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Envision this crimson tower of death.
As one shivers and catches one's breath.
Fear will not save you from it.
Panic overwhelming you want to split.
Yet you know "the end" stands here now.
So cry those tears and bow.
Shove your face down into the ground.
Your skull not even fit for her burial mound.

Warped beyond belief, Vaxir truly is an eyesore, the great festering abomination spat right out of the rage filled maw of the Scourge.

She brings the repugnant stench of blood and death, the feeling of chaos and wrath engulfing the air, such a horrid smell bringing about a gag, the exuding madness telling that this abomination is based upon the most intense, purest wrath and anger.

You cannot help but feel your stomach lurch as if trying to escape your body, your blood itself tingles and turns cold as the stench of death and blood hits your nostrils, causing one hell of an amount of restraint to keep all the contents of your innards down.- [x]

This 'elf' is beyond the norm, standing over a massive ten feet in height, even taller, unnatural and unrelenting. Bulbous muscle riddles the 'hulkish', colossal frame, stretching a board and completely flat chest and broad shoulders, yet narrow hips, throwing the woman to an androgynous state. The immense shoulders curve the upper spine to form a bestial hunch. She is not 'tall', but actually a gargantuan beast of horrific mutation. The cold, leathery skin is scarred with war, littered by cuts, gashes, burns and magic damage, inflictions outweighing that of undamaged skin by far.

Crimson eyes glare from the eye sockets of the helmet, glimpsed to have black sclera and tiny black, almost feral pupils, constricted. The right eye appears to have a slit through the eyeball, narrowly missing to damage the sight. Her ears are 'bat-like' rather than long and slender, now shorter and wider than a normal elf's own. Uncared for, her black, shaggy hair reaches jaw length, matted with blood and tangled with grease. She has no fingernails, but instead bares thick black talons, each as long as the respective finger, the claw thick rather than thin like actual nails, forever dooming her to be deadly handed. The right hand's pinkie claw appears shorter.

The face, only a rumor to be seen, is said to be a bad sign upon sight - for you. Rumor dictates a missing left cheek, flesh absent up to and along the cheekbone, down to the jawline and back to the ear. Massive, elongated teeth line the gums; each tooth is an inch long, grand canines twice that, easily able to pierce flesh as they end in perfect points. The jaws have had to adjust to fit the mutated assets in. The skin on the right of the mouth looks to have split as though her jaws opened too far. The facial scars are grotesque, the most noted a large 'X' shape where the center is on the bridge of the nose, upper lines running across her eyes, the bottom running over the remaining cheek. On the right side, the jawline has gaping cut in it, deep enough to damage and show the bone.

Speaking, her lips peel over her gums to accentuate every word, the voice rather deep, rumbled, with an obvious growl, but still recognisable as female. Her movements are strong with a heavy set thud of the saronite boot, radiating the dominance and power she holds and commands. Underfoot all life is annihilated, grass curving and decaying until only a crushed blackened powder remains. With every footstep comes an eerie rattle of chains that are wrapped around her armor in various places, all accompanied by the deeper, darker sound of saronite. She is more a beast than humanoid and everything she does, everything she says, screams this, her actions almost animalistic, fingers curling.

  • Was once thought to be a construct, yet is not the case.
  • The tell-tale signs of blight are left upon her body.

Vaxir's armor bares battle scars from many years of intense battles. Black saronite armor covers the fingers, each joint connecting the pieces highly flexible with purposely crafted flesh splitting edges. The gauntlets do not cover her hands, instead having a sheet of saronite bolted onto the backs of them. Carved into saronite embedded into the palms are in each a highly intricate runic which are not activate until commanded. The thick black cloak hangs in tatters as well as the notable, damaged tabard, both made from Worgen hide. The belt holds two rows of real demonic teeth, a shrunken skull in their maw. The behemoth's boots are rimmed with matted and grimy Worgen fur at the top. Either heel is a two inch spike that cracks into the floor below. This does not give a high heel look at all, considering the behemoth's colossal size.

All weaponry and armor are decorated by strange runic designs, symbols and engraved in blood runes to suggest her favor rests with the spells of vampiric ways. Each rune hums with the stench of blood and the powers viciously contained within.

Sheathed upon her back and never removed for battle is the vampiric rune blade named 'Glut', a testament to the monster's vampiric nature. Rarely seen is her second blade, the massive weapon named 'Juggernaut', reaching a grand length of nine feet.

