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[Spoiler:]

Mal'garr's Opinion of Himself:

Mal'garr Firefist's view on himself is a rather contradictory one. He views himself alternatively as a victim and a villain, largely depending on what's been said to him that day or just, and otherwise based largely arbitrarily on what he's been thinking about around that time. This is in large part due to heavily fragmented memory, and due to his inherent nature as something of a fanatic who now lacks any kind of real ideology.

He believes himself to be highly intelligent and skilled in his craft, while also seeing himself to one degree or another as a traitor to his people. He isn't often willing to admit to this to others, however, due to his inherent sense of pride. It is this pride that has also allowed him to essentially talk himself into a victim complex.

He is, by and large, unsure as to what to do with himself, having gone over the years from a respected Shaman, to one of the servants of the secretive masters of the Orc race, to a hated fugitive, and more recently to an Orc with very little bit military service and his fel-magic to occupy his time and mind.  After his exile and subsequent return as Pariah, he still follows the clan, but even he doesn't entirely know why he bothers. He largely chalks it up to the fact that the few friends he has at his age are all, with the exception of a Dark Ranger, part of the clan.

Mal'garr's Opinion of Others:

Thrash

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr's opinion of Thrash is a fairly simple one. While he's not entirely joking when he calls Thrash "The Idiot" or belittles his intelligence, that doesn't mean he holds him in any contempt. He considers Thrash to be, while a bit dim, his closest friend and ally within the Clan, viewing him almost as a mildly disappointing son. He remembers distinctly that Thrash promised to fight with Mal'garr should his life be in danger, and remembers also that when Trakmar threatened to remove his head Thrash placed himself between Beastbane and Mal'garr. Mal'garr similarly, though he isn't sure if he's said as much to the Idiot, would do his best to protect his life if needs be.

Karnna

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr doesn't entirely understand Karnna. Indeed she rather distinctly confuses him, given her often cold and threatening demeanor. All the same, he has concluded she is an entirely decent Orc. Smarter than most, and one with whom he feels some kinship as she too dabbles with "forbidden" magic from time to time. He considers her a friend.

Kroat

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr can't stand Kroat. He considers him something of an "anti-Thrash". Both are, to Mal'garr's mind, not exactly bright. Both are warriors who believe themselves more competent than they may actually be. Both think themselves funny when they aren't. While in Thrash he finds these traits endearing, due to Kroat's regular harrasment of Mal'garr, in Kroat Mal'garr finds them infuriating. Mal'garr is convinced that he will at some point end up fighting Kroat. He also fully believes he'll win.

Regnan

Spoiler: show

Regnan upsets Mal'garr. For a brief while he believed that he and her got along...passably. She wasn't one of the Orcs he viewed as being an ignorant fool, hating him without cause. Recent events, however, seem to have led her to view him as a monster or abomination. He believes her views rash and misguided, but he doesn't hate her as he hates some, simply because her views are at least based on something HE did to one degree or another.

Kozgugore

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr hasn't interacted often enough with the Chieftain to have a solid grasp on his opinion of him. The few interactions he has had with him led Mal'garr to the opinion that the chieftain is a lot more open and understanding towards Orcs of his profession than his clan seems set up to be. This somewhat confuses Mal'garr, but he overall thinks the Chieftain is decent enough.

Rhonya

Spoiler: show

Rhonya is another Orc Mal'garr simply doesn't understand, to the point at which he views her as a hypocrite. He views her as judgmental, but only to those she does not already know. He sees her as looking down on him for his fel-magic, despite being very close to an Orc he understands was a Warlock until very recently. Her sanctimonious words and apparent judgment of him and his profession don't make sense in his mind when placed next to her closeness to Gashuk. He does not believe this to be a deliberate plot on her part. He views her as a strange kind of non-aggressive zealot who doesn't reflect on her own words and actions.

Trakmar

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr's view of Trakmar is quite simple. Ignorant beast. He detests Trakmar, and makes no attempt to hide this. While he won't openly disobey an order or instruction given by Trakmar, he is very frank about his deep dislike of him. He often finds it confusing when people express concern of confusion as to why Mal'garr dislikes Trakmar as much as he does, given that the Orc openly threatened to cut his head off twice in as many days.

