#yurthelle

[bethabunnywrites]

Look at my firstborn! I mean, uh, first ever roleplay character. Go commission @figgeryboo right now, for real guys. Look at how amazing this is. Be jealous. Go do a commission.

[bethabunnywrites]

An afternoon in Dalaran

(Yurthelle has a habit of coming out when my mood goes to shit.  Here’s some warlock, for your reading pleasure.))

Dalaran felt so familiar, like something she had seen in a dream.  She’d come here at some point before, she was sure, but it must have been before. Before.  She could hardly place her finger on what, precisely, that meant.  She could hardly even remember being raised, anymore.  It was in the Deathknell, of course.  They’d brought her body from elsewhere, without a tombstone.  She still wondered if she had one out there, somewhere.  A good, respectable human name.  The thought nearly made her laugh aloud.

She glanced down at her hands, wrapped around a coffee mug.  Why she’d bothered with the coffee, she wasn’t sure.  Perhaps she used to drink it, back when her fingertips were coated in flesh and fingernails.  Perhaps she painted them.  That really did make her laugh.  Yurthelle, a prissy little girl with painted fingernails, and now she couldn’t be bothered to look into getting her lower jaw covered in something to hide the bone and steel.

Yurthelle, the prissy girl with a bolted on jaw.  As long as it didn’t fall off, right?  She’d kill herself again to save being one of those slobbery fools with their tongues lolling out of what was left of their mouths.  Disgusting, even for a deader.

...Did she just call herself a deader?  Gods, she needed something to do.  The Black Harvest annoyed the piss out of her, but it was proving difficult to be a warlock outside of their stupid little circle with demons overrunning the world.  It wasn’t HER fault that they showed up.  For fuck’s sake, she barely even used the damned things.  Why try to herd around imps like cats (but stupid, unlike cats) when you could just call down the fire yourself?  Idiots.

She lifted one of her bony hands and ran it through her hair.  It was getting thinner, for sure.  She’d need to decide what to do about that.  It was brittle, of course, but it was also one of the few parts of her that still looked even halfway decent.  Most of her joints had worn down to ligaments and torn bits of skin, but her hair could rival one of those pretentious Kaldorei.  Well, it used to.  In length and general style it was still doing all right, but she may actually have to go to one of those barber shops and look into getting...well, more of it.

She could’ve made more of an effort, she supposed.  So many of her kind used oils and lotions to keep themselves from decaying, and here she sat all but falling apart.  She wasn’t sure if she should be ashamed of herself or proud that she’d accepted her undeath with such ease.  She did at least make efforts to keep from smelling, so that had to be worth something.

Something.

She leaned back in her chair in the little cafe, taking a moment to glance around the room.  It was strange seeing the Alliance and Horde together like this, but the occasional hostile glance brought a smirk to what lips she still had.  The tension was nearly thick enough to slice in the air, and it was more than tempting to stir up some trouble.  But, the last thing she wanted was to get kicked out of the floating city, at least for now.  She’d spare it for another day.

Her hand slid from her hair to the small pendant laying gently against her sternum.  A simple tumbled stone of a deep eggplant color to the untrained eye, but it warms in response to her icy touch, the soul stored inside desperate for release.  It would have to fucking wait.  

She had that craving.  That maddening urge to burn something.  To commit arson or leave some worthless soul little more than a pile of ash.  It would blow her cover as a simple travelling...whatever...but gods, it would feel so good.  How she’d made it this far without even having to lie about her identity, she had no idea, but steering clear of the Illidari was getting more and more difficult.  They could probably smell the fel fire burning within her if she got too close, and then she would have some explaining to do and likely have need of the soulstone.

They thought they were so damned important, with their horns and stabbing their eyes out.  Yurthelle hadn’t had eyes in years, but she didn’t go around whining to everybody about it.  She’d spent many an afternoon watching the Death Knights glare and clench their fists as the horny little elves bitched and moaned about all that they’d been through...that fight would likely break out one of these days, and she hoped to any gods that might actually exist that she would be there to see it.

She stood and stretched her hunched back, bones and tendons creaking with the movement after being prone for an hour or so, earning a groan of disgust from a human at the next table over.  She winked one of her glowing eyes and blew him a kiss theatrically.  Dick.  He’d die soon enough, like all the living, and she hoped he got an extra serving of maggots.

She slid a gold onto the bar to pay her tab, leaning heavily on her staff for no reason other than to look as if she needed to do so.  She’d walk these streets with pride one day, she was sure, but for now it was preferable to be underestimated.  For now, she needed something else to pass the time.  Maybe she’d just wander down to the sewers and watch the jackasses fighting.  In fact, that sounded delightful.

Jackass fighting.

[bethabunnywrites]

Yurthelle Morimaker

Yurthelle stands at average height for a Forsaken woman, her shoulders hunched as is standard of the race.  Her figure is especially slim, but the curve of her hips and tightness of her robe suggest that she once had a womanly figure.  She is obviously decayed from her time in the grave, but not to the point of being revolting.  She keeps her greyish-white skin well oiled, and takes good care of her long amethyst-colored hair.  Her empty eye sockets and badly replaced jaw may not show it, but she was once quite lovely, and still may be mistaken as such from a distance.

Her garb is typically similar to that of a priest, and she likes to keep it that way.  Despite her best efforts, however, the fel magic within hangs off of her like a tainted cloak.  She brings discomfort and mistrust wherever she goes, and she knows it.  However, recently she has come more to terms with her reputation, and donned new robes that, well, leave little doubt as to her profession.

She is well aware of how other races react to her own, and has faced persecution wherever she has roamed.  She makes her home in Undercity simply because she is comfortable there, and likes to be close to the Dark Lady to whom she owes her new life.  She favors mounts and pets who share her undeath, alongside the demons that come along with her talent.

She will avoid combat at nearly all costs, to the point of putting up with far more than most undead.  She will never summon a demon unless faced with a challenge she cannot refuse, and even then will almost immediately dismiss it.  She keeps them on tight leashes when around, and often belittles them out of distrust and spite.  Her fingertips alight with flames anytime she feels a strong emotion, and she tries and fails to hide that fact with gloves.

She wears no jewelry or decoration aside from her gear, save for a soulstone mounted like a jewel in a modest silver necklace.  She fingers it when she is nervous or lost in thought, causing the gem to glow faintly.

When she speaks, she tends to be short and sarcastic, assuming that whomever she is conversing with will soon be driven away by her appearance no matter what words she chooses.  She wears pride and cynicism as armor, and will almost never reveal any depth to her personality.  She will take missions for the Horde out of what she calls boredom and bloodlust, but appears to be loneliness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yurthelle is one of the Forsaken recently raised by the Val'kyr in the Deathknell.  She remembers nothing of her former life, except that her name somehow involved the prefix “Yurth-.”  She adopted it as her new name, and took a surname that was suggested in jest.

She can say for sure, however, that she has always been a warlock.  She suspects that her untimely demise may have been related to a thirst for power, or a loss in battle.  Either way, she died young and in her own flames.

Perhaps she will eventually remember more, or perhaps not.  

RP to find out more ;)