A large chain hangs around her neck. Upon it's end is a lower jaw, free of flesh and still with it's teeth. It seems from a human and carried as a trophy. Continuing on trophies, a vile hook hangs from her belt upon which two Kaldorei ears are impaled. A large human skull is impaled upon a spike on the left pauldron. Various skulls are forged into various places of armor.

The background

'She is nothing more than an animal. The Beast of the Scourge is unrelenting'.

'The Wrathful'. A known undead warrior, rather a zealot of the almighty Scourge, known for forcing her ideals and delusional goals upon the poor individuals that cross her path against their will, or even willingly. Vaxir, Overlord of Bane, was first taken note of as the Death Knights were risen in Ebon Hold. There, she fought day in and out against the Scarlet Crusade, becoming a known antagonist to the cause and one of the dreaded, infamous for her sheer hatred of the people. Witnesses of either side spoke that she fought in close combat with her brute strength, claws and teeth alone, the vampiric runeblade strapped to her back never being drawn. With such information, plus the indication that her body was several stages through mutation already, it becomes clear that she had in fact stood with the Scourge years before the battles in the Plaguelands, her foreign kin revered in high rank under the Lich King. Her life before that, however, is completely unknown.

After the fall of her Master, her oldest subordinates would tell that they had been in her service for quite some time already, feeling the brunt of her rage and the deathly prickle and pain of her teeth and claws, marking their skin to show allegiance to their new master. Her infamous marking laid as a vicious four claw-mark sigil carved into the followers breast. Soon, Bane was forged. From thereon it seemed that more creatures succumbed to her will as the number at her heel grew enough for their name to become somewhat known, and feared.

"Your blood, the ink. Her claw, the quill. The method, her signature."

Soon enough it became clear exactly what the behemoth was like. Tales told she took a sense of the purest pleasure from the suffering of other creatures, causing them agony both mentally and physically before gorging herself on their flesh and blood. The few rare survivors would tell of her love for torture, gore and all things horrid, obsessed with drinking blood, feeling the pulse of the victim slow as they drifted towards death - only to be denied and forever trapped to the monster's psychic grasp. Many of her enemies have taken their own lives, far from where she lurks, all to escape the endless fate.

Enemies and allies alike wished to not say her name, each bestowing a different label to her. Overlord. Blood Master. The Wrathful. Soul eater. Mindbender. The Animal. Vour. "A menace known by many names." - [x]. Saying her name is like a curse word. Forbidden. 'That who serves evil willingly'. Each comes with a specific meaning to who calls her such, mainly after encountering her in a negative way. It goes without saying that none are official 'titles', merely labels to those who prefer to not say her or 'it's' name, and it goes without a doubt that every person sees her as nothing more than a beast, quoted to condone all malicious acts.

"Some never turned traitor to death."

What is known as Vaxir is that of the antagonist, the now self-proclaimed Scourgelord that refuses to fall or succumb to defeat, the Overlord of Bane, the mutant behemoth. Nothing seems capable of stopping her path of war as she facilitates the Scourge without mortal hesitation. The miscreants serving under her hand all yell out the Blood Master's battle cry of Bane, proclaiming their loyalty and true allegiance in the world;


The appearence was horrific. Blood streamed over pale skin in small rivers, glistening as though close to freezing; that, it was in truth close to be. How any could survive in the deadly conditions was a mystery, especially as the only visible creature for miles was scantily clad - not that they had chosen to bare such clothing that revealed their flesh, but that any sense of covering that once existed had now been battered and torn away, leaving the subject vulnerable. The scraps of dull coloured leather could tell the tale of warfare against a beast.

As the elf, looking no more than a young adult, stumbled through the snow, it was clear she was lost yet didn't really care either way. If she could care. Eyes, round like dull saucers, darted around franctically, the gentle blue glow telling of a Quel'dorei untainted like most of her race. Yet, what was it now, that they had changed their name? The elf probably didn't even know, and if the word 'Sin'dorei' was ever muttered in range of her long ears, she had never paid attention. The elf, so, must have not been around their glorious capital. And she was far enough north that the creatures of the freezing temperatures have most likely never even heard of Quel'thalas.

Like over her gently muscular, athletic body, blood also trickled down the gaunt face. The bulk of the flow was not from the scratches and cuts splaid across the skin, but from a more worrying sorce - the eyes, nose, mouth. Something, clearly, was horribly wrong, and how the elf still moved, nevermind stood, was a mystery.