Gashuk

Spoiler: show

 Mal'garr used to hate Gashuk. He has since actually sat down and had a conversation with the orc and his view has changed somewhat. Mal'garr likes Gashuk. He does, however, still hate being compared to him.

Vraxxar

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr likes Vraxxar well enough though he doesn't fully understand him. Mal'garr is fairly certain that Vraxxar views Mal'garr's fel-magic with the same suspicion and distaste that much of the clan sees it with, but at the same time Vraxxar hasn't been unduly rude to Mal'garr and seems to recognize the usefulness of Mal'garr's powers to the clan. Vraxxar is polite to Mal'garr, and Mal'garr appreciates that.

Razaron

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr originally considered Razaron to be one of the Orcs who would oppose him and anything he did when he first approached the clan, but was rather surprised to find Razaron offering himself as Mal'garr's tutor when Mal'garr was eventually given the rank of Newblood. Mal'garr did warm to Razaron over time, but since his own exile he now finds himself unsure and wary around Razaron, not entirely certain where he stands with the one-eyed madman.

Okiba

Spoiler: show

Mal'garr initially was unsure of how exactly he felt about this Orc, internally viewing the generally polite way he was treated by said Orc as being somewhat suspicious. Since then, however, Mal'garr has to his mind worked out that his behavior is not some peculiar trick, and that Okiba is indeed one of the "reasonable" Orcs in the clan. He knows full well that Okiba doesn't particularly care for his Fel-Magic, but he doesn't seem to have branded Mal'garr as a fool or a monster because of it.

Anyone left out I haven't gotten to yet or Mal'garr hasn't interacted with them enough to have a proper opinion of them. 

Mal’garr sat by his fire, at his isolated camp some distance away from the Crossroads. Though he was no longer an exile of the clan, he felt it best to keep himself isolated from them while he worked. He could very well be following their code and commands to the letter, but he did not trust the clan to tell the difference between that and the more frowned upon aspects of his work. His position was tenuous, and he would not risk ignorance on the part of a member of the clan seeing him exiled…again.

Tonight, he did not work, however. Instead he sat, his black book in his lap. Tonight, was another night for remembering, not for work. Some time ago he had been faced with a figure from his past, a female Orc Warlock by the name of Ishgara Blacktalon. In one of the Clan’s…for lack of a better term ‘vision quests’, Karnna Blackfeather had been made to don Blacktalon’s name and face. Mal’garr and Blacktalon knew each other, this much was clear from the re-enactment, but the precise nature of their relationship was unclear.

The details of this were hidden in the fog that clouded Mal’garr’s memory of many of his years serving the Shadow Council. Often, he was glad of this fog. The Council did many terrible things for simple greed, and he was party to several of them. It was easier for him to forget most of it. Sometimes, however, he needed to remember and when he needed to remember, he turned to his book.

The elderly warlock flicked through the pages of his dense, hand-written, tome. He finally reached the page he was concerned with. He ran a finger over the letters, slowly and carefully translating the Eredun script back into Orcish, and then out of the code he had written it in. As he worked, his memory returned.

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Mal’garr was running. His crimson hair flapped madly behind him as he did. He rushed through a forest whose name he did not know, fleeing across country he did not recognize, to an unknown destination. He didn't much care for where he would end up. His concern was entirely on simply being elsewhere.

Everything had gone wrong all at once. The Horde had been taking victory after victory against the feeble inhabitants of this new world. Many of these “Humans” had been slain or taken as slaves or as fuel for the spells of the Council. Much food and loot had been gained. The Horde had bathed itself in glory against these new foes. Then it all fell apart.

Doomhammer, Blackhand’s upstart second-in-command, challenged his rightful leader to single combat, in an effort to become the new Warchief. None had expected him to succeed. He did. After a lengthy confrontation, Blackhand lay dead and Doomhammer was proclaimed Warchief.

Some time earlier, Gul’dan had entered into a deep coma. Some of the Council had fled with his body elsewhere in an effort to save him, but the rest remained. A terrible mistake.

