Appearance and DemeanorEdit
Roderik Wakefield is a tall, broad man reaching a height of 6'1'. Despite his height, he is very thin and frail-looking, and would give anyone the appearance of severe illness. Fair, unkempt hair sits atop his head, a light dusting of gray lost within his thick, golden curls. But his sharp and erratic movements, partnered with his rugged features do not show any distinguishable signs of age. Always with bags under his eyes, and regularly bloodshot, it reveals the secrets of many restless nights. Roderik's dental hygeine is also unsatisfactory, and the pipe constantly held between his lips explains the yellowing of his teeth and the receding of his gums.
At one time, he would have been seen wearing the finest, handcrafted garments of his own creation, but recently he is seen travelling in a weather-beaten hat, leather jerkin and a crisp, white shirt, finished with thick, leather hiking boots and gloves, studden on the knuckles. Though the materials are of poor quality in the sense of style, they are incredibly durable, and have the most beautiful stitching. Once again, a show of his unique crafting style with both linen and leather.
Personality and BackgroundEdit
Roderik Wakefield was a hard-working, dedicated, and incredibly independant from a young age. Unfortunately, he was also incredibly selfish and angered many people with his ways. He was also an incredibly well-known tailor in Gilneas and during the course of his life his fame spanned to the other kingdoms, flocking customers from miles around, before the tragic events occurred and the city was reduced to ruins. He never took his profession lightly, favouring bespoke tailoring to the cheaper, long-distance process that many others of his trades prefer. You can guarantee clothing from him would be of the finest quality, and unique to the wearer. Such skill was flaunted later on in life, Roderik Wakefield donning a beautiful outfit. It was his best work, and was all the public saw him wear. Such beauty was unparalleled at the time, and to retain his unique figure Roderik refused to replicate the suit for anybody who requested it.
Born and raised on the outskirts of Gilneas, his family life was rough and unsatisfying. His mother (Constance Wakefield) a harvest witch, and his father (Gabriel Wakefield) a dedicated soldier in the city itself. Whenever his father returned home, his parents argued frequently. His mother expected her son to be dedicated to plants and the world around him, bringing countless harvests to feed the whole kingdom. He didn't care for growing the crops, only eating his fill and working for his own ends. Such selfish actions left him hungry when night fell, and with a vicious bruise as punishment. His father's parenting style was considerably crueller, as expected, he wanted his son to fight alongside the King when he reached adulthood, and find a better wife than he did himself. Roderik never did like fighting, and he didn't expect to fight for anybody but himself, the constant torment and discipline of the soldier's life too exhausting for him.
Surprisingly enough, he really gained a passion and overwhelming joy from stitching. Generally a female stereotype to be able to repair clothing, both parents disapproved of such a decision. But he ignored these words, despite the beating he recieved and adapted to. Roderik did as many small repair jobs he possibly could, raising his own money for several years. Even at such a young age he gained some fairly expensive habits, smoking and drinking addictions being fueled by his father's similiar tastes, Roderik resorted to stealing from his parents without a second thought. Such habits made the boy frequently ill, and it's nothing short of a miracle that the boy survived.
Due to the losing a childhood, he planned his future, having something much larger in mind.
Moving Inwards, Moving OnEdit
Sick of the tyranny of his parents, and the conflict they threw him in the middle of, Roderik left as soon as he came of age. Spending his life savings, earned by his stitching and whatever he could steal from his family, to buy a small and rundown little house in the bustling center of Gilneas, that was converted into a small tailors he called 'Bespoke, Cut & Stitch'. The clientele was small, and most of the time he only repaired the clothes of the poor or homeless. It took a considerable amount of time for his business to gain any headway, paupers never paying more than a few copper coins. It was enough to feed him, but it wasn't the life he wanted to live. Luckily, his natural affinity and childhood practices to tailoring is what spread the word. Those of a higher class hated to see the serfs and drunkards with fine stitching, and flocked to the source of the commotion. What they did not expect to see was a grotty little house in the city center. Rotting floors and walls, flies and rats swarming the surrounding buildings. Wealthier families hated such a cesspit, but the clothes seemed worth it. Though made of wool or linen, the clothes were stitched beautifully, and provided an excellent boon to his business.
