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About Spooky

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    At least we're all white on the inside.
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  1. Colour is only skin deep.
  2. I consider it a greater loss for abyss really.
  3. I would ask for WoD, simply because I prefer newer versions of WoW. They're more pleasing on the eye and in hindsight WotLK is starting to look like a dog's breakfast. Then again, I would take 3.3.5a over an unstable core anyday. I have faith in the devs though! Go for it!
  4. Big sis.
  5. Constitution:2 Senses: Strength: Dexterity: 1 Wisdom: 2 Willpower: Ingenuity: 2 Haste: Fortune: 2 HP(10+ 4 per Constitution): 18 Racial Trait: Draenei Artificer (+1 Wisd +1 Ing)
  6. Its the weird line across the back of the neck that triggers me. Looks like they're dolls!
  7. Who is the first spacegoat now, eh?
  8. Constitution:2 Senses:0 Strength:3 Dexterity:1 Wisdom: Willpower:0 Ingenuity:2 Fortune:0 Haste:1 Total HP (10 +4 per point in Constitution.): 18 Racial Modifier: Human Worker (+2 ING)
  9. Race: Human Age: 21 Birthplace: Lordaeron Relatives: Amber Webb (older sibling) Residence: Theramore Religion: The Church of the Holy Light (not very religious, however) Affiliations: Theramore, The Alliance Profession: Blacksmith, Man-at-arms. Hobbies and Interests: Metal Sculpting, Hunting, and Lute practice. Marc is a young man who has grown into his peak condition; he is tall with broad shoulders and a youthful well-defined face. He has dark brown hair and muddy green eyes. The few years pounding metal in the Theramore blacksmiths has shaped his muscles, and his passion for hunting has made Marc a fast and fit. Marc is hardly an extrovert, he prefers to keep his head down and focus on his work or hobbies. He has so far led a relatively solitary life, only mixing with those who frequent the smithy and avoiding the tavern if he can help it. Despite this Marc is quite close to his older sister Amber, who he still looks up to. While he may be quiet, Marc is quite a gentle, friendly young man who would give you the cloak off his back if you needed it, and tries his best to leave a positive impression with strangers even if they do not become friends. Reaching adulthood has forced Marc to break out of his shell somewhat, and the recent siege of Theramore put him in a number of near death experiences that would put a new appreciation of life in any man. Marcus Alexander Webb was the second child and only son of blacksmith and a seamstress. He and his older sister, Amber, grew up in a modest household within an unremarkable village in the grand Kingdom of Lordaeron. Simple folk living simple lives that had little time for great kings, elves, or faraway wars. At least, that was what Marcus’ father preferred. He had married his wife, who before becoming a settled seamstress was a travelling troubadour or minstrel. She spent most evenings singing and playing her lute, and on occasion regaling her children of travels around the known world. While Amber liked to sing with their mother, Marcus preferred the lute. Together they made quite the little band. While Amber was struck with wanderlust, Marc was always a home-bird. Seeing this, his father began teach Marcus a thing or two about metallurgy and blacksmithing with the intention of passing down the trade one day. Life trundled onwards without a hitch and the Webbs remained proudly, stubbornly normal. That was until the plague arrived in Lordaeron. Rumour had reached many too late that it was the grain that was infected, rumours also spun bizarre tales that the plague would bring its victim back to life to attack the living. To be certain, Marc and his father burnt all of their grain supply from that years harvest and resorted to a diet of fish, hunting game and potatoes instead. That should be enough, they thought, all that talk of the end of the world was just sheer nonsense. However, much to their horror, it turned out the surreal stories of the dead rising were true. They attacked at night. Rotten limbs of ghoulish creatures smashed through windows and battered the heavy door. Marc had jumped out of bed and made for the sword over the mantelpiece only to find his father already had it and was pointing it at the doorway. Marc’s mother was standing petrified behind him holding a frying pan. His father grabbed him by the collar and told him to run. “I can fight!” Marc said. “No!” His father shouted, and gave Marc a clout around the head to make a point of it. The front door had begun to break down, and with a mighty shove Marc’s father sent him careering towards the workshop door at the rear. “Go find your sister!” He heard his father command. Fearing for his life, Marcus fled through the workshop and into the yard. Behind him he heard his father yell, his mother’s screams and the sound of fighting but he did not turn. He ran, through fields and countryside, he ran until his bare feet bled. After many hours he found soldiers, and relative safe haven. In time he managed to find Amber alive and told her the whole story. With their life turned upside-down, and with nothing more to lose, both Amber and Marc found themselves fleeing Lordaeron on boats as part of Lady Jaina Proudmoore’s exodus to the faraway western lands of Kalimdor. It was there that Theramore was built, and Marc had remained there ever since. Amber became involved with Theramore’s military, though Marc preferred to work the home front and help set up a blacksmith in the fledgling city. Marc did a lot of growing up in a very short amount of time, but he always blamed himself for the loss of his parents. Inexplicably perhaps, because there was not much he could do, but the guilt was there all the same. He vented his anger by pounding metal, but otherwise remained his quiet, sensible and friendly self. The recent siege upon Theramore and the attack of the Grimtotem gave Marc his first taste of serious combat, although he always made weapons of war he had never killed before then. In a time of great peril for Theramore, Marc has come out of his shell and stands by his sister and with the people of Theramore to face whatever odds. Image Source: Oddsman by Ryan-Alexander-Lee
  10. Rolling.
  11. Didn't sign in, D'oh.