With Gul’dan in a coma, and Blackhand slain, Doomhammer turned his fury upon the Warlocks, and upon those who served the Council most of all. Many Warlocks were given a choice, abandon their fel-magics and they would be spared. The servants of the Council were not granted such clemency. For them there was only one choice offered. Death.

Many of his collegues were cut down before they even knew what was happening. Some attempted to fight back, taking a good number of Orcs with them but still ultimately falling before the numbers of their fellows. Yet others, the wiser of them, fled. Mal’garr was among this number.
Mal’garr fled for some hours, occasionally twisting and turning in his path in an effort to throw off his persuers, every now and again felling a tree with his fel-flames in such a way as to imply he fled east when in fact he fled west. It was only as night began to fall, that Mal’garr finally allowed himself to slow.

He paused in a clearing, listening. He could hear nothing, save the whisper of wind through the trees, and the frantic beating of his own heart. Though the Fel had kept him relatively young and strong, he was still physically an older Orc, and one who had grown used to a somewhat easy life. Such exertion did not come easily to him.

He did not feel safe, but he knew he had to sleep. Mal’garr rested his back against a tree, and gently slid down it, landing on the ground with a thud. He did not have his sleeping things with him, and so would have to make do. He decided that he would sleep lightly, and then continue his flight come the morning. Uncertain of his future, Mal’garr allowed himself to drift off.

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The Warlock awoke with a start. A hand was over his mouth, and a blade to his throat. His eyes darted around, seeking his foe, while his left hand reached for his staff, only to find it had been kicked some distance away. He tried to struggle, but the blade pressed against his throat, drawing a small trickle of unnaturally dark blood. A voice whispered to him. “Calm down, Old Man, it’s only me.” His eyes narrowed, and he stopped struggling. He recognized the voice. It did not belong to one of Doomhammer’s dogs.

“If I let go of your mouth, and take my blade from your throat, do you promise to be good, and not call out or attack me?” The voice asked. Mal’garr nodded slightly, and felt the blade leave his neck, and the hand move from his mouth. His right hand came up to the wound the blade left, rubbing it idly.

Before him, a female Orc moved into view, an orc with long jet-black hair and a cruel face twisted into a mocking smile. Mal’garr considered she may have been beautiful once, had she not allowed her mind and soul to appear so freely in her expressions. “Blacktalon.” Mal’garr spoke, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Firefist.” She responded, her lips curling around her tusks as her smile widened, a grin reminiscent of apes whose smiles are threats. “I do hope you don’t mind me surprising you like that but…I couldn’t be sure how you’d react to my presence.” She idly walked over to Mal’garr’s staff and kicked it over to him. Mal’garr picked it up, but did not stand, instead he laid it across his lap as he stared at Ishgara.

“What do you want from me, Blacktalon?” Mal’garr spoke bluntly and directly. He and Ishgara had known each other for many years. For reasons unknown to him, whenever he had been dispatched on a mission for the Council, more often than not he was paired with her. The two were competitive, and not in a friendly way. They were bitter rivals, often forced to fight over the approval and rewards granted by those of higher standing in the Council. The pair, over the years, had proven themselves to largely be each other’s equals. This fact angered both of them.

“Want from you? Nothing, old man. Unless you consider us traveling together to be a great favor?” Mal’garr’s eyes narrowed, reducing to thin, red, lines of light in the darkness as Blakctalon spoke.

“Why should I want to travel with you?” He asked, Blacktalon merely maintained her smile.

“It’s simple. The servants of Doomhammer are still hunting you, still hunting me, in fact. I don’t doubt you could kill a great number of them before they would bring you down, old man, but they WOULD still bring you down. There is safety to be found in numbers, old man. They may be able to face one of us and succeed, but they could not take us both.”

The pair argued for a short while, until Mal’garr eventually relented, allowing Blacktalon to stay with him and travel with him in his flight. There was logic to her argument, they would be safer together than apart. There was nothing to compete over here, only survival. Blacktalon offered to take the first watch, citing Mal’garr’s advanced age, and him needing the sleep more than her. The old warlock bristled at this, but agreed, returning to sleep.