With money flowing in at a steady pace, Roderik decided to try his hand at leatherworking. Though much more difficult, he taught himself the basics. Which allowed him to place a price on repairs for shoes, jerkins and leather bags of different varieties. The radical income from such wealthy customers was invested directly into the tailory. Finer materials, such as silk and velvet being purchased. Dramatic repairs on the building also dipped into the profits, but gathered a larger crowd. His store had to look the part if Roderik was going to reel in some serious buyers. The fine silks provided even greater profits, quickly refilling his coffers. Mr. Wakefield strategically stocked in linen and wool, just because he could afford greater materials did not mean the poorer inhabitants of Gilneas wouldn't pay a pretty penny for clothes, albeit dull-coloured clothes with as much vibrancy as a dead moth. Expensive silks, strong needles and dyed threads also took a chunk out of the salary with each order. He was just pleased that the rich would pay a high price for his clothing, and so the price was drastically higher, claiming that you cannot put a price on quality. Roderik decided to spend the minimal amount of money he can on food, and simple pleasures such as liquour and tobacco. Almost to the point of starving himself, such dedication to the business rewarded him, all free time spent sewing or sleeping. Not arguing with anyone who will retaliate, drinking until unconcious, and generally staring up skirts.
Scaffolding was being built on the borders of the kingdom, and those on the outside of Gilneas went into frenzied panic. Rushing inland towards the city, it provided many businesses with new and willing customers. Many looking for accomodation and even resorting to living with other families. Small shops were bathing in the coin the most, but were soon overwhelmed with greed and had to close down, struggling to buy new stock for the wave of desperate buyers. This then led to families having to spend all the money they had on larger businesses, such as the increasingly popular tailory 'Bespoke, Cut & Stitch'. Luckily, his leatherworking practices had aided him, having to repair the footwear of weary, traveling families. Silverpine was a good distance away, and many holes and tears needed stitching. Though he kept the prices relatively low, the sheer amount of repairs that needed doing increased profits tenfold. As usual, Roderik spent such profits on improvements to his materials, and expanding his workshop. All the effort put into a solo business was making Roderik weary, but the surrounding stalls had noticed his increasing wealth and prosperity. Two rivaling tailors even began to hate Mr. Wakefield with a passion, and envied his success.
The skilled Gilnean masonry was becoming visible in the distance, and the newly proclaimed Greymane Wall was nearing completion. With the large abundance of wealth Roderik was now collecting, he decided to spare his coffers of any unnecessary spending. After a few months' time, a large accumulation of wealth was stashed away, and 'Bespoke' shut its doors from the public: no longer selling his wares to the eagerly awaiting customers. Roderik's rivals reveled at such a blessing, but soon succumbed to the same fate of the smaller businesses in the past. Threats of bankruptcy terrified the owners, and an insulting offer was presented to them. Roderik invested in his rivaling businesses with what money he had stored and hidden, saying he would keep them running if he received half of the money they earned. Without a choice, and fearing the streets, both tailors reluctantly agreed. Struggling with half their regular income, and providing Wakefield with a steady flow of gold that allowed luxuries without the struggle of creating his own garments. Many presumed this to be his early retirement, now he seemed settled for life. Roderik used this steady income to send for materials, luxorious silks and velvets of the highest quality, local skins and hides, wools from the local farmers and soft linen for the lining of his garments. He also sent for strong, long lasting needles, and durable cottons and threads. These large, rash decisions and shipments spread rumours and commotion through the city center, and Roderik's two smaller buildings were curious as to what he was doing, and assuming that the man was going insane.
