where they were. How different was his fervent behavior within the Undercities dungeons to a troll’s blood ritual? He did it in the name of the Light no? If he and the Scarlet Zealots could do such so much evil with his power. Was it truly better than those around him?

Johnathan was livid, and as he rose to spoke something bit at him within his mind. Would the living him even permit his current self to live… would his current self-allow even himself to go unpunished? What would those he so fervently sought think of him now? The Forsaken look at him would chuckle. “What exactly is it do you worship Father?” and as she left him to think saying the tittle sacrastically. The priest would no longer scowl at the other races practices, but simple watch from a distance. And as the war waged on within Northrend he found himself becoming harder to anger or even grow bitter as he watched tauren dance around the flames, trolls howling at the moon, and finally even orcs as they prayed with some of their kinds to names he didn’t know.

Later on when he asked for the woman his commanding officer would raise a brow at him. No such individual was under her command. And now that he though of it, how did she know so well how to push his buttons? When he spoke to his commanding officer she would huff and send another to look for her, wondering if she was AWOL. And simply hiding among them till she could get away. Shortly however it was found she was not among them… Johnathan was suspicious. What games was this woman playing? And the idea of her wranged in his mind during the rest of his journey in Northrend.

With recent events Johnathan found himself glad to end his years within the military service despite some of his superiors questioning this action. Choosing to ride with the races of Kalimdor back to their homeland he found himself wanting to pick up a trade. Yet at the same time had been locked in specific locations for so long that he wanted it to be mobile. And so when speaking with others who were retiring as well, he heard of Ratchet and the trade business there.

Spending his time upon arriving he found the Steamwheedle Cartel more than willing to offer a position to a healer that could quickly put their workforce back to their jobs. Asking for a ship position he had to wait a few weeks until an orc captain finally arrived. Her named was Captain Zarza Ironsmoke, a loud spoken, greedy, adventurous woman who apparently had a crew as rowdy as she was. Who had accidentally forgotten their previous medic to an isle of murlocs. There was an obvious disgust in the air when it came to his opinion of her, however the cartel assured him they had learned their lesson and if what he wanted was fresh air? She was the best in their view, aboard her vessel the “Windtail.”

Zarza didn’t seemed pleased by him as much as he her, speaking to the goblin that Johnathan must have a iron rod up his ass for how stiff he stood. But healers were few at this time, with the scourge threat ending most wanted rest or atleast a break. And she would be waiting months for another, and Johnathan would have an unknown amount of time to wait for another ship to hire someone with little to no sea experience. So begrudgingly they shook hands on it and agreed to a one year contract.

The crew was interesting to say the least, a mixed bag of races from both the Alliance and the Horde. Yet carried most of their worst features as he feared. What dwarves and humans were here reminded him of bandits and thieves, possibly nearing on full blown pirates. And others of the horde races were similar if not stranger, to his massive unease the captain didn’t care who or what they practiced as long as they did not harm their passengers, their fellow shipmates, and most of all their products. And as the journey began he found himself learning minor sailing instructions and simply wanted to arrive at whatever destinations they were heading to.

However this wasn’t to say he was hostile to all, a Blood Elf who was the Bosun of the ship was Hataen, and was given the nickname of “Wet Ears” by his crew was one of the few he could stand. Wetears was someone he felt completely comfortable speaking with. Wet Ears enjoyed playing music in the galley and was usually the first to sound off for Sea Shanties when he felt the crew was becoming to much like Johnathan on uneventful days he jested. With only minor injuries during their travels, Johnathan found himself bored when out at sea. Wet Ears would throw him an instrument and the Captain demanded he be good for something. So Wet Ears taught him the violin. His voice was nowhere good enough for singing, and with his throat slightly torn open it only made sense to use something his hands could do.

It wasn’t soon after the scourge the world had another problem, Johnathan mused. Nearly capsizing, the ocean had become so monstrous they needed to make emergency repairs when the Cataclysm came. As a neutral vessel they were allowed haven in Alliance ports. Zarza strangely was delighted when they made port at Theramore, Alliance reports were stating damage across the nearby terrain. And new information was spreading so quickly it was dizzying to understand the situation. Taking time to repair at Thereamore was a long and costly venture, due to the need of supplies being diverted to Alliance ships, kept the crew stuck for a short time. And the captain less than pleased as she wanted to get out to see immediately. The need for supplies must be in such demand than coins were practical flying and available ships to transport them.

Unable to travel far, his corpse-like demeanor too repulsive for the citizens of the city he would elect to stick to the docks and the ship for the most part, despite his displeasure at the situation. With the docks at their busiest he could atleast be entertained by the living as they went to their posts. During this, practicing the violin given to him. He heard something that had given the undead a start that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Mogera!”