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Mal’garr awoke the next morning, and panic seized him. He stared at the surroundings. Sunlight streamed into the clearing, a clearing that was empty save for a campfire in it’s center he did not recall building. His staff lay propped up by a tree some distance from him, despite him knowing he fell asleep with it in his lap. He attempted to stand, but found it difficult, as rope now bound him to the tree against which he had slept. He was able to stand, pushing himself and the rope up the trunk of the tree, but was unable to free himself. He tried to call out in anger but found his mouth had been gagged and he could not form the words. He tried to conjure up his flames, to burn away the rope…but found he could not. His eyes turned downwards, and he saw a curious glowing crystal around his neck. He did not recognize its design, but he assumed it’s function. It served to cut him off from his fel-magics, to ensure he could not call upon them to escape.

Blacktalon, it seemed, had betrayed him, but to what end he did not know. Surely Doomhammer’s dogs were far behind them, and such treachery served only to spite him? He would find his way free, in time, if given chance.

He would not be granted that chance however. He heard voices, low, harsh, and guttural, approaching from beyond the clearing. Along with the voices he heard the stamping of booted feet and the grinding of armor plates scratching against each other, and the slither of mail. Into the clearing stepped three Orcs, their blackened hides and orange eyes showing them to be Blackrocks. Each was armored, each carried a large weapon, two axes, and one hammer.

The hammer bearer, whose more ornate armour marked him out as the leader, glanced around the clearing, until his eyes locked on Mal’garr. His face split into a grin, and he casually strolled towards Mal’garr, his hammer swinging through empty air. “Well, well, well! Look what we have here boys! A warlock, all trussed up and waiting for us!” He laughed a deep, throaty, and cruel laugh. His fellows joined in.

One of the axe wielders spoke up. “Hey…that ain’t just a Warlock. Ain’t that Firefist? He’s one of the Council boys!” The leader looked Mal’garr over more carefully, taking particular note of his left hand, a blackened thing with the texture of coal.

“So it is! So it is! Good eye Dru’gash, I’d almost missed that. I was about to just smash this one’s head with my hammer and move on, but this one is a Council lad, and as such he deserves special treatment, don’t you think boys?”

The axe wielders laughed and cheered on their leader. Mal’garr simply stared at him. The leader pulled back his hammer and swung it with all the strength he could muster.

Mal’garr had been expecting the Orc to still crush his skull, or to perhaps attempt to cave in his chest. He had been expecting a painful, but quick, death. Instead, he felt intense pain…and a sudden sense of dread. The hammer swing had not been aimed at any vital part of him. Instead, the hammer had met with his left leg, shattering and destroying many of the bones within, leaving the leg a twisted ruin. He tried to cry out in pain, but could not due to the gag. Instead, a muffled howl came out, leaving him sounding almost as if he was gibbering.
Mal’garr began to fall, the pain of what had happened sapping all of the strength from him. The two axe-wielders wouldn't let that happen. They went to his side and held him up by his arms. Mal’garr was forced to again look into the eyes of their leader, who simply smiled, and pulled back his hammer again.

The other leg was shattered, much as the first was. Now, they let Mal’garr fall. He fell to the ground howling as the weight of his torso pressed on his ruined legs The Blackrock leader nodded to one of the axe-wielders, who then used his axe to cut away the ropes that bound Mal’garr to the tree. The elderly warlock collapsed forward onto the ground, landing face first into the dirt, and chest first onto a rock.

The collision with the rock caused the crystal around his neck to shatter, and the restraint placed on him to be removed. He could feel his powers again, though he remained in the dirt for a short while. The orc leader stood over him, hammer in hand. “This is the price you pay for what you did to our race, traitor!” He raised his hammer over his head…but would not get the chance to swing it.

Mal’garr pushed himself up with his right hand and extended his left towards the hammer-wielder. A flare of emerald fire erupted from the blackened ruin that was his hand and consumed the body of the Blackrock leader. After just a few moments, he collapsed to the ground as a charred skeleton held within blackened armor, his hammer falling harmlessly onto the ground behind him. One of the axe-weilders rushed Mal’garr, attempting to avenge his fallen comrade, only to suffer the same fate, being reduced to blackened bones within moments. Mal’garr searched for the third but found that the one named Dru’gash had fled. His cowardice saved his life.

