The noose was tight about his neck, not that it was doing much in the way of ending him. That day had long since passed. A lynching was a far easier end compared to the many years of death Alfred Klaudin had experienced.
His body alone was a testament to the years of service that he had given to both King and dark mistress. He didn't regret serving either of them, he honestly didn't know what it felt like or even if it mattered. Few things gave him any sense of feeling or pleasure. Most of it involved the sly smile of his Dark Lady or the wet feeling on his hands as he snuffed out a life.
These ones might give him that today.
"Swing you rotter!" Came the hoarse call of the man holding the rope, he was much like all the others of his kind in the hills of old Lordaeron. Young, angry, and wearing Scarlet. Or perhaps what they thought was Scarlet. It wasn't like the old days when he fought the radical light maniacs of the north. They had been all the things he just thought of, just better organized and far more deadly. Beside the man were three others, cheering with their own old swords and gear looking almost gleeful in their torture of the Forsaken.
It was fine. He could wait.
"Come on, Thomas," called the hoarse voiced kid again, holding tight to the rope with one of his other companions to keep him aloft as he swung. "Give em a good couple wacks! Then we'll burn him good!"
There was a laugh as another young man strode forward, he held a sturdy axe handle in both hands. He proceeded to give as he was told, each strike true and strong from a good farmhand's back. It felt like nothing as it ever did to Alfred. He merely held still and let them have their fun.
Fun time was solid chunk of time, the minutes passing as they always had in this world he was left too. The Cult of the Damned had been quick to raise their ranks from the dead that littered their path as they stormed throughout the countries pillaging, burning, and reinforcing the Scourge army. It wasn't surprising they'd found his shallow grave a from a few months earlier, nor was it that he took to this life as expected. The living had been good and the times had been grave as he marched with the Prince's army into the elven lands before boarding for the far north. Hunger had been his fuel and the meat had been plentiful.
Slack led to a thump as Alfred crashed into the earth, his bony legs collapsing under the sudden return to his weight as he fell to his battered knees. The rope coiled behind him as the heavy breathing of the gang laughed and cajoled one another at such a good showing. There was nothing from him still as he sat in a pile of bone, dried meat, and rubbish that had been left to him after his capture. They began to circle him.
"Alright, lads, think it's time we get the final cleanse for this fucker," the hoarse one spoke again, his place as their leader well established as he wiped sweat from his brow. He hadn't gotten to use the axe handle as much as his friends, but there was a seedy glow in his eyes at watching the violence done to the Forsaken. "Elios, grab the lantern."
A grunt of acknowledgment was given as he felt one of the warm bodies leave the circle, three left about Klaudin as he sat still as his body should be. The rope was still around his throat but his hands were loose at his sides, they had perhaps hoped he would struggle with the knots to free his breath. Breathing was a forgotten pastime to Alfred.
"Got it, Beren," Elios supplied as he arrived back at his spot before Alfred, the yellow and orange light bask his ruined face for all to see clearly. It also lit up their faces for him to see. Hungry, angry, and vile faces.
Beren took the lantern from Elios and held it aloft, his face the dark mask of sadistic hatred. Perhaps it was bred into him, learned from watching others in this back-country of the north. Maybe it had always been in him since a little boy rounding the wheat fields as he killed vermin or rooted out a nesting pheasant. Or perhaps he was just evil in his core.
It didn't matter to Alfred.
The only thing that did matter is they had left his hands free and it would make this all the more easier as he turned his wrist with a soft crack and pop. Breathers talked to much, laughed too much, and focused too much on their own beating hearts to pay any kind of close attention. It was always his advantage when dealing with them and generally their doom.
Beren had been in monologue, his mates glued to his fervor as they always seemed to be. The man would raise the lantern high as he spoke his final sermon. "And with this fire I do cleanse you, return to hence you came vile creature! We sentence you to the hell you came from and rejoice in the fr-"
"No."
It was the only sound Klaudin had made this whole evening and it rang like a bell in his head as his true power came to be, arm lifting to the side to a strange scraping noise as the foot long piece of rebar slid from within his radius and ulna to his clawed hand. A familiar move and gesture he'd done countless times before in situations with foolhardy creatures, it worked then and worked now. With the iron bar in hand he would swing fast bringing it to strike the lantern with a crash, sending glass and oil splashing about the nearest member of this merry band of torturers.
Elios caught quickly with a scream as he fell back in flames, his makeshift flamed tabard finding it's real mate quickly.
Shocked face had no time to react as the warrior was upon them without another spoken word. In stories, there's banter or words of glory from heroes or villains as they escape terrible situations. Calling out to their captors of how they never stood a chance or they would pay for their crimes in the eyes of whatever god. Alfred Klaudin did not need to stay anything.
