Something has definetely taken its toll on this Forsaken. His face has decomposed severely, exposing his prominent cheekbones in their skinless magnificence. Sunken in eyesockets and cheeks constitute a shady countenance; one held together with such trivial effects as twine and paper clips that penetrate and cojoin flaps of skin that have long since lost their adhesive qualites. Despite this handsome visage, Malrick often wears a hood covering his face entirely - veiling the revolting, glaringly offensive, starkly repugnant and haphazardly composed melange of flesh and skin safely behind an ominous, red-eyed mask.
His body, much like his face, is gaunt, emaciated and worn. Skeletal joints are on full display - as is much half-decomposed ligament and muscle mass. Malrick carries his dilapidated self with an uncanny delicacy and primness; displaying a haughty and aloof body language even when conducting the most grim of tasks.
Race and ClassEdit
Soon to come
Always an uncanny youth, Malrick spent the inaugural years of his life in his birth town of Tarren Mill - here he lived with his parents and brother, leading a rather conventional life admidst a family of workers. However, when he ascended into adolescence, a natural affinity for magic manifested in him, and he was sent to the nearby mage city of Dalaran to pursue a chance of greatness. During his time as an apprentice in Dalaran, he rarely swayed from the morals of the order, and was generally an acclaimed student, his obedience, however, soon proved to be ephemeral in nature. In his mid twenties, he came upon a tome containing writings of dark magic through a sojourning, elderly sorceror. The dark and twisted rituals the tome held intrigued him, his priorities gravitated inexorably towards the execution of the macabre spells depicted and expounded within the grimoire - something that soon dawned on his fellow students. Dark magic was not tolerated in any way, shape or form, and upon being discovered after much suspicious conduct, he was expelled from Dalaran. The citizens of Tarren Mill were notarized of his crimes.
Banished from Dalaran, and now unable to return home, lest he be charged and inevitably executed on grounds of "maleficarum", he turned to the darker corners of Lordaeron. A cult had sprung up recently, spoken of in remote shadows and connoted through means palpable only to those versed in the dark arts. The Cult of the Damned. Malrick sought to find this cult in a pursuit to sate his craving for dark teachings and the power such forbidden knowledge entailed, and trailed the ominous undercurrents webbing a world of decadence and poverty. Amongst criminals and low-lives he finally struck upon the cult in the form of a prominent figure from their ranks. Malrick's eagerness was welcomed, and he was soon indoctrinated. After spending several months in the Cult of the Damned, Malrick deemed it a dissapointing, and utterly wasteful experience - employed as a tool, a puppet, to be tugged at the whim of some absentee overlord.
Despite the difficulty of doing so, Malrick managed to escape the Cults grasp, and fled into the woodlands of Silverpine. He stayed there for months, not straying near Tirisfal as some 'plague' had recently begun to run rampant through the kingdom. In the forest, he started to practice his magic, gleaning more and more from the tome he had carried with him over the years, gradually mastering its contents page by page, day by day. In the end, the tome taught him not the magic of the Cult which he had ironically sought, but something far more potent. The creatures he summoned were fiercer, stronger and substantially more intelligent than shambling, decrepit ghouls -and the twisted, whispering emerald fire that danced at his caprice effortlessly whisked away in a cloud of blackened ashes all at which it was unleashed.
They came with a rolling tremble, rapidly and hungrily. The Scourge swept across the land, devouring all in its way. A lone warlock stood little chance, and amounted only to carve a brief, infinitesimal gap in the trundling swarm before becoming consumed by the ravenous horde, clattering shrieks of mindless rage and insatiable famish. Death seeped into every crevasse of his concious mind, subjugating him into the devouring masses and forcing him into depravities of which the likes not even a maleficar stooped as low as he could have conceived. But eventually, a faint, silvery light dispelled the cloying fog that had permeated and addled his will.
The Forsaken, a small band of freed Scourge led by a 'Sylvanas', seeking to execute their revenge upon the Lich King. Malrick was grateful to this Dark Lady, and intrigued by the new path life, or unlife, if you will, had paved for him. Suddenly his expertise in demonology became an asset to his people - and he became a Warlock held in great reverence and respect, sought in awe by those pleading for tutelage in the twisted art of Fel magic.
I have recieved a letter from the Forsaken council, I have apparently been chosen as a candidate for the rank of Grand Sorcerer in some new war effort. While this does confuse me slightly, it's about time my skills were noticed by the higher ups.
I was late for the meeting with the Forsaken council member, I had gotten caught up in a book and forgot the time. Curse those enthralling romance novels. In any case, I was admitted into this war effort despite my tardiness - it is to be called "The Will of Sylvanas". I met my soon-to-be fellow officers, an apothecary named Wiktorin and a crotchety death knight named Skeler, quite a silly name, but I digress.
It has been a while since I last submitted an entry. The Will of Sylvanas is growing, and we are planning a small campaign against the Syndicate in Hillsbrad and the Alterac Mountains. I have attended several meetings with Skeler and Wiktorin, and their professionalism has become quite clear. I am finally surrounded with equals, after all that time training moronic warlock apprentices, I cannot comprehend the amount of novice morons who have been cremated alive during my classes...
We've been working hard on securing Hillsbrad, and our succes is prominent. However, all these military assaults and politics are starting to get to me, I am a sorcerer, not a strategist. I tire of this drudgery - a man of my staggering intellect relegated to the position of a beliggerent simpleton - unacceptable.
Much time has passed, and much has happened, since I last put my pen to paper and made a journal entry. As I resigned from the Forsaken military; I had a pause for contemplation. My stupor of indecisiveness was thoroughly broken, however, as the Cataclysm struck; leaving a scar across the continents and unearthing secrets forgotten by the ages. Word traveled quickly that the hitherto unreachable lands of Uldum had become accessible - I packed my equipment and my scrolls and boarded a zeppelin to Kalimdor no more than a day after hearing of this freshly unveiled landscape of perpetually shifting dunes and ancient, accesible mysteries.