Ovello Worg'kalar
Sharpshooter and Dragoon
Second Legion of the Scarlet March
185 lbs.
Lawful Neutral

Champion of the Scarlet March's Second Legion and Third War veteran, Ovello is a common sight in and around Stormwind's Cathedral of Light.


Ovello Worg'kalar, the civilian, looks far from intimidating. He is unremarkable and average in height, and is very light-framed to boot. His frame is thin, nearly lithe, but still muscled. His skin is a dark brown, but the man dismisses it as the product of "strange blood" and a "sun-rich childhood." When not donned in full armor his stance is nearly always a comfortable slouch; he also tends to lean on objects and walls, furthering his harmless appearance. Wearing his emotions on his sleeves, Ovello tends to display a myriad of expressions, but when in a neutral or better mood he often looks as though he is on the verge of emitting some clever quip, his lips and eyes contracted in a near-smile.

When in full military regalia, however, Ovello stands up straight, all humor drained from his face. He carries a breech-loading scoped rifle when armored, and he can usually be seen fiddling with its sights and mechanisms when idle. There are three constants to Ovello in both forms, however: the Scarlet March colors displayed on his tabard, the pipe always on his lips during every idle moment, and the two pistols haphazardly stuffed into his belt.


(( I'm not exactly happy with this history at the moment. It's a bit wordy. Expect changes soon eventually. ))

Ovello was born in Gilneas around the time of the First War, but he lived there for only a short time. His father, who made his living off trade, was incensed at Greymane's decision to completely isolate his country after the Second War. However, despite the ill feelings towards his home country Ovello's father was also too pragmatic to travel as far away from Gilneas as possible. Silverpine Forest had become host to a vital trade route through Lordaeron, something which his father was quick to capitalize on. The Worg'kalar family soon joined the thin-but-growing ranks of the Lordaeronian middle class.

A Disturbing Lack of RespectEdit

Ovello's father was quick to gain more than modest returns from his venture into Southern Lordaeron. He soon used this money to pay for his only son's education in Lordaeron proper's capital city, one which nearly bankrupted him on several occasions. Ovello's education was an auspicious affair--he earned many recommendations throughout his teenage years, especially from the philosophers and theologians regularly invited to lecture.

Ovello was frequently found amongst a crowd of Noble and Mercantilist sons during his young adult years, most of whom became notorious for their debauchery in whatever town they happened to visit in the Tirisfal area that night. Ovello was no exception, practicing his carelessness with the others without any regrets for the most part. Any potential trouble with local constables was thwarted by the fiture Nobles' connections, allowing Ovello and his gang to wander about unchecked until he reached his twentieth year. Ovello's parents, not being an infinite font of capital, needed him to be somewhat self-sufficient. So ended Ovello Worg'kalar's days as a rake.

Settling InEdit

Ovello's father wanted to break into the trade business, and for this he needed his son's help. Ovello quickly obliged. He organized and ran trade caravans which brought pumpkin and wine to Lordaeron, finished textiles to Stratholme, weapons to Stromgarde, and Eastern grain to every corner of the continent, when he could strike a deal with farmers. The business became more successful than neither father nor son could imagine, and the two quickly and correctly deduced this as the work of luck and perfect timing.

During these busy times Ovello would regularly pass through the Agamand Mills in Tirisfal, dropping off ever-increasing (with his caravans' influence) quantities of grain to be processed. It was here that he met a black-haired peasant girl named Levkina, one he soon took fancy to. Within six months he announced his intentions of marriage to the girl as well as his parents, who were less than pleased but nonetheless relieved at his choice to settle down.

The marriage ceremonies would never come, however, as the Worg'kalars' burgeoning trade operation helped to facilitate the darkness swallowing up Lordaeron.

War, DisasterEdit

After the disaster in Stratholme, Ovello was recruited into Lordaeron's service from a dwindling populace. He bought his way into an officer's rank, hoping he would be more safe there, and was given a woefully inadequate briefing on infantry tactics before being handed a fresh platoon of green, second-line troops, some of whom too young or too old for normal service. He was ordered to march south, securing a path through Silverpine for military and civilian movement alike, and contact Gilneas, which surely would open its impassable Wall in such an emergency.

As the recruits who could barely hold formation found out, this assumption was terribly wrong. Ovello made repeated attempts at contacting Gilneas through Greymane's Wall, but it seemed as though even the guards patrolling its firing slits had been ordered not to respond. Ovello would only hear his echo through the month of fruitless yelling and pleading. Exasperated, Ovello moved his company to the East, securing the road to Southshore.

Ovello had been fancying how the situation in Lordaeron had changed during his long and frustrating patrol, and the only scenarios he entertained found him holding onto the last patch of uncorrupted territory in Northern Azeroth. This was only partially dispelled by contact finally arriving in the form of an exhausted and dirty runner bearing grave news. Dalaran had fallen to the Scourge, and a contingent of Alliance forces had fled for an unnamed Western continent. Lordaeron had now been battered into a small corridor of thick forests and rocky hills. Silverpine was all that was left.