His brutality spoke clearly enough for him.
A backhand of the iron bar crashed into the side of Beren's head, an audible crack resounding as he flew a foot and landed in a heap. Crimson aplenty pour from his ear and eye from the blow. The others were starting to react now with two of their comrades down, but Alfred was already shifting his bar again to stab with unyielding strength through the third man's belly. Blunt as the bar may be, it was still a fine piece of metal and wielded by a creature who had no care of how it killed. Only that it did. The iron went easily through soft flesh and out the back as the human screamed in agony to fall on his knees holding the end of the bar.
The final one standing had drawn a knife, it was all he had at quick as he brought it down into the back of Alfred. The blade sunk easily through rotted flesh and into bone, sticking out with what should have been a killing blow. He took a few steps back expecting the Forsaken to fall down, watching with hopeful gulps of air that perhaps he would be the tragic hero in this story. To tell his fellow gang members of how they took down a Forsaken soldier in the name of the Light. As much as he was terrified of his friends' deaths, there was a secret place the looked forward to seeing the praise rain upon him.
All he saw next was the bony clawed fingers flash forward to slash through his eyes and tear his nose off with a sickening slurp of flesh and blood. He could barely scream as the blood flowed down his face, his hands flying up in hopes of staunching the ragged wounds. The wet screams only matched those of Elios and the impaled man, which were growing fainter as the smell of sweet meat would fill the wet night air. There was only a few more moments of screaming before the same knife that was used on Klaudin was rammed through the top of his head ending his pain.
Tim, the impaled man, leaned back on the wet grass hands tight about the iron bar through his stomach as he struggled to wrap his head around what he was witnessing. Beren had never moved again from the blow, Elios was silent now as the flames continued to flick on his body, and Jonas had been mutilated before him. His mouth tasted like copper coins as he moaned from the pain, not sure what to do or what to say to the creature that was hobbling toward him now. He felt cold, but he knew his hands were warm and slick. The undead stopped in front of him, slowly crouching down to stare at him with his empty black eyes.
"Please, I'm sorry," Tim gasped out as he shook in his spot, praying for some kind of mercy from the undead. But it just continued to stare at him, not moving or saying a word. Just watching. And waiting.
It took a long time for Tim to die.
And when he had finally grown cold the grey clouds of morning had begun to burn away. Alfred Klaudin would reach forward to yank his hidden baton from the belly of the cold dead, the sucking noise sending a shower to feed the earth below the corpse. He barely noticed as he began to slide it back inside of his forearm, easier now with the lubricant.
No word was spoken. No motion to hide the horrific events. Only the crude tabards were pulled, wrapped, folded, and tied away. The Deathstalkers would be pleased.
Alfred was not. He just was. Hefting the axe handle and slipping the knife away in his now makeshift rope belt, he began to limp his way to the road. South back to the Undercity. For the Dark Lady.
The words rang in his head as always despite the blank empty face Alfred presented. It had been the most beautiful when the chains had come loose from his frame, the dead couldn't understand that there had been a weight upon his shoulders.
But it had fled with her voice. Eased with her touch upon his brow. Soothed with her eyes.
Bound with her will.
It was a terrible ache to be without his Dark Lady, but the old dead had no idea how to even convey such a feeling. Klaudin could only sit. Sit and wait.
The Basics ––– –
Name: Alfred Klaudin
Nickname(s): Al
Age: 54 (24 time of death)
Birthday: Summer
Race: Undead (human)
Gender: Male
Marital Status: Single
Physical Appearance ––– –
Hair: None
Eyes: Empty
Height: 5'10
Build: Broken, rotting, held by a prayer
Distinguishing Marks: iron lower jaw, rotted cheeks, clawed fingers, ground teeth, missing a pinky, broken pieces
Tattoos: None
Piercings: None
Common Accessories: A chipped black arrowhead; a hidden iron rod; stitched with iron thread; an elven foot; scavenged pieces and body
Likeness: Ralph Fiennes
Personal Information––– –
Profession: Soldier, Zealot, Old Dead
Hobbies: None
Languages: Common; Gutterspeak; Murloc (understand, not speak)
Residence: Nomadic
Birthplace: Southshore
Religion: The Dark Lady
Patron Deity: The Dark Lady
Fears: Nothing
Sex & Romance ––– -
Sexual Orientation: No
Preferred Emotional Role: submissive | dominant | switch
Preferred Sexual Role: submissive | dominant | switch
Libido: None
Turn ons: None
Turn offs: None
Love Language: Only for the Dark Lady
Relationship Tendencies: Feelings are long since dead
Traits ––– -
Extroverted / In Between / Introverted
Disorganized / In Between / Organized
Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded
Calm / In Between / Anxious
Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable
Cautious / In Between / Reckless
Patient / In Between / Impatient
Outspoken / In Between / Reserved
Leader / In Between / Follower
Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic
Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic
Traditional / In Between / Modern
Hard-working / In Between / Lazy
Cultured / In Between / Uncultured
Loyal / In Between / Disloyal
Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful
RP Hooks ––– –
Death to the Living -
Klaudin lives still for one thing and perhaps the only thing he knows, killing. He was raised this way, he dies this way, and rises again to continue with his mission of snuffing out the breath of the living. One would surmise him to lean into attacking mindlessly against those around him with hearts still beating but he knows his place within the Horde and lives to serve as much as he moves to end it. Be it by sword, axe, or hammer if there is need for him to end someone or something, he is willing.