With the Greymane Wall looming, and threatening to lock him out forever, Gabriel Wakefield decided to move into the city, leaving his hag of a wife on the fields and in the family home, as she was too stubborn to leave the life and cottage she came to love. She was eventually locked out in the open expanse of Silverpine without a child or husband to her name, and a field to till alone. Gabriel himself had the cheek and irony to ask his son for a bed, in his own home, and was refused on the spot. Only days later did he finally accept his father into his home. With three buildings to his name, and bathing in the glamour of success, Roderik decided his life was still too difficult. He hired his own father to run pathetic errands, like delivering letters to his two smaller companies, collecting payments, filing his paperwork and delivering the garments he made to the exclusive few who would pay enough. He reduced his father to the same neglect and irony he had put his boy through in his childhood, all for the petty price of one meal a day and a louse-filled pile of straw for a bed. The only positive term of the arrangement being Roderik making his father a wonderful velvet suit, to brag his skill and reduce his father to wearing the clothing that made his son a renowned success. Gabriel being a retired war veteran, he didn't have a considerable amount of choice but to obey such ridicule.
Tragedy and LossEdit
The Greymane Wall was finished, and Gilneas was sealed away from the rest of the world, the cocky attitude of a Gilnean stating that they didn't require Lordaeron or Stormwind to be superior. Tensions were rising as people adapted to their imprisonment, and it wasn't long until people lashed out at eachother, and the city split down the middle. Gabriel stood alongside Greymane, and dragged Roderik into the conflict, the Civil War striking Gilneas with a bang. The poor tailor was thrown into the life he was trying to avoid since childhood, being forced to swing a sword and trained in the basics of combat. Many poor and hardy families had joined Crowley in the war, most of them people he had guiltlessly tricked into paying an insuffferable amount of coin.
Roderik wasn't meant to survive, he was fodder for the front lines. Cannons and rifles shot along the plains, tearing the landscape apart. The cry of ravens echoed alongside the cries of gunpowder, steel clashed against steel, and the agony of the prosperous kingdom could be felt for miles. Reduced to fighting eachother like animals. No other kingdom was worthy of their blades, so who else could they really fight? Gabriel was one of the few who willingly fought, and held a great deal of contempt for the traitorous Crowley. If he wished to join the so-called Alliance, he could have stayed on the other side of the wall.
It was Roderik's turn to fight on the front line, quivering in his boots and dragging his weary body along the battlefield as they marched. It's the only thing he did respect him for, and found the whole fight ridiculous. The horns of battle screamed their vicious call, and men charged from either side. In a matter of moments, it became a blur, and Roderik stuck to his father like a shadow. He was doing well, but he wasn't what he used to be. He watched the club of one enormous gentleman strike his father around the head, the impact killed him instantly. Two spears were then thrusted into his chest, suspending him in the air before he dropped to the floor with a thud. A lifeless husk trapped inside a cage of steel. Roderik dropped with him, feigning death and cowering underneath his father's corpse. The sheer horror of such an action infusing his son with the urge to beg for death. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the insanity and chaos, hoping a sword would slice into his throat and end the torment. It never did. For hours he lay there, aching and suffocated with the cold, crimson blood of Gabriel Wakefield trickling into his hands. The battle ended, and allies scanned for survivors. Dragging Roderik from under the dead. He lied through his teeth, wanting nothing but to sob. Claiming he slew every enemy he could before taking a hit to the head, falling unconcious and presumed dead by the enemy. They questioned and revered his miraculous survival, and was cheered as a hero alongside the real soldiers who fought and followed to the end.
When the war was over he returned to his shop, minor damages suffering the tailor's home. Repairs took a small strike out of his salary, and he regretted hearing that one of the tailors he invested in had died in the war, just as his father did. Roderik mourned his father's passing, but didn't bother with a funeral. It was then he decided he would dedicate himself to the work he loved, even more so than he already had. It was now that he would reveal his cunning plan.
