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Malesse (wowstead)

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Name: Malyssa DiMagnus Nickname (if any): Malesse (Malice), Grunt, Merc. Gender: Female Class: Warrior Physical Appearance: Mal's appearance owes much to her chosen profession as a soldier, providing her with physical traits both good and ill. All five and a half feet of her is toned muscle, with any trace of unnecessary fat burned away by constant exercise and meager rations. Her dull brown hair is cropped short so as to not interfere in combat. Her face holds a beauty hidden by battle. Scars score her otherwise unblemished complexion, of note one rather brutal cut that runs from her right cheek up to the brow above her hazel eyes, a wound that missed blinding the young warrior by mere millimeters. Her nose is just slightly skewed, having been broken several times. Several of her teeth are chipped and jagged, though most remain which is respectable given the sheer amount of brawls she's waded into. Her expression is strictly professional, quashing any emotions or thoughts that might be running through her mind from showing on her face. Death has, of course, changed these features somewhat. Her body, while never on the heavy side in the first place, is now withered and deteriorated. Her already short stature now carries a slight hunch, making her appear even smaller. Her skin is the cold, ashen gray of death, while her eyes burn with an otherworldly golden glow. She's managed to retain her limbs and most of her flesh, useless now as it may be, and keeps the decay at bay as best she can using the only option available to her; consuming the flesh of others to regenerate her own losses. Her cause of death is not immediately apparent, though some mortal wound may remain hidden by her armor. Mal's weapon of choice is a sword, and she is never seen without her trusty, albeit plain, longsword in hand. However, she acknowledges that variety is the spice of life, and she carries, and is trained with, a veritable armory of weapons for whatever situation may occur. Her armor could hardly be described as uniform; she is no stranger to using a hammer outside of the battlefield to craft and maintain her own equipment out of whatever materials she has on hand. She's not above scavenging useful items from the battlefield, either, which often results in a mismatched collection of steel chosen for function over form. She prefers to remain clad in her heavy armor, even when not in combat, as a passive means of keeping her strength up so that the weight of the heavy steel is as much as ignored in the fray. When she can be convinced to dress in civvies, or more often when she is cleaning or repairing her battle-worn plate, she chooses comfortable wools and leathers in drab colors that allow her to fade effortlessly into the scenery. She has not been seen in a dress for years. Ideology: For much of Mal's life, she was entirely self-centered. She thought only of herself and her desires, namely her thirst for adventure, and she ignored anything that stood in the way of satisfying her own wants. She abandoned her own family and disappeared in search of her grand adventure, living a carefree existence that any might envy. Following her death, everything changed. She gained a new ideology, a single purpose that kept her moving; to make up for the mistakes of her past. Her every thought was taken up by two objectives. The first was to protect and care for her twin sister, similarly cursed by undeath yet mentally broken to being defenseless. The second was to rebuild her family name, and to do that required money, fame, and power. She had no head for business or politics, so she took to the only trade she had with reckless abandon. She became a mercenary that took any job, no matter the danger, so long as the price was right. Which led to her new ideology, one given by the Family that is the Order of the Forsaken. Originally, she had thought of this as merely 'another job', one that would pay well and provide her with a temporary name that carried some weight that could be used to her advantage. And then she met the Vassal and everything changed yet again. Gone was the drive to rebuild her family name. She had a new family now. As of that day, she believes in the might of the Order. Brief History (or not so brief, your choice): Malyssa was born to a wealthy, influential family in the kingdom of Stromgarde. She had a privileged existence from the moment she was born, growing up with her every whim instantly satisfied. She hated every last moment of it. The crest of the DiMagnus family was that of an eagle in flight (the family was well known for its falconry), and Mal felt as caged as that crimson emblem. Every family has its black sheep, or in this case a raven, and Mal was more than happy to fill the role. She ran from the family estate, choosing instead a life of crime and adventure with a local gang of thieves and misfits. She spent a number of years in disreputable company with all manner of villainy, though somehow it still came as a shock to the naive girl when she found out exactly how horrible the filth of civilization could be. Those that she thought of as brothers and sisters had, by chance, discovered the truth of Mal's upbringing. And, as all carrion eaters did, they swarmed at their chance to seize a free meal. At first unwilling, Mal eventually agreed to help the bandits rob from her own flesh and blood once promised that they were only interested in gold and, if all went well, would not harm or even be seen by her family. She saw an ironic justice to it. There was so much poverty in the world, and her family had so much wealth. She felt almost like a crusader for good, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, as she provided her friends with the location of the underground tunnel she had used herself to escape the grounds. As the sun rose a scant two days later, Mal was staggering from the inferno that was the beautiful mansion she had been born in, trying not to inhale the stench of burning flesh that wafted from her slain relatives. She left a trail of blood with every footstep, horrendously wounded as she was, and her haggard, out-of-breath wheezing was interrupted by fitful, hacking coughs that indicated rather pointedly that she had few enough hours left. She didn't seem to notice, for she had a mission yet to complete. Death could take her gladly, but it had to wait because there was something else more important than the call of the otherworld. Those sons of bitches had her sister. In every way that Malyssa was the rebellious, rambunctious, trouble-seeker of a tomboy, her twin sister Soleste had been the complete polar opposite. Sol had been the pride of their parents. The perfect, dignified young lady of class, who enchanted the guests of formal functions, rather than insulting them as Mal was wont to do. Who stole the hearts of young noblemen, rather than their wallets. She was an angelic beauty, untainted by the harsh realities of the outside world. And they had her. Dragged her away like the rest of the loot, to be sold at market value to a soulless slaver, no doubt. They knew a quality product when they saw one after all, and Sol would fetch nothing less than top dollar. No. Mal had lost everything. Not just lost, she had given it to a pack of rabid dogs. But there was one thing left in this world that she still had a chance to make right. She put the burning wreckage behind her out of her mind, just as she ignored the pain wracking her body. They'd had nearly a day of a head start on her, but she knew their destination. It was time to close the gap. So long as she still moved, she would save her sister. She swore this, not to any god, nor to the spirits of the fallen. She swore it only to herself, for she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was damned already by the heavens and the dead. It mattered not. She WOULD save Sol. As the sun rose the next day, Mal knelt in the muck of a forest clearing that was just beginning to become illuminated by the morning light. Shadows rose and retreated from the crude camp, revealing a smoldering fire-pit, muddy canvas tents, a weathered wagon... and dozens of bodies that lay in heaps where they fell surrounding the young, mortally wounded warrior. She'd collapsed near the center of the clearing, next to a rusted iron cage obviously meant to hold livestock. In this case, it had held something far more precious. It held nothing any more, nor would it ever. The simple iron door had been wrenched open with brute force, tearing it clean from its hinges. She was bleeding, so weak that she could no longer stand. She could hardly breathe, and she knew each breath came closer to being her last. And yet, Mal held her sister tightly in her arms. She'd promised to save her. Swore it. And now, here she was. Sol's eyes fluttered open, and Mal began to laugh to herself. Her peals of laughter echoed in the forest clearing right up until she died. Miscellaneous: I'll add more later.

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