|Guild||Bloodforged, but secretly of the Lordaeron Socialist Front|
|Weight||slightly above 200 kg. The plate doesn’t come off anymore, after all.|
|Birthplace||Nameless Lordaeranean Hamlet #37|
|Current Residence||Anywhere she can escape the mocking voices of the crab pots.|
- "The porridge is just FINE, Nathaniel, stop being so picky. Andorhol wouldn’t have sent us that grain if there was something wrong with it. Stop being paranoid, I’m not having any because there isn’t enough. You’re a growing boy, eat up!"
- —Brunhylde, to her nephew
An overburdened steed churns the soil of what has come to be called the Eastern Plaguelands, its hooves churning the long-abandoned soil as it carries its rider onward. When it stops, a steel-wrapped foot crunches to the flagstones, crushing a thing sprouting from between them too full of plague to be called vegetation. The being, for it draws breath enough to be called such, if only barely, brings forth a tremendous blade, carved with ancient sigils that throb with power. It thrusts it point downwards into the ground before it, leaning on the sword with both hands as it beholds what has become of the once-mighty city of Stratholme.
It helped to bring this about, it knows. But what to do of that now? How to express the rage and humiliation at such a failure, at having been so blind? It has a sword, it could fall upon it, but that would be but one more symbol devoid of meaning in a world already glut of such. Besides, all that would do to it would be engaging in the waste of a perfectly good surcoat. It smiled. Perhaps a symbol that would have some small sliver of meaning, instead.
It gripped the hilt of its sword tightly, tearing it from between the stones to aim it’s edge, and with that it’s raging malice at the uncaring heavens, and cried in a voice like thunder, “By the power foolishly vested in me by Arthas Menethil, son of High King Terenas and by right true heir to the throne of Lordaeron, I hereby call this second meeting of the Lordaeron Socialist Front to order!”
The Brunhylde Shoe of today is not the same as the one prior to the reopening of the Dark Portal, and Azeroth’s attack upon Outland and the evils vying for control over it. Nor are either of these particularly similar to the one who existed before what historians try to tidy up and neatly file away as The Third War. But the Brunhylde Shoe of today is the one who is likely to be seen tomorrow and, barring a bronzing of events, the day after.
She, like most of the Death Knights who have turned from the Lich King’s service to fight, presumably, once more for Light and life, strikes an imposing figure. She is of considerable height for a human, though the question of how much of that height her body naturally possesses beneath the plates of steel and how much springs from necrotic enhancement is one, while pertinent, is best left unasked. Similarly, while her armour suggests a conjunction of shapes between shoulder hip and waist which would indeed be enviable, if the price of a good woman is proverbially above rubies, how many sold rubies does it take to equal a soul? Her hair is of medium length, and bone white in hue, it hangs limply behind her, generally simply tucked into her armor after too long crushed beneath the fearsome helmet she no longer wears. Her cloudy blue eyes are often distant, as she is quite prone to being waylaid in the back-alleys of memory, and in such unguarded times she betrays herself as one who as aged too much for the time she has been given. Still, there is no way forward to tomorrow save through today, and she does her best to put forth a happy face, and a bright outlook that someday the Great Task will be complete, and all Scourge, herself and the other ‘reformed’ Death Knights included, can be put forever to rest. No one has gotten around to telling her about the Forsaken yet.
Regardless, she betrays some inklings of vanity. Her armour is generally quite clean, not the workman’s cleanliness of making sure bits of other people aren’t caking up around the joints, but fastidiously so, to the point that what few friends she has within the Alliance which was so gracious as to take her back into its folds speak in hushed whispers of some dread event known as “the polish intervention.”
In da progress! Stop poking meee!
The Polish Intervention (unwritten, won’t be until one’s actually played the character some) Gotta get around to it.