The ever moving eyes, coupled with a wild expression, gave the scene all the more confusion. How had the elf gotten here, so far north and in a deadly area where death lurked? The only other elves sighted anywhere close were all dead in the snow, miles away, where a seemingly endless battle had taken place, the survivors scattered and still fighting for their lives. But this elf was alone. Far away. Moving without direction. If she had proper energy, her body would be twitching, fingers curling, teeth clenching and clattering as she grunted and snarled, unable to talk, nostrils flaring; that was how she had been for a while, and it was only the deathly chill of the snow, ice, being so far north, that numbed her toes and fingers to beyond feeling and lumbered her limbs with exhaustion. All she could manage now was a slight murmur, dragging her feet along like a clockwork toy.

'She is... beyond our help, I think. She is just like an animal. She can't even speak! The blood continues to run... her eyes... I know what has caused it. But how?'

'She was rescued from a party of Orcs from Anri'thela's expedition in Eversong and brought to the infirmary, unconscious.'

'Then... we will have to see if the Light can aid her.'

Only slight change had come to the elf in all her time amongst her bretherin, the same bloodied creatures that had brought her here. It had been a risk, but the battle had needed all it could. Yet still they had lost the fight. Surely, now, only a few living remained; for the time, that was. Their lives would come to close as inevitably as the damnation had come to their race, corrupting it.

It was cold. So cold.

The elf stumbled, almost falling, boney fingers grasping at the air the best the frozen digets could. If she had been out in the snow for any longer, surely she would have crumbled, becoming buried in the snow that slowly trundled from the heavens. The temperature was deadly, and it only felt to become more and more freezing, colder...
Crunch.... Crunch.... .... .... Crunch. Crunch.

The elf halted, looking torn between having stopped from exhaustion, from being close to blacking out from the sudden temperature drop, and from the sounds somewhere in front of her. The snow provided a slight cloak of sight all over the area as it brought about a vile, unnatural mist, shrouding the source of the sharp sound. It was too much to stand now and the elf's knees fell into the snow, almost burying her to the stomach. She landed with a crunch, telling the source of the invading sound was from snow being squashed.

What so approached the elf would be gifted with witnessing the death of yet another bloodied mortal of the far away kingdoms, to fall and succumb to the grave too early like the rest of her kind, left to rot or unceremoniously scavenged and eaten by whatever should find the corpse. A moment of clarity had the elf think of her dead body, if she died - dellusional she could never die - would be eaten by the things she had been forced to witness, the strange looking humanoids, people?, from her twisted imagination with claws and sharp teeth, rotting bodies. But she would never die. It just never registered in her mind that death would happen to her, too.
The elf tried to stand but found her legs not cooperating.


The first sound loud enough for anything close to hear that had come from her mouth for the first time in a while. She reached for her legs that she sat on, finding her fingers uncoopertive also, fumbly and without feeling. It was annoying, and the continuous anger in her chest squeezed ever harder at her innards, at her chest. Her body wasn't listening to her - it was being troublesome, even though it shouldn't. It was betraying her. Though it was due to the cold, she did not think otherwise, thinking her body capable of being perfectly fine. That, or, like death, it had never registered she was mortal and capable of many-a negative things.

Whatever was approaching would see her as a feeble victim. As the blood begun to quite literally freeze upon her ever whitening skin, the red-hued eyes could quite now make out a large figure moving through the snow, closing in on her. Clad head to toe in plate, sending a deathly cold shiver down her spine, the creature - or person - was here to kill her, she thought. She could not allow that. She had to live, to find what, in the back of her mind, she so sought. To herself, though, she did not know her persuit was to seek something, nevermind anything. She had to stand up now. She had to fight off this thing, kill it, and continue moving, moving to somewhere she had no clue where it was. Her conscious mind was twisted either way, rendering her with an unusual thought pattern. Moving was all she could fathom to think about in the black sea of turmoil of her brain.

Her head dropped forwards, betraying her desire to look up, look at what now stood before her. It bobbed as her neck became limp. Exhausted. Too cold.

All she could see, then, as the thing arrived at her wake, were the skull patterned plate boots that crushed the snow and froze it upon contact, as if the owner of the boots was death itself spreading its unholy chill to anything close, a chill that compelled the elf, with a snap, to jut her chin up in one final burst of life to see what loomed above her, staring down, their eyes barely meeting.

Time seemed to pass slowly, drawing on. It could not be measured, like it stood like somehow. It was a little time before either side did anything other than stare.

If you can so stand, you can so serve.