With a previous rival dead and buried, Roderik was one of a few tailors of skill left in Gilneas and had no choice but to reopen his doors. With many families requiring new clothing after the destruction of their posessions, it provided Roderik with a large opportunity of profit. All the materials he ordered months earlier attracted the attention of the wealthy, including lords and ladies of surrounding manors. And those without posessions flocked to his prosperous tailory for the cheapest clothing they could buy. Unfortunately, the greedy tailor took advantage of such desperate times, knocking the price of linen clothing to the equivalent price of silk a year earlier. The wealthy flaunted their new, glamorous clothing at balls and parties, whilst the poor went hungry and struggled for their lives. Roderik didn't care less, rolling in gold and as wealthy as ever before, it seemed that he would live without worry, and hoped that 'Bespoke, Cut & Stitch' would outlive him and become a leading legacy for the future. One of the wealthiest traders in Gilneas, he flaunted his success. The increasing amount of enemies he made with his outrageous but undeniable prices were kept at bay with the guards and mercenaries he bribed and payed to guard his property. Such wealth and influence in the kingdom allowed Roderik to provide clothing to those of the court. A poor boy in a hard home had converted himself to a life of luxury, prosperity and wealth. His lifelong ambition.
Once again, 'Bespoke' closed its doors, relying on his invested business to keep him alive. Roderik Wakefield locked himself away in his workshop and scribbled frantically on parchment. Spending a ridiculous amount of money on the best Gilnean leather and gathering the materials and threads he only used on the clothing of royalty, the greedy tailor insisted he will stand out during the upcoming celebrations, celebrating the completion of the Greymane Wall and the independance of Gilneas, aswell as Genn Greymane's astounding victory over the traitorous Crowley. Roderik refused to design and create the clothing of his rivalling partygoers, and created the most exsquisite piece for himself. He donned the costume and wore it every day since. It consisted of a silk tunic with silk pantaloons and large leather boots, both decorated with studs and chains. Hanging from his tunic was a lovely silver pocketwatch. He also wore a long, leather overcoat and a large, wide-brimmed top hat. Each piece of clothing was beautifully stitched with thread that shimmered like gold, and was the envy of each individual who gazed upon his finest masterpiece. It was now that Roderik was at the peak of success, but good things never last...
Cry of the Wolf Edit
Stories of the living dead screamed from the lookouts, and it wasn't long until the inhabitants of Gilneas learned about the Scourge. The shambling corpses that tried to overrun the Eastern Kingdoms. What the inhabitants didn't know about was the efforts of Arugal, and his summoning of the worgen to combat the encroaching corpses. Time passed by, and Roderik knew by now one of the beasts would have decimated his poor witch of a mother outside the walls, if the undead didn't get there first. What he didn't expect was the invasion of the wolves in Gilneas itself. They bounded across rooftops, and invaded the city like a cruel, biting wind. Their features savage and cruel. Roderik barricaded himself inside his home, and watched the mercenaries surrounding his home fall victim to the ravenous onslaught of worgen. It's during this he decided to fight out of survival, and watched allies in the dozens fall to the bloodlust of the beasts. Snatching up a rifle, he picked off those he could. He was inexperienced and his aim was less than satisfactory, and it didn't take long for the worgen to overwhelm him. One of the animals smashed through the barricaded window, and Roderik stumbled through his home and out the back door. It gave chase, bounding after him with a fierce look in it's eye and nothing but the wanting to kill. Diving on the tailor, it sunk it's fangs into his leg, and raked it's long claws over his chest. Blood poured from his body and he felt the cold shiver of death, his eyes drifted shut and the eternal darkness seemed close. He could see his father's face now, to torture him even when the Light had gone.
Bang! One shot. Then the second. He heard the howling cries of the beast that savaged him screaming in his ears, one of his mercenaries with a large scratch across his stomach had killed the monster. He fell dead beside his employer, and a grin spread across Roderik's face as he witnessed the worgen with half a face. The tailor felt a horrid pain in his heart, and felt like his body was set alight, before he lost himself to sleep.
Roderik finally woke up in a cage, bars surrounding and confining him. Men and women stood around him, their faces plastered with fear and hatred. He darted to the bars, trying to grip one fat-faced gentleman by the throat and tear it out, hungering for flesh and blood. One guard used the hilt of his blade to bat the clawed hand down, and urges raced through Roderik's mind; how long it would take to kill every single one of them?
The curse had planted a corrupting seed in his mind as the worgen sunk it's fangs into his flesh, and he felt the change almost instantly. Fur erupting from his skin, fingers breaking and claws growing from previous fingernails. His gums split and bled, enormous fangs forcing their way through. Bones snapped and muscles ached as they accomodated the new and radical changes and shapes, and finally, Roderik's emerald eyes took a sickly shade of yellow.