The name had come from one of the men down below, looking at the traffic he watched as an officer was wandering the post screaming his name. Hesitant, leaving the instrument back on the ship, he was traverse down, only to annoyingly see the man was wandering from him, and his voice couldn’t reach him over the clamorous sounds of the Dockyard. Getting several eyes, and at times a look of shock as he passed unexpecting men and women. He finally made it as the man was speaking to younger one, perhaps no more than a young boy in his mid to late teen years.
More than annoyed he would walk calmly over into view of both the men, interrupting what conversation was taking place he would coolly ask what the sailor wanted from him. The discomfort was obvious among the living, but the officer waved him away saying he had nothing for the undead. As Johnathan repeated the name spoken, and said it was his. The officer would hesitate before raising his hand towards the young man and adamantly say he meant this young man. Talisen Mogera.

There was a hard earned stare from the cleric as he turned to look at the boy fully, the officer would finish his orders. Apparently Talisen was being transferred to another ship, leaving sharply after the boys salute Johnathan would raise a hand to stop him. Ignoring him, Talisen attempted to brush past him which earned him a hard hand upon the shoulder that clasped like iron.

The sharp turn, that showed a face of mistrust would scowl at the Forsaken. Demanding to know what he wanted, Johnathan would ask if he knew who he was. Talisen would scoff and say he knew no such creature, until Johnathan told him his name.

And that is where things took an unexpected turn for Johnathan, at the very mention of his name Talisen looked up at him with more disgust than Johnathan strangely felt comfortable with. Attempting to gather what information he could he found himself lathered with foul curses and words of venom. Talisen knew him, he thought him dead, as did his father. With a sudden realization Johnathan would press further, who was his father? Where was he? Did he live?
Finding little recourse as Talisens fellow sailors were catching wind of the situation, be it slowly however. And Jonathan’s death grip kept him in place, he would say he was the son of Howard Mogera. Johnathan would thus fervently press him for more. But what he got were hurting words, murderer, monster, that he is no kin of his. That he was of the Horde, who were all nothing but creatures of the night, and horrors of imagination that stole life.
Desperation turned to anger as Johnathan looked nearly ready to drag him off, however he found himself among members of the alliance navy watching angrily around him.

Letting the boy go at the realization, he was wondering if he was going to be arrested or if a brawl was to begin. Thankfully, Zarza had caught wind of this and spoke off handedly to the men calling Johnathan out. Basically, dragging Johnathan away as her clasp was far stronger than his. She would curse him as they made it back to the ship and demanded to know what he was doing picking fights with alliance sailors. He would speak simply on the matter, and for the first time he had seen the greedy, coin harvesting orc of a captain treat him with a modicum of respect. He was to remain on the ship during the repairs, and to not leave it, or face reprisal from her personally.

Education

Small town life was something Johnathan was accustomed to within Andorhal, he was taught first on the principals of farming by his father and older brothers and practiced it at a young age. And like his family, participated in the religious rituals of the people of Lordearon when it came to prayer. Within the church he found schooling of reading, writing, and orating. He slowly grew into a priest of the order and soon found himself within the role of a record keeper for tithes and moments within the chapels that were noteworthy. And dedicated himself as a teacher to children within the small towns, such as Corin’s Crossing, Darrowshire, and eventually an amazing visit to Tarren Mill as a Missionary. And when needed, worked as a helping hand in times of drought or ill-harvest. The Light would not answer his call till a few years into his twenties. Where after a near death experience of a bridge accident within the Hillsbrad Foothills, he was able to mend the wounds of young girl crushed by a wagon, just enough to quickly traverse back to Southshore. Something he would at the time call a small miracle, but later to his surprise found the light answered his call readily. Using his gift almost with excitement he became a small prominent figure among the farming folk of the foothills.

Employment

Priest, Field Medic; tortures assistance

Accomplishments & Achievements

Became a well-recognized priest when he was living within Lordaeron. Became proficient in string instruments during his Undeath. Has a long service record among the Horde as a Field Medic in foreign locations.

Partook in the Legion fall campaign and was successful in a mission along with others against a Nathrezim. Which earned him his scarred hand from a mixture of Fel Fire and overzealous casting that charred his appendage.

Received a small myth during his early years of the Forsaken as a monster to the Scarlet Crusade. Though he will constantly say if someone calls him by the tittle that it is overexaggerated. And may be often mistaken for his partner who shares in the myth.

Failures & Embarrassments

Unable to save his eldest brother from battle wounds. Failed to see the threat that was rising in his household. Easily Embarrassed if found to be unorganized. Embarrassed by emotions of empathy towards him.

Mental Trauma

Seeing the betrayal of a family member The destruction of his way of life as he lived. Repressed memories of his time as a Scourge Puppet. Depression over the failure to find his Family.

Morality & Philosophy

Johnathan’s morales have adapted and changed due to an immense number of factors. Many of which usually are due to who or what he is currently speaking with. At times he has found himself acting like his living self in the company of elves and humans. And has taken a far stricter demeanor around his own kind. And when in the company of Tauren, Orcs and Trolls he finds himself somewhat uncouth, and many restrictions he’s places on himself loosened.