BANE, Vaxir's legacy

Overlord Vaxir had crafted Bane from the very roots up, starting by coercing two creatures to stand at her sides as the Right and Left hands. Her goals were extensive and the two by her sides soon fell from position - one became a nuisance of an enemy through rebellion, the other succumbing to a lowlier, self initiated rank. Many beings joined her infamous ranks and many more proved to not be worthy nor strong enough to continue, many even fleeing her grasp to join the more 'good' natured of the many sides of war.

But two creatures managed to catch her eye and stay stable in their place; Melthurian and Rickarla, two menacing beings manipulated into service. At two separate times but similar in nature, they both crushed the opposition and climbed through the ranks of Bane until Melthurian stood as the left hand, Rickarla as the right. This left Vaxir and her Bane with the two hands once more, Duskwood slowly succumbing to a state of constant terror where shadows lay. Both were granted substantial rewards from the behemoth's own hands, corruption flooding their veins, ensuring they would be worthy of their sub-positions.

This didn't last, however. Melthurian slipped once and the fabled, immense rage of the Blood Master ensured a slow and painful death at her hands until his head was mounted upon a spike protruding from his master's pauldron as a permanent warning to all. The other subordinate leader, Rickarla, was found to scratch around traitorous thoughts as she eventually strode away from Raven Hill and Bane itself, leaving Vaxir with two empty seats at Bane's top. Both had risen. Both had failed. Some lower ranks under the two Overseers followed the path as they left Duskwood and Bane, the Overlord's blood curdling laughter filling the crypts - she now had only the truly corrupted and true to the cause remaining. This, to her, was only beneficial.

So it went that the Blood Master mused over whom to bring to power in her ranks after only the true to the cause were left in service. Eventually one being caught her eye, one of her kind, Qual'kin. With a lacking proposition and instead a forceful hand, the elf was brought into power at Vaxir's side, the behemoth deciding now that one subordinate leader was enough, her previous mistakes long forgotten. All this left Bane with further enemies, her four talon claw mark resting upon a sum of failures and traitors and the few worthy miscreants who refused to fall to their Master or their foes.

What happened after that, though, is unknown. Without warning, Vaxir up and left, telling a handful of her most trusted minions that her return would be inevitable and they should await her presence once more. The beast was last seen ripping open the fabrics of the air and stepping into the darkened realm, leaving nothing but rotting earth where she had stood. Presumably she had taken her work to the icy norths, continuing her corruption and misdeeds there with only a few followers. Only few times did people whisper they had seen an odd, frightful shadow in Duskwood that whispered to them, odd claws snaking out the breach of the darkness, but this could have been mere delusion.

More close to the current date, a man was heard yelling from Raven Hill, running as fast as he could out of the cemetery to anywhere with light and safety. His chest was bloodied, four familiar claw slashes raked deep into his chest. He didn't stop to be helped; the fear on his face could tell a million stories as to why, but one thing was for certain, the blistering marking came from the beast itself...

Finally, Vaxir and her few North-bound subordinates reappeared to the rest of the awaiting Bane for the next phase of the legacy. Proclaiming it now common knowledge, she told her remaining followers what Bane had been all about - making way for the next resurrection of the Scourge. What key knowledge was kept only to the higher ranks now became known to all, telling that they had been manipulating the lesser creatures of the guild all along. These days, though, the ranks preach the ways of the Scourge for all to hear. Whoever joins the cause is rewarded. Whoever fights against the organization is merely destroyed, or even forced into serving as a last act of spite. The new era of the Scourge may be lacking in numbers, but Vaxir, her Bane, is determined to bring it back no matter what. Even with the previous master slumbering in the void, nothing can stop them.

"She... If we can still call her for that... Is what drives me forth, she is what I aim to become. A simple mind of supremacy that would make most people fall to their knees in agony, pain surging through them. She is what weakens my mind, yet keeps it strong. Yet I wonder... How can so much chaos lay such elegant plans?" -
Qual'kin, retainer to the Blood Master.

Malady of the Mind

You feel someone watching you.
You look to the left and the right,
You think that if only you knew,
Whatever was evading your sight,
You try to ignore, but you simply can't,
Perhaps a bug that wants to bite,
That dreaded shiver crawls up your spine,
Do you flee or do you fight?
Once more you turn, convinced you're not alone,
Then you scream, with all your might,
There she stands as clear as day,
Oh dear me, it seems you were right,
The Bloodmaster, The Wrathful,
Such names were made to bring you fright,
It seems the end is near, such a waste,
For all she asks, is a single bite.