Character Information
- Character Name
- Margar
- Class
- Shaman
- Talent Specialization
- 11/63/0 Enhancement
- Race
- Orc
- Sex
- Male
- Age
- 55-60
- Physical Description
Margar is in his late fifties or early sixties, and his heavily worn features display the scars of more than three decades of near-constant warfare. His eyes are smoldering blue and he keeps his dark red hair and beard shaved close to the skin. His body is extensively covered with heavy ritual scarification in the form of ancient Orcish runes. Some of these runescars are further tattooed with the black blood of slain pit lords. Margar's expression is one of rapt attention and intense focus. He carries himself like a coiled spring.
- Character History
I am Margar Netherbane, exiled Shaman of the Frostwolf Clan, former Farseer of the Bloodthunder Tribe.
My father was the youngest apprentice of Mother Kashur of the Frostwolf, long before the first war. When I was young I decided to follow his path. When Ner'zhul's apprentice came to speak to our Chieftain Durotan, and to offer our clan the matchless power of Mannoroth, Durotan refused out of his pride and fear. In order to help Gul'dan and Drek'thar, I offered to infuse our spring in the foothills of Oshu'gun with the blood of Mannoroth. I was certain that, once he had tasted the power of the Destructor, Durotan would be cleansed of his fear. Drek'thar revealed my plans to Durotan in order not to reveal his own consumption of the blood, and even as Gul'dan was declaring the Frostwolf Clan to be outlaws for their refusal, Durotan stripped me of my totems and branded me an outcast. Drek'thar didn't say a word in my defense. I was a powerless exile of an outlawed clan of cowards and traitors.
So I enlisted as a grot infantryman for the Blackrock Clan under the young Maim Blackhand, before the name carried much weight. I drank the blood of Mannoroth with both hands on the cup. It burned my skin green with the fel energy. We scoured the hill country of Nagrand and burned the Draenei in their sleep. Stacked their bodies five feet high and used them to fuel our cookfires. We drove their warriors and hunters off of the cliff faces, and gorged ourselves on the blood of their Eleks. When Gul'dan opened the dark portal to Azeroth, I served under Maim as a raider and scout, and we brought the scourge of war to the pink-skinned humans. Laid waste to their precious Stormwind. After Doomhammer betrayed the Warchief, and Gul'dan helped him begin to track down and execute those of us who were still loyal to the true Horde, we in the raiders begun to plan a resistance and counter-coup. However, we were ambushed by Doomhammer's outriders while en route to rejoin with Maim, and I was taken in chains to swing from the ruined walls of Stormwind, a trophy to the pretender Doomhammer.
For the second time in my life, I was branded a traitor and had my totems stripped from me. This time, I was hung in a crow cage on the walls of ruined Stormwind, to rot. But Doomhammer and Gul'dan hadn't rooted out every loyalist from their ranks, and I managed to escape, with four others. When we heard that Maim had been killed by the Black Iron Dwarves, and Rend had essentially submitted his will to the Black Dragonflight, we knew that we could never return. The fires of the second war were already beginning to burn. We elected to ride North to Lordaeron and execute hit and run attacks on the human supply lines. When Doomhammer and Gul'dan negotiated a pact that would allow their rebuilt Horde to pass through Alterac Valley and lay siege to Lordaeron, I knew that Doomhammer's pride would be his downfall as well. The Frostwolf predictably were not able to secure the valley and it fell to Stromgarde. The Horde's supply lines were cut, and they were surrounded. Slag on the anvil of Lordaeron's walls. Gul'dan's endless ambition and Doomhammer's predictable treachery pitted the two at each other's throats as the forces of the Nether and the Alliance crushed them from either end.
From the Hinterlands, I saw the folly and betrayal of Doomhammer and Gul'dan rightly punished. The humans crushed them and destroyed the Dark Portal. We were stranded on this world. With a handful of the other raiders and outriders, I spent more than a decade in the high lands and swamps, the barren reaches of the Eastern Kingdoms. We scratched by through raiding and guile, and slowly pieced together our forces. Durotan had been slain. Doomhammer was condemned to the nameless exile he deserved. The Frostwolf Clan submitted to the will of a blind Farseer. When Drek'thar and Doomhammer trotted out their new puppet chiefling some decade and a half later, the ready-made leader Thrall, I was not impressed. The Orcs had been crushed and pacified. It was no great feat to convince them to leave for Kalimdor after his token uprising.
Still, I saw opportunity in the West, and took it. Tired of living on the run, disgusted by the systematic corruption and betrayal of every last vestige of Blackhand's Horde, and unaware that there were others like me in the marshlands of the Southeast, I migrated to the wild lands of Kalimdor. The wars, of course, followed us there. I cast my long eye on the winds for the Warsong Clan in the third war, foolishly drank again from the cup of Mannoroth, and was a slave to its power. When the war ended, and the killing ended, when Grom redeemed us all, I was broken, bent, old, gray, and war-weary. I barely escaped the wrath of the Kal'dorei, and found refuge in the central plains among the Shu'halo tribes. There I was able to return to the mastery of the elemental spirits, and even to raise the discarded cub of a slain warrior-chief. But that is another story, and another twenty years of my life. I will summarize it by saying this: Never trust a dragon, and never drink the blood of a demon, unless you squeezed it out of the thing's dead heart with your own hands.
I've been given back my youth by the elemental spirits, and now have a chance to return the Horde to its rightful rule. Thrall's reign is nearing its fitting conclusion, and for all his florid words his vaunted peace is washing out to sea. The elemental spirits whisper to me even now, songs of rage and wrath. There is no peace in the natural order.
I am a true shaman, reborn in the fires of Blackrock. I learned to commune with the elemental spirits of Azeroth from the Shu'halo Rageweavers of Kalimdor, and my heartbeat is the very pulse of the angry mountain. I am nothing but an instrument of rage and the elements have condemned me to earn my redemption in battle.
- Alts
- No alts in any VeCo guild.
History
- Member for
- 9 weeks 5 days