Ovello marched his men north in an attempt to screen off the Lordaeron Army remnants' retreat to the Western shore. No one came. Ovello lost contact the moment he left the courier, someone who likely died over the next few weeks. From his position in the forest Ovello could see Dalaran burning, but for several days there was no sign of Scourge. The company's first action was insignificant--they held back a numerically inferior patrol of ghouls and skeletons--but terribly frightening for everyone involved. The night after their first contact, however, was infinitely more terrifying.

From the West, they heard howling, scratching, growling. Then screaming. Two men were dragged off to a slow death in the cloudy, moonless night. One more perished during the night after. After two more nights, these guarded by patrols of men who disappeared into the night without a sound, Ovello decided he could no longer hold the position. He ordered a break-out to the West in hopes of finding some means of escape.

The retreat broke into a rout. The disorganized soldiers were easy prey for the Worgen which they so desperately wanted to escape. Ovello himself broke into full sprint, darting off in random directions until he no longer knew which way he was going. The next night he collapsed into a deep sleep, without fire or shelter, on a hilltop in Southern Silverpine. His company claimed no such rest. During the next few days they would be hunted down and slaughtered piecemeal.


The next three years were a blur of desperation, madness, and survival by a mere thread many times over. Luck was always on Ovello's side, but he had little time to ponder anything other than his homeland's death, his company's dissolution, his own imminent death. The former trade baron soon developed a pattern to his avoiding Worgen and Scourge alike, breaking camp every morning and erasing every trace of its ever being there before setting off on the most concealed path and setting up camp after a full day. Through this methodical pattern of survival Ovello started to turn the gears of acceptance in his head, and he all but forgot the disaster which had taken no time at all to envelop Lordaeron. He almost developed a sense of closure through his survival, not even thinking about the potential Human holdouts to the West or South.

As he traveled south once again, Ovello came into contact with a band of survivors. They had managed to form a relatively safe camp by Greymane's Wall (which still remained silent). They informed Ovello of what had transpired over the past three years. He was now aware of Stormwind, of Southshore and Stromgarde somehow surviving the Scourge waves, of the infected town of Pyrewood. When asked why they did not merely pack up and leave, the other refugees responded by saying that there was no place to stay. Without money, access to property, or necessary labor skills, the refugees had no choice but to stay where they were and pray for supplies from Dalaran or Southshore.

But Ovello had felt a spark light up at the mentioning of Stormwind. There was still a hope! Not just for survival, but reclamation as well! At first he stayed at the camp, providing as much for the other refugees as he could, but the flame in his belly made the former soldier restless. One morning he walked off into the mangled Silverpine Forest, intent on finding his family's old home and scrounging the last vestiges of their savings. He was remarkably successful, finding enough money to pay for food and shelter on his journey to Stormwind. Ovello managed making it to Ambermill without incident, and the remaining journey was, for the most part, much safer traveling than he would allow himself to think.

The Scarlet MarchEdit

Ovello arrived in Stormwind penniless. With nothing left in his possession aside from the clothes on his back and an off-sighted flintlock rifle, he expected nothing but a hard life in the days to come. It did not take the former trader much time to notice Stormwind's most visible land mark as he scoured the streets for a charitable produce seller and a sturdy bench, and immediately upon noticing its grandeur his body no longer felt the pangs of hunger and fatigue. The Cathedral of Light, as one will notice, is visible from nearly all corners of Stormwind, and its imposing impression fed Ovello's spark into a flame. His mind bathed itself in memories of home, of schooling, of music, culture, love, life. He sprinted toward the Cathedral, his passive appreciation for the Light then suddenly turned into a zealous devotion.

Once at the Cathedral, however, Ovello's bliss was cast away by a sight more bizarre than anything he could imagine. Two creatures, both of them bearing a strange resemblance to the Eredar he had heard rumors of as an officer, were conversing on the Cathedral's steps. Too dumbstruck to even feel terror at their appearance, he could only manage to walk slowly to the Cathedral, casting multiple glances back at, of all things, a violet Elf heading the opposite direction.

Prayer was the only constant Ovello found in the Cathedral, at least until he looked up from his long bout of meditation to notice the Scarlet Flame. He had previously heard of the Scarlet Crusade during his stay in the refugee camp, and had twice thought of making for their nearest stronghold, in Tirisfal. But to do so would mean crossing through Lordaeron's dark heart, and no amount of nationalistic fervor would convince Ovello to travel north again. But now his choice of direction mattered little. Ovello fell to knees in front of the Scarlet-clad man, looking like the most wretched of beggars, and began showering him with praise. This, without a doubt, all became very awkward as the man revealed to Ovello that he was in fact not of the Scarlet Crusade.

Through his conversation with the scarlet-draped man, Ovello learned of the Crusade's corruption after the elder Morgraine's death, and the splinter group which had set out to make a pure, incorruptible Crusade. This man was one of the defectors; he was a Scarlet Marcher. Needless to say, this was all a large amount of information to take in, especially with the addition of Azeroth's current political situation. Ovello felt his entire body ache, and he retired to a stone Cathedral bench early that night.

Ovello was not blessed with sleep that night, however. Slowly, inexorably, the gears in his head turned along with the night sky. Ovello knew at that moment that he had to die. He would never allow himself to forgive his own actions in Silverpine. But simply dying was not enough--suicide, or effective suicide, was something worse than the cowardice he displayed. No, Ovello needed to die for a greater cause. He must die in the act of his own salvation. He would need to die a Marcher.

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