Firas



Firas is a quick tongued student of fel magic, having taken up the arts relatively late in his life. Quick to learn when he manages to give an effort, this underachiever would be content to laze about Silvermoon if the drums of conflict did not rumble so often throughout Azeroth. As such, he has picked up the stave and prepares to put himself at use for The Sunguard, and for The Horde. However, one to put words before swords most of the time, the blood elf enjoys dishing out a tongue lashing over an actual lashing as necessary during the reckless standoffs of the Murder Row steps.

An observer, Firas mostly blends in with his surroundings. His back is found against the wall, his gaze set either at his feet or at the passerby; nothing seems interesting about this civilian-- until he steps forward and opens his mouth. An opportunity at a roguish quip or snide remark never misses Firas' judgement, he finds no greater joy than to see those around him curl their lips into a grin, either at his jokes, or at him. His voice carries all the mirth of a bard, he'd be one to serenade the masses were it not that his voice was so off pitch. Still, what his voice lacked in beauty was made up in substance; his tone always conveyed a very real sense of emotion, Firas was the very opposite of a monotone. He had confidence without cockiness, though, this is not to say he never finds himself at a loss for words. In fact, when pressed on a serious matter, Firas tends to lean to the latter when 'fight or flight' kicks in.

His attitude holds true to his looks, for the most part. A smooth mane of light-brown hair drapes just past his shoulders, perhaps a little shorter than how so many of the other elves wear their hair. Dark, green eyes contrast against the light skin and softer features that define his face. His large mouth seemed almost to hold too many teeth, the banana grin he so often wore reveals a swath of white chompers. Perhaps an appropriate resemblance could be drawn from a very tame crocolisk. A glance could tell that he had not reached an age of wisdom, perhaps an age more of debauchery. His well built shoulders gave the elf an unusually muscular physique for a spell caster, though he didn't have much of an idea of how to put it to use. His wide chest led down to a waist that was more appropriately sized for a magister, finally leading down to a pair of legs and feet that were not much to speak of.

A brief excerpt from the warlock's journal,

"Damn, and here I thought that this was a nice neighborhood. I come into my room, only to find that the place had been ransacked! Chests all searched through, bookshelf disheveled and unorganized, crimson sheets torn from the bed-- I mean sheets! Like I'm hiding a stash of gold coins in my mattress?! I'm not some bloody goblin! Luckily, most of what was taken is replaceable. A few common books, a very stylish jacket, and a little trinket that I picked up in the Lower City, though I'm not sure that the thing worked in the first place... All in all I should probably consider myself lucky that I didn't leave anything more valuable there in the first place. Probably just some wretched scrounging around for mana gems or the like. Regardless, my studies call. Wonderful."