General Information Edit

Full name: Araoth Gallaway

Title: Lord General of Lordaeron's restoration force army.

Nicknames: 'Ara,' 'Bloodedge,' 'Drunkard.'

Class: (Fury) Warrior

Age: 23

Birthplace: Tirisfal, in a small village just outside the Capital of Lordaeron.

Current Home: He appears to wander in and out of Major alliance cities, frequenting Stormwind, but oftentimes staggering about Darnassus with an odd, content look on his face. Languages "officially" known: Common

Appearance Edit

As of late, Araoth seems to be adorned in a full suit of mail and leather constantly. A polished insignia of Lordaeron adorns his armor, and it's rank reads that of a quite high ranking officer. His face is undenyably handsome, his green eyes deep and piercing, seeming always in a state of alertness. A scraggly, unkempt beard accents his chin, but the remainder of his face is clean shaven, his equally scraggly sideburns excluded.

His eyebrows arch perfectly above his eyes, giving him a naturally inquisitive look. His slightly gray-toned hair is cropped short to his scalp, and appears to be the cut of a soldier. His build is toned and muscular, definition rippling through his arms with even the subtlest of movements (when exposed).

Personality Edit

Generally loud and racious, Araoth seems to be the stereotypical bi-product of fortune and a knack for overindulgence. His speech is low and hearty, even when forcing elloquent common through his lips. The smell of strong liqours radiate off of him, his breath especially.

Further acossiation indicates that he's indeed capable of being a gentleman, when not shit-faced beyond all reasoning. His vocabulary, though not particularly impressive, is substantial, and he could easily pass himself off as educated. Though, he holds no shame of his lack thereof, openly admitting his ubringing of peasantry and poverty.

He seems quite open, and oftentimes even well known.

History Edit

The Scourge of LordaeronEdit

Araoth Gallaway was born in wedlock to Jacob Gallaway and Moraena Lightsong, a prim and proper woman of a leading noble family of Lordaeron. In a state of humiliation and fright, she abandoned the child, leaving him with his hard-headed, stubborn father. He was a warrior, and as such, raised his son in the only ways he'd grown to know; swinging a slab of sharp metal with little regard for his own safety. An offensive defense, a berserking strike. A man who channels his own gift of anger into a weapon for taking life from another. A master of fury.

And so it was that Araoth grew into a formidable warrior, his age ticking by slowly, numbers measured in the mass of scars adorning his body, every potentially fatal blow struck to his developing body just fuel for rage, turning madness into an artform. Towns people were no doubt frightened of Gallaway's boy, fighting on the verge of insanity, leaving their own offspring bruised and broken from simple quarrels in the fields. The mothers were, of course, leary of such behavior, but the fathers embraced such savagry, and knew that Araoth was to be something great.

The young man's potential was never fully realised, however, as talks of an undead plague ravaging the southern townships reached the ears of the village residents. And word spread quickly, rumors almost immediatly detirmined to be fact by bands of footmen led by heavily armored paladins and knights trudged down the old dirt road, towards the south.

Still quite oblivious to impending distruction, Araoth had a sudden falling out with his father, and ran off on his own. He quickly stumbled across a town he thought would serve as refuge, but only turned to be a cesspool of death. People of all sorts were struckdown, their bodies thrashing about spasticly before they were decomposed to nothingness, and reanimated as ghouls and skeletal abominations. They were bent on destruction, and the poor boy barely made it out with his life.

He tore through the woodlands and lush fields, screams ringing out as darkness fell, screams of women, children, and men alike. This was no time for pride, nor galliantry. This was a time for self preservation; a mass route to Dwarven allies.

His path led him to an organized refugee caravan, trudging slowly through the Kingdom of Arathi, and soon Dun Algaz. The fog loomed thick and ominous, creating a humid blanket over the wearly band of survivors. Men collapsed from fatigue, horses striken by neglect and sickness. They were easy pickings for bandits, and nothing could save them should they be overtaken by the brutes.

Needless to say, the Blackwater Orcs were not stupid and took the opportunity gladly. They charged the caravan with savagry, taking what they needed of it's provisions, and its women. They were left stripped bare of clothing, the men horribly mutilated as naught but sport. Araoth, however, had been mistaked for already dead; plague stricken, as it were. He was left alone to rot and turn undead without interference, but such was not the case. He set out on a desperate trek for refuge, traveling on foot with no supplies for several grueling days.

He finally stumbled into a friendly home; the Dwarven town of Loch Modan. A warm drink set before his face and a welcoming fire in a tavern hall lit, Araoth was quite content was it were. Though the apparent death of his father was still sinking in, he was in emotional turmoil, sobbing constantly in a mug of dwarven stout, despite his age.

And so he molded into the lifestyle, drinking and celebrating life night after night, still swinging his sword, firing a rifle, eating a hearty dinner, and sleeping in a warm bed. Life was ideal for a while longer, but it was not to last.

Nothing lasts.



The wind often whispered to Araoth, inticing words of travel, of the great sea. He reckoned he was right mad, but the allure of wandering freely had always been a small plague of its own in his mind. But often, such whispers are brushed aside as a nusance and allowed to grow. To feed off emotions till one day, they explode in a passionate rush.

((still under construction))