Mal’garr tore the gag from his mouth, and attempted to stand, but could not. His legs quite simply could not carry him any longer. He dragged himself pathetically towards his staff, eventually reaching it and attempting to pick himself up with it, but even with it’s support the pain was too great. He simply could not walk any longer.

Some Orcs would have simply lain there, giving up, and allowing themselves to die. Mal’garr was not an orc of that kind. He crawled through the dirt, like a worm. He crawled through that forest for many days, consuming the life-force of any animal, human, or even orc he came across for some time, trying to recover his strength.

By the end of his ordeal, he would be able to stand again, though his legs would forever be twisted, ruins of their former selves. He swore vengeance on Doomhammer, vengeance he would never be able to take, for what had been done to him. He swore vengeance upon the Blackrock who escaped him, the one named Dru’gash. Most of all, however, he swore vengeance on Ishgara Blacktalon, for sacrificing him to the Blackrocks, assuming she had done so merely to slow them down. Give them him to play with so they would slow their pursuit of her, or forgo it entirely.

Mal’garr swore that, should he ever find Blacktalon…he would do far worse to her than was done to him.

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Mal’garr Firefist closed his book in his lap, and looked to his fire, his expression grim and thoughtful. There was a reason he allowed much of his past to remain lost to him, in the fog of his mind.

Just gonna throw out some Mal'garr here.

Is good, but then I'm always well disposed when my name comes up, so I'm a bit biased.

This makes me annoyed that there isn't just a button I can hit to say I liked something on here, because that's really my only comment.

Mal’garr Firefist reclined on a bed in the Razor Hill Tavern. His recent injury at the hands of the centaur raiders had forced him to cease actively serving with the Clan for a while as he healed. This pleased him, looking on his wounding as an opportunity to rest and to reflect. His robes had been ruined by the injury, befouled by blood and torn by the centaur’s spear. As such he now sat draped in simpler attire. For once, a passing glance may not have revealed him as being a Warlock, were it not for the fel-fire erupting from his staff and the red glow of his eyes.

From his belt hung two books, clasped and carefully carried. One held information on the spirits revered by the Red Blade clan. He had studied the book well prior to his injury and had already re-read it since his wounding. It was not to this book he would turn today. Instead he turned to the other. A black tome with crisp, parchment pages. The language inside was Orcish, though written in a form of code, as many of the private works of Warlocks are. Today, Mal’garr had a taste for reminding himself of his own history. He took the black book from his belt and opened it in front of him. He turned it back, far back, to many years past. Though the book was more of an instruction manual on how to perform the work his profession demanded, simply reading the script he had penned when he was a relative novice was enough to take him back to those times…

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Mal’garr stood proudly, doing his best to communicate pride, control, and command, as he watched the Horde forces pour into Azeroth through the Dark Portal for the first time. His hood was down, his red and silver hair and beard waving gently in the wind. This world was truly beautiful to him. Though they had emerged into little better than a swamp, the sight of such life filled the Warlock with hope. His world was dying, but this world fair-teemed with life still. A new life could be built here for his people, once they overcame whatever creatures called this world home. Though, that was simply a matter of time. They were Orcs, what could possibly stand against them?

Mal’garr’s attention was grabbed as another group of Orcs emerged from the portal. The old Orc grinned. Among the fresh batch of warriors who had emerged from the portal, came some of his own blood. His son, and his son, Zul’garr and Zuk’garr, marched alongside the Orc soliders who had emerged to claim this world for them. Zuk’garr, just barely an adult, did his best to stand tall among the more grizzled veterans surrounding him. He had seen little to no combat in the war with the hated Draenei. The young one hoped to prove himself to his father and grandfather in the taking of this new world. The young warrior turned as he marched, saw his grandfather, and grinned, offering a brief salute. Mal’garr returned the gesture with a smile and a slight nod of the head.