Over the years of changing groups, organizations, and meeting others. He has felt he is a fractured individual due to this. And seeks to find his feet on who he wants to be and who he is. Almost Obsessively so as he struggles to answer those who find out about his peculiar nature.

person.sexuality

• Relationship Status: Non-existent

• Gender Identity: Male

• Sexuality: Straight

Taboos

Originally he would take great offense to blasphemers about the Human perspective of the Light. But now, he’s unsure. Recently, he has taken more offense due to his own peoples actions in the Fourth War and previous transgressions and being allotted with them.

Especially when it comes to Sylvanus he has become hardly forgiving of those among his kind that partook in the catastrophes after the burning of Teldrassil. And was mortified of what became of Undercity, feeling as if his own home was no longer a place to return to.

His morales have loosened when it has comes to the subject of war itself, however he does not agree with undeserving atrocities. All atone for their ways someday, but he would be a hypocrite to say the darker path was not always correct.

Personality

Motivation

Johnathan is motivated by the possibility of seeing his family again to find peace of mind to an obsessive degree, though his religious morals and faith keep him grounded. He wishes to help end the atrocities he has seen time and time again, and if unable then to help mitigate them as much as possible. Driven by the fear that one day he could suffer all this again, a mad revenant clawing at hope as he struggles to cope with what happened when he lived, and fear of what could happen in undeath. Growing accustomed to what he has become, he now uses his undeath as a boon as he walks tirelessly to his destinations. He is also driven by the obsession of guilt, never wanting his own failures to repeat themselves.

Likes & Dislikes

Likes:

• Farming- as a pastime. With the endless years in front of him as he is stuck in time he finds pleasure in seeing food grow. A labor that has given him a more welcoming look by some.

• Cooking, and Watching people Eat.

• Writing- A more self-indulgent pleasure, he likes to write as if he has an audience. Whether stories of his own making or those he traveled with during his time among the horde. It’s something he does as the nights are silent with little people to talk to.

• Practicing an Instrument

• Inorganization

• Wasted Material - especially when it comes to food others eat, thievery.

Virtues & Personality perks

• Supportive. Fiercely Loyal to he people he trusts. Strong-willed.

• Feels ostracized when it comes to the subject of his family. Becomes very irritable when brought up as a subject of conversation.

• Has a remaining general distaste for Orcs, though there have been a few among their number he feels he can trusts. He finds most of them too similar to those he fought against in the Second War.

Vices & Personality flaws

An Unhealthy Obsession with failure and loss. Is very impatient when it comes to his Goals.

Personality Quirks

When annoyed he stands very stiffly almost like a statue. Like to show people his skeletal hand and shake with it, either as a joke or confidence in what he is can be hard to tell.

Hygiene

Very well-kept. Despite being a walking corpse he has done much to maintain his living features.

Social

Birthplace

Andorhal

Contacts & Relations

Was once a Serving Member of the original alliance in the northern Eastern Kingdoms. A long-serving member of the Horde Military. And has attempted to keep Minimum Contact with other communities of the Light that have tried to recruit him. The Argent Dawn, The Silver Hand etc.

Wealth & Financial state

Financially Very Well-Off. Conservative with his pay from years in Military Service.

Family Ties

Family History(Oldest to youngest)

Howard Mogera- Father (Farmer)

Marissa Mogera-Mother

Edward Mogera Eldest Brother, Oldest Sibling by 5 years(Soldier, Farmer, Dead)

Maricia Mogera- Oldest Sister, Second Oldest Sibling by 5 years(Innkeeper. “The Fields Fancy”)

Fredrick Mogera- Second Oldest Brother, Third Oldest Sibling by 2 years (Farmer)

Johnathan Mogera

Howard Mogera- Younger brother, Younger by 4 years

Katherine Mogera- Triplets, Younger by 6 years (Tailor)

Marinda Mogera- Triplets, Younger by 6 years (Fisherman)

Kora Mogera- Triplets, Younger by 6 years (Blacksmith)

Religious Views

While faithful in the light, has a adopted a more open minded stance on the subject of it. Has taken to learn and attempt to at least practice the customs that come with it’s power and origins.

While distasteful of religious groups that use dark magics. He has grown accustomed to them, however will not agree to actively partake in the use of the magics such as Fel, and is distrustful of Void/Shadow users. He has a respect for spiritual religions that rely on the dead to aid the living however. As well as Shamanic and Druidic teachings.

Is seeking to further his understanding of the Light and it’s properties in an almost experimental way via partaking in Seer and Sunwalker customs.

Social Aptitude

Extroverted, Prone to butting in on conversations and tasks others are doing.

Mannerisms

Moves his arms a lot as he speaks casually. Is very stiff when serious.

Hobbies & Pets

Hobbies - Gardening/Farming, Book Writer, Violin Player

Speech

Speaks with an Educated Tongue, years in undeath have given his voice a more grating tone.