A Bone to Pick -
After serving with the Scourge and under the Dark Lady's command, he has as much love for the Alliance as he does with the living. For year they have persecuted and hunted his fellows, some who could fight and tear like him but others lost and unable to do so. Feeling anything was a strange concept, but he is willing to end those who maliciously hurt those who served under her flag. A hatred runs most deep for those of the Crusades, Scarlet or Argent or those who had supposedly given up those ideals.
Hillsbrad and Southshore, Lost and Forsaken -
Alfred Klaudin once breathed air, ate food, smiled, laughed, and loved. But a tragic accident and a heroic moment lead to his early demise at the hand of the local fauna of his beloved horse country. Murdered and half eaten by murlocs the young Klaudin had been buried by the sea by those who loved him, only to be found again during the events of the Third War to be brought to what he was now. Perhaps there are those who remember the green fields or the wild horses that roamed those coastal times. Maybe they know of his brother, Ganus or remember his parents who had run such a ranch until the final push by the Horde had swallowed what remained of the coastal hamlet and it's farms. Plague is a terrible thing, for the breathers.
IC -
The noose was tight about his neck, not that it was doing much in the way of ending him. That day had long since passed. A lynching was a far easier end compared to the many years of death Alfred Klaudin had experienced.
His body alone was a testament to the years of service that he had given to both King and dark mistress. He didn't regret serving either of them, he honestly didn't know what it felt like or even if it mattered. Few things gave him any sense of feeling or pleasure. Most of it involved the sly smile of his Dark Lady or the wet feeling on his hands as he snuffed out a life.
These ones might give him that today.
"Swing you rotter!" Came the hoarse call of the man holding the rope, he was much like all the others of his kind in the hills of old Lordaeron. Young, angry, and wearing Scarlet. Or perhaps what they thought was Scarlet. It wasn't like the old days when he fought the radical light maniacs of the north. They had been all the things he just thought of, just better organized and far more deadly. Beside the man were three others, cheering with their own old swords and gear looking almost gleeful in their torture of the Forsaken.
It was fine. He could wait.
"Come on, Thomas," called the hoarse voiced kid again, holding tight to the rope with one of his other companions to keep him aloft as he swung. "Give em a good couple wacks! Then we'll burn him good!"
There was a laugh as another young man strode forward, he held a sturdy axe handle in both hands. He proceeded to give as he was told, each strike true and strong from a good farmhand's back. It felt like nothing as it ever did to Alfred. He merely held still and let them have their fun.
Fun time was solid chunk of time, the minutes passing as they always had in this world he was left too. The Cult of the Damned had been quick to raise their ranks from the dead that littered their path as they stormed throughout the countries pillaging, burning, and reinforcing the Scourge army. It wasn't surprising they'd found his shallow grave a from a few months earlier, nor was it that he took to this life as expected. The living had been good and the times had been grave as he marched with the Prince's army into the elven lands before boarding for the far north. Hunger had been his fuel and the meat had been plentiful.
Slack led to a thump as Alfred crashed into the earth, his bony legs collapsing under the sudden return to his weight as he fell to his battered knees. The rope coiled behind him as the heavy breathing of the gang laughed and cajoled one another at such a good showing. There was nothing from him still as he sat in a pile of bone, dried meat, and rubbish that had been left to him after his capture. They began to circle him.
"Alright, lads, think it's time we get the final cleanse for this fucker," the hoarse one spoke again, his place as their leader well established as he wiped sweat from his brow. He hadn't gotten to use the axe handle as much as his friends, but there was a seedy glow in his eyes at watching the violence done to the Forsaken. "Elios, grab the lantern."
A grunt of acknowledgment was given as he felt one of the warm bodies leave the circle, three left about Klaudin as he sat still as his body should be. The rope was still around his throat but his hands were loose at his sides, they had perhaps hoped he would struggle with the knots to free his breath. Breathing was a forgotten pastime to Alfred.