Zuk’garr cared for his grandfather and wished to win his approval. His father, Zul’garr, did not. For some time now, Zul’garr had been transparently baring a grudge against his father. Likely due to the fact that age only seemed willing to touch one of them. While Mal’garr’s hair was still red, with occasional silver lines the only obvious sign of his age, his son’s hair had long since turned to a dirty grey. Often had Zul’garr questioned why it is that age did not lie so heavily upon Mal’garr, an orc near twice his age. Mal’garr answered him honestly, that such was the price paid by those who refused to fully embrace the gifts granted them by the new forces at their command.

The taking up of Fel-Magic had never sat well with Zul’garr, though he had been wise enough to not openly question it’s use. He was not a Shaman, he had no mind for such things. When the time came to embrace the demon blood, he did like almost all others, though he did so with reluctance. Zul’garr caught his father’s eye. He gave him a curt nod and received one in response.

Mal’garr returned his gaze to this new world for a moment, thinking. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his mate standing behind him, dressed in the same dark robes that he wore, the robes that marked the two of them as agents of the Shadow Council to those who had the knowledge to spot such things. She said something to him. He couldn’t recall what she said. Her skin was as green as his, her eyes glowing as red. He recalled thinking that the Fel had done great things. It had made his people strong, him powerful, and his mate more beautiful. The pair then turned to continue watching the armies of the Horde marching to this new world, hopeful about what the future would bring to their people.

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Mal’garr closed the book in his lap, tugging at his long white beard, and smiling softly. Even then, after the horror of the war with the Draenei, he was still naïve. He envied the naivety of his past. Mal’garr returned the book to his belt, curled up, and slept.

Mal’garr stood tall upon the grasslands of the Shadowmoon Valley, staring out into the distance, feeling the wind rush through his long, reddish-brown hair. He strode proudly across the landscape as he surveyed his surroundings, clear-blue eyes twinkling in early morning sun. His son, Zul’garr, was ahead of him, garbed in furs and clutching a simple axe. The pair were on a hunt. Not a hunt for food, or for any particular goal, simply hunting for the joy of it. The meat from whatever they brought down would be cooked and eaten, but failure would not mean starvation. The animal’s pelt would be used to make clothing, but failure did not mean that any would go without. This time was good, for the Shadowmoon Clan. They were in harmony with the elements of the World, and their reward was abundance.

Zul’garr called out for Mal’garr. He had spied something. Mal’garr rushed towards his son, drawing a hand axe from his belt. He held the weapon in his right hand, leaving his left free. His left was covered in tattoos and markings, symbols of devotion to the element of fire. Though Mal’garr was no warrior, his affinity with fire was great enough to have earned him the name Firefist. A name he would pass down to his children to be worn with honour. A name to show that he and his line were favoured by the elements.

As he reached his son, Mal’garr found there was no game. His grandson, Zuk’garr, pointed into the distance, at a hunched figure. Mal’garr could not recall when his grandson had appeared, but he gave it little thought. The figure in the distance was crooked-backed and robed. It held a staff of bone which glowed with an unhealthy light, and it’s body and face were hidden by robes.

The trio approached the figure, Mal’garr leading, as was his duty as a father. He called out to the figure, announcing his presence. The figure turned, and fear suddenly knotted in the Shaman’s stomach. This creature was a danger. It should not be here. Mal’garr roared a challenge and raised his axe, a fire forming in his left hand ready to strike the robed creature down. The fire sputtered out and the axe fell from his hand, weakness striking him suddenly.  Mal’garr collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

Now facing them, Mal’garr could see that the robed figure was an Orc, but unlike any he had ever seen. It’s skin was bright green, and it’s eyes a burning red. Vile green fire and smoke spewed from the staff it supported itself with. His son and grandson charged the creature, prepared to defend Mal’garr, and avenge the hurt done to him. Mal’garr tried to call out to them, but was unable.

A gout of green flame rushed forth to meet them and they were consumed by the fire. Having barely been able to put up a fight, their bodies collapsed to the ground, burnt-out husks. Mal’garr tried to pick himself up, tried to run, but he could not. His legs would not respond to him.
The robed orc approached him, and stood over him, staring. It’s eyes burning red. He realized he recognized the figure. The recognition disturbed him. It spoke.

“Weak. Pathetic. Betrayed.”