The newly transformed monster sat in the corner, whimpering it's pleas. Many other were doing the same, as armed guards and soldiers paced behind and trotted aside on horseback. Like cattle to the slaughter, the imprisoned worgen pack howled a choir of sorrow.
Regaining Humanity Edit
Roderik's sanity was long gone, replaced with the insatiable appetite of pulsing, living flesh. The carraiges stopped, and a fat, porpous man in a grubby, bloodstained smock paced around and clashed his knife against the metal bucket. Skewering large slabs of meat, he launched them through the bars and towards the hungry worgens. They tore through the meat like a clean sheet, creating a fair mess as they devoured their meal. Evacuees watched in horror, and quickly retreated from the horrific scene.
Roderik heard the driver dismount, striding across the gravel to the bars of his moving prison. Soldiers shadowed the driver, and a bespeckled old gentleman in a robe parted the group, surveying the cage. A rabid worgen wanting nothing but to tear each one of them apart. Many recognised it as the wealthy tailor, the only thing giving such a fact away was the large, broad frame of the beast, and the unique tatters of clothing he wore. Roderik's best work. The top hat was long gone, and the beautiful jacket was torn and bloodstained, unable to stretch to such a large figure. The group spoke in hushed tones, and the eldery fellow produced a syringe from his robes, tempting the deranged Roderik to the bars. The alchemist presented the syringe to one of the guards, and when the worgen thrust it's arm through the cage to tear at his face, the guard speared the syringe into the thick sinew and muscle of the beast. A few moments later and Roderik felt a cloud lifting, acting as quickly as the curse did. The temptation was still there, and he could still feel the urges. Glancing at the remains of his previous meal, he flinched and recoiled, sickened by the shameful act he had commited. The soldiers dragged him out of the cage, and allowed him to stand on his own. Swords drawn, the poor tailor was subjected to the public and his head began to pound, as if his mind was trying to break free. Looking down at all the pitiful soldiers with his piercing, yellow eyes he felt broken and apart, no longer part of the species. No longer a Gilnean, or his father's son. Strangely, he didn't feel the urge to kill. The alchemist had altered something, it wasn't a cure, but it suppressed the monster.
Looking upon his new form, he felt nothing but remorse and anger, now concious of what he had become. He wouldn't be seen as anything but a mongrel for the rest of his life, he wouldn't be able to return to his precious home looking like this, living with the claws, the teeth, the fleas and the carnivorous hunting instinct. His legacy was gone, and he would never outlive the tailory he spent his life building up from nothing. He looked at the others with the same affliction, he wasn't alone, Roderik thanked the alchemist who tried his best to rebuild the lives of him and his brethren, his voice hoarse and rough. They will never be a working part of society anymore.
Roderik broke away from the crowd, and they didn't stop him. Standing in the open fields, with the rain and the moonlight, he decided to take advantage of his newfound abilities and relieved the stress and shame of what he had become. Others joined him, and as a pack, they bounded through the landscape, fought and howled, leaping and writhing through the shadows. He would've been a liar if he said he didn't adore the feeling.
Roderik and his brethren returned to a gathering. Gilneans and beastial brothers, in audience of a tall, purple creature. It's ears looked like serrated blades, and in it's hand it held a scythe. He joined the group, panting after his extensive sprint, his blood pumping and adrenaline of the wolf threatening to prove it's dominance. Another one of the creatures stepped down from the stage, holding a bowl. It gave each of his kind a single leaf, and motioned for them to eat it. Complying, each wolf ate the leaf. Then they presented a bowl, filled with a luminous blue water. 'Drink' they signalled. Once again, the pack obeyed. The crowd then became a choir of sighing and panting, including Roderik, feeling at ease for the first time in a very long time. He didn't feel ashamed for cowering in the war, and harming all those families, hiding under his father and the blood on his hands that had accumulated into a pool of blood as deep of his coffers. All the regret simply left him.