"Got it, Beren," Elios supplied as he arrived back at his spot before Alfred, the yellow and orange light bask his ruined face for all to see clearly. It also lit up their faces for him to see. Hungry, angry, and vile faces.
Beren took the lantern from Elios and held it aloft, his face the dark mask of sadistic hatred. Perhaps it was bred into him, learned from watching others in this back-country of the north. Maybe it had always been in him since a little boy rounding the wheat fields as he killed vermin or rooted out a nesting pheasant. Or perhaps he was just evil in his core.
It didn't matter to Alfred.
The only thing that did matter is they had left his hands free and it would make this all the more easier as he turned his wrist with a soft crack and pop. Breathers talked to much, laughed too much, and focused too much on their own beating hearts to pay any kind of close attention. It was always his advantage when dealing with them and generally their doom.
Beren had been monologue, his mates glued to his fervor as they always seemed to be. The man would raise the lantern high as he spoke his final sermon. "And with this fire I do cleanse you, return to hence you came vile creature! We sentence you to the hell you came from and rejoice in the fr-"
"No."
It was the only sound Klaudin had made this whole evening and it rang like a bell in his head as his true power came to be, arm lifting to the side to a strange scraping noise as the foot long piece of rebar slid from within his radius and ulna to his clawed hand. A familiar move and gesture he'd done countless times before in situations with foolhardy creatures, it worked then and worked now. With the iron bar in hand he would swing fast bringing it to strike the lantern with a crash, sending glass and oil splashing about the nearest member of this merry band of torturers.
Elios caught quickly with a scream as he fell back in flames, his makeshift flamed tabard finding it's real mate quickly.
Shocked face had no time to react as the warrior was upon them without another spoken word. In stories, there's banter or words of glory from heroes or villains as they escape terrible situations. Calling out to their captors of how they never stood a chance or they would pay for their crimes in the eyes of whatever god. Alfred Klaudin did not need to stay anything.
His brutality spoke clearly enough for him.
A backhand of the iron bar crashed into the side of Beren's head, an audible crack resounding as he flew a foot and landed in a heap. Crimson aplenty pour from his ear and eye from the blow. The others were starting to react now with two of their comrades down, but Alfred was already shifting his bar again to stab with unyielding strength through the third man's belly. Blunt as the bar may be, it was still a fine piece of metal and wielded by a creature who had no care of how it killed. Only that it did. The iron went easily through soft flesh and out the back as the human screamed in agony to fall on his knees holding the end of the bar.
The final one standing had drawn a knife, it was all he had at quick as he brought it down into the back of Alfred. The blade sunk easily through rotted flesh and into bone, sticking out with what should have been a killing blow. He took a few steps back expecting the Forsaken to fall down, watching with hopeful gulps of air that perhaps he would be the tragic hero in this story. To tell his fellow gang members of how they took down a Forsaken soldier in the name of the Light. As much as he was terrified of his friends' deaths, there was a secret place the looked forward to seeing the praise rain upon him.
All he saw next was the bony clawed fingers flash forward to slash through his eyes and tear his nose off with a sickening slurp of flesh and blood. He could barely scream as the blood flowed down his face, his hands flying up in hopes of staunching the ragged wounds. The wet screams only matched those of Elios and the impaled man, which were growing fainter as the smell of sweet meat would fill the wet night air. There was only a few more moments of screaming before the same knife that was used on Klaudin was rammed through the top of his head ending his pain.
Tim, the impaled man, leaned back on the wet grass hands tight about the iron bar through his stomach as he struggled to wrap his head around what he was witnessing. Beren had never moved again from the blow, Elios was silent now as the flames continued to flick on his body, and Jonas had been mutilated before him. His mouth tasted like copper coins as he moaned from the pain, not sure what to do or what to say to the creature that was hobbling toward him now. He felt cold, but he knew his hands were warm and slick. The undead stopped in front of him, slowly crouching down to stare at him with his empty black eyes.
"Please, I'm sorry," Tim gasped out as he shook in his spot, praying for some kind of mercy from the undead. But it just continued to stare at him, not moving or saying a word. Just watching. And waiting.
It took a long time for Tim to die.
And when he had finally grown cold the grey clouds of morning had begun to burn away. Alfred Klaudin would reach forward to yank his hidden baton from the belly of the cold dead, the sucking noise sending a shower to feed the earth below the corpse. He barely noticed as he began to slide it back inside of his forearm, easier now with the lubricant.
No word was spoken. No motion to hide the horrific events. Only the crude tabards were pulled, wrapped, folded, and tied away. The Deathstalkers would be pleased.
Alfred was not. He just was. Hefting the axe handle and slipping the knife away in his now makeshift rope belt, he began to limp his way to the road. South back to the Undercity. For the Dark Lady.