It then held it’s left hand out to Mal’garr, a twisted burning ruin of a hand. Green flame erupted from the charred flesh, and came towards him.

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Mal’garr Firefist woke with a sudden start. It was the middle of the night. The cave in which he slept was pitch black, only lit occasionally by the green flare of the fel-comets that still battered what remained of the Valley. A hulking dark figure stood at the mouth of the cave, guarding it. Upon hearing it’s master awake, it turned, and spoke in Eredun. Mal’garr responded.

“I am perfectly fine, Kizgorod. Just a bad dream. You’re not rid of me just yet, Demon.”

The creature turned away, and returned to it’s guard duty. Mal’garr lay back down again.

“I’ll only be here for one more day, then back home. I hate this blasted World.”

[Name:]

Name:
Mal'garr Firefist (Malgarr)

Level:
110

Tell us something about your (role)playing experience:
I've been roleplaying in both WoW and Star Wars: The Old Republic for a good while. I started Roleplaying in WoW around the release of Cataclysm on US servers in essentially a "RP Storyline Villains for Hire" guild as a Mana-Obssessed Blood Elf called Jallen Orianth, who was predominantly a coward and a show-off. My then longest running RP character was Edmuuzen Kingsman, a Sith Lord in SWTOR. I portrayed him as another cowardly figure who used trickery and Sith Sorcery to succeed while being physically inept. I also served as an officer in that particular guild for about seven months before leaving the guild as it drew to a close as guilds often do. Many of those guild members went on to run an RP guild on Alliance side Argent Dawn, but being a Hordie type I had to abandon them, sadly. Upon returning to WoW I've played Mal'garr with a few different concepts and personalities, though this was hampered by me spending a good while involved in raiding instead of RP. I also roleplay extensively outside of MMOs in tabletop RPGs and the suchlike. I generally play eitheir violently against type, or seemingly violently to type but with aspects of the character's personality that clash with the image they attempt to present of themselves.


And finally, please write a short story and/or (IC) introduction about your character:  (Sorry if it's a bit much)
Life is ofttimes hard for an Orc Warlock. They are, understandably, treat with a level of barely hidden contempt, if not open contempt. They are considered a necessary evil by their own people. This worsens, the older one is. The older the Orc speaking with the warlock is, the more they remember the great betrayal that could very well have meant doom for their people. The older the warlock is, the closer they were to the source of that betrayal. Mal'garr is a warlock, and he is very old.

He was once a Shaman of his people, one who specifically communed with that most fickle of elements; fire. He was also of the Shadowmoon Clan, and as such was one of the first of his people to embrace the arts of the Warlock. He was already getting on in years by that time, to the degree at which the fact that he still lives in this day and age is both impressive and somewhat worrying. He fought alongside his kin in the wars against the Draenei, serving Ner'zhul and Gul'dan loyally, as many of his people did in the early days of the original Horde. He seemed even to remain loyal to the Old Horde regime even as times grew leaner following the defeat of the Draenei, as their home slowly burned and died under their feet. As the time came to invade Azeroth even, he stood proudly with his clan brothers, ready to surge into this new world, and claim it for his people. It came as quite a shock then that, shortly after arriving in Azeroth, Mal'garr vanished entirely.

He only returned many years later, long after the first, second, and even third wars. Orgrimmar had finally been established fully, and the Dark Portal was set to open again. Prior to it's re-opening, Mal'garr emerged from wilderness of Kalimdor, and threw himself on the mercy of Thrall's Horde, asking to return to his people. This return was granted. In the years since, Mal'garr Firefist has served as a sanctioned military Warlock of the Horde, fighting in the Outlands, in Northrend, and most recently against the invading Burning Legion. Alongside this, he has developed some mysterious ties to the Forsaken, apparently performing some kind of "research" for them that he refuses to speak about in any detail.

With the recent fall of the Legion, and the imprisonment of the Dark Titan Sargeras, Mal'garr has grown concerned. In the years since his return he was insisted on claiming allegiance still to the Shadowmoon Clan, despite them being largely dead, or still considered traitors to the Orcish people. Now, with the uncertain future of the Warlocks, he finds that he needs less theoretical allies.