The creature on stage held the scythe before the crowd, and with a flash of light the sea of furry bodies collapsed to the ground. Roderik joined them, and the calling of the beast retreated from his mind before his eyes slammed shut. The past few days revolved around losing conciousness and fighting for his own mind, and Roderik didn't enjoy it. Sitting up in a pile of expensive rags, he scratched his shoulder and tustled his hair. It took a whole ten seconds for the headache and sudden realisation to show. His fur was gone! Fangs, claws, gone. The elves had helped in some way. The headache faded, and several men and women cheered in a half-hearted way, probably feeling the same as he did. They stood, helping eachother into the carriages or horses they were herded towards, and they set off travelling again.
Looking out of the window of the carriage, Roderik saw Greymane himself conversing with one of the blade-headed creatures. A smirk drifted across his face, we could have savaged the blue sods if we wanted to. They changed us back to eliminate a threat. Shaking his head, Roderik banished those temptations from his mind, he still felt the animal. He had his human body, but when the worgen bit him it stole a piece of his humanity and died with it. Controlling such power would take a lot of effort, and he couldn't afford his previous luxuries now his life had deteriorated. Looking back, he saw the spires of Gilneas collapse, and watched several soldiers fight in the distance. What could they possibly be killing? Worgen?
Farewell, Silverpine Edit
Ships were docked at the harbour, and the knife-ears aided everybody from their mounts. Guiding each person onto the boat that awaited. Several corpses littered the surrounding area, a battle ensued here long before the escort arrived. Worgen, elven and rotting human corpses littered motionless on the battlefield. They must have been dead for a long time to deteriorate that much, which only meant that they were the Scourge rumours spoke of. He climbed aboard the ship, and felt pathetic, accepting the help of foreigners that weren't even human. The voyage took an unknown length of time, and Roderik swore he heard the fabled Maelstrom raging it's oceanic plea halfway through the journey.
They docked, deckhands anchored the boat to the shore and Roderik's brethren began pouring out of the boat. The first sight they saw was knife-ears, hundreds of them. The second was glowing lights and a tree that spanned upwards as far as the eye could see, and pierced the clouds like a floral sword. Lastly, they saw a large tree striding across the path and through a large gateway that obliterated it from existance. A curious place indeed, walking trees and pointy-eared nature-lovers. This was the magic he read about, and in all honesty he didn't like it. Finally his turn to cross to the other side, it was nothing more than an eye blink, and he was in an entirely different location.
It was a city, and the knife-ears lived in the trees. They had shops and properties just as Gilneans did, except their buildings travelled vertically as opposed to the human habit of spreading outwards. This place was horrid, and as soon as he was rested he didn't expect to stay for very long. He wasn't entirely fond of the unusual beasts, and how comfortable his brethren were here, embracing the wolf so happily.
Roderik eventually returned to the Eastern Kingdoms, taking advantage of elven hospitality. He didn't leave before finding the origin of his curse, but not a great deal was revealed to him. What he did take the time to learn was self control, how to defend himself from attackers, and how to utilize or hide the full extent of his beastial ability.
He now travels the different locations of the Eastern Kingdoms, discovering a great many newcomers to the lands of man. Dwarves remain, however the elves who aided his kind are part of the so called Alliance. A waste of time and a ludicrous bid for help from lesser species who require sorcery and trickery to survive. Lordaeron had fallen, a great time before Gilneas, and Stormwind continues exist, faring better than it had years before.. There is still a great deal for Roderik to discover about the outside, if anybody tries to take advantage of such a fact however, he is known to be one to retaliate with a sharp word or two. Stormwind neglects his morals and his curse, looking on him with fear and disgust for what he is, and hatred for the betrayal his city had committed in the past. But he hardly cared, Gilneas was superior and Stormwind will never live up to its splendor or its beauty. The best Roderik could wish for is 'Bespoke, Cut & Stitch' to live on as a memory in Stormwind's marble walls. But beggars can't be choosers, and any work that is available will most likely be snatched up by this fellow. From clothing repairs to mercenary work, what ever helps him start anew.
(OOC) Theme SongEdit
Seen one or two people post these, liked the idea. It's an instrumental piece about happiness, anger and eventually sorrow.