Phareon Wyrmfyre

Appearance
Phareon is tall and bulky - A true warrior's posture! Muscle lays upon muscle all over his body, which could rival even the most powerful of heroes. Silvery blonde hair drapes from his head  down to his pronounced jawline. A family trait, as most men of his heritage seem to have one chiseled straight out of marble. A beard and mustache accompany it, usually trimmed to perfection. Above those, the rest of his face is rather scarred, a clear sign of many battles fought. A peculiarily noticable scar runs straight across his left eye. Another runs from the corner of his mouth to his left temple. From a distance, this'd remind others of an evil, wide grin.

History
Phareon Wyrmfyre was actually born named Phareon Hawkfeather.

He was raised as the son of the mayor of Amaranthine – Argon Hawkfeather. However, it soon became clear that the boy was not his son. He soon outgrew his short, stocky father before he reached the age of twelve, becoming a mass of muscle before he reached proper adulthood.

But even before that, there were already rumours spreading around town. The boy had blonde hair – Something neither of his parents had – which was a running trait in the Wyrmfyre family, the reigning noble family of the region.

The mayor knew his wife had slept with Lord Oribas Wyrmfyre. He also knew the son was born of the noble's seed. But he did not dare to speak up. Powerless, he was. A figurehead. An illusion devised by Oribas, to make the people think he did not control every little aspect. To show that his iron fist was not embedded into the workings of the entire barony, even though said fist was figuratively so far up the behind of every single man with a shred of power that he worked them like a true puppet.

Oribas took an interest in the boy. In his early teens, when the boy was on the verge of becoming a man, he legitimized his offspring into his fold and brought him to Caer Draco. Phareon denounced the mayor, the man who raised him as his own son. On the day that he left, he lined up all his petty weaknesses before heading to the carriage, closing the door behind him. One person he did not break contact with was his mother. She was a strong woman – Able to draw the intruige of one the likes of Oribas – And cared for him properly. They wrote often, and met each other in secret throughout his early years before the Third War.

Under Oribas, Phareon turned into a warrior. He was already a capable fighter by heritage and his parents' blood, but now he was taught proper tactics and combat prowess. He sparred often with his new brothers: Solomon, Alexander and Allamire. At first, he often lost. His brothers had been raised with a sword in hand from the moment they could walk. Phareon had been given a book instead. Even though he trained on his own to compensate, this did not make up for a proper training. It did not take long however until they were evenly matched, after a thorough training by Ulterion Wyrmscar, his uncle. He was pitted against Gilford Wyrmscar, his cousin, a man who was even taller and broader than him. He endured many beatings but returned many until they were both scarred and beaten. Yet they smirked at each other afterwards and enjoyed a drink together many times, along with Gilford's twin sister, Lucinta.

As much as he was proud to be a Wyrmfyre, he had to be careful. His father was nothing short of a psychopath. Devious, cunning and cruel – traits that had rubbed off on his sons too, however he was the avatar of them all. He manipulated his court, his relatives, even those Phareon and his brothers called friends. When manipulation didn't cut it, he used force. Torture and murder weren't uncommon in the totalitarian leader's arsenal. He killed people in front of their loved ones to make them fear him, a practice Phareon wasn't a stranger to. His loyalty was already uncontested, but Oribas saw the need to kill one of his servants by crushing his windpipe with his bare hands in front of Phareon. A reminder to stay loyal. Nothing more.

When the Third War broke out, Phareon was near Capital City. He had enrolled in Lordaeron's Army a few years past. One eventful day he was on a recce patrol, leading it into the forests of Lordaeron. The City had fallen a few days prior and the news was still seeping in with most of the common folk, but not with Phareon. He was determined to end every undead he came across. When he neared the Balnir Farmstead, they got ambushed. Geists jumped down the roof and killed his men, one by one. After a hard battle only two men were left standing – Phareon and his brother-in-arms, Taelric. In the years that they served together, they had become good friends. They gave each other a look of mutual understanding before they prepared to burn their comrades. A sad, yet necessary affair. Even now it was apparent they'd only be raised into undeath, a fate the both of them wanted to avoid. They set to work in silence, only interrupted by the cawing of nearby ravens. This moment got torn apart when an abomination appeared on the scene. Seemingly out of nowhere, the lumbering mass of flesh came around a corner and in one smooth move decapitated Taelric with his collosal butcher's axe. Phareon wasted no time and charged, a wrath in his voice and mind that'd make his father proud. The battle was long and hard, but eventually the abomination fell to the floor in a mountain of rotting flesh and guts.

Phareon however, was dying.

His body was cut and mangled. He'd lost a lot of blood. He could still stand, but he did not know for how long. He crawled for miles, until he collapsed a hundred feet from a military encampment. They had not spotted him, so he pushed himself to creep closer, having little to no use of his legs. He was determined not to die, especially not in the wilds where necromancers could raise him into undeath. When he finally arrived, two guards took him in. Yet he blacked out the moment they dragged him into a tent.

He spent a few days asleep as his body mended. A priest kept him asleep to hasten the mending of his flesh. When he woke up, he found himself in a carriage heading south. Many soldiers had been called south to join the remnants of the Grand Alliance in Stormwind. Lordaeron had fallen, and to reclaim it, they had to keep as many veterans alive as they could.

It took Phareon months to fully recover. As soon as he was able to walk, he set to work on training again. He'd never give up. Never stop growing. A seeting rage was buried inside of him, a desire to wreak havoc on those that had taken everything from him. At most times he was collected and reserved, but if angered that whole facade melted away.

After he recovered, he joined Stormwind's armies. He served as an NCO in many wars. He ventured beyond the Dark Portal after its second opening, to Northrend and Pandaria. He even battled in Draenor, fighting brown orcs, green orcs, gray orcs and red orcs. All colours of orc. Orcs were his second favourite target – The first being the undead. His time in Northrend, even if it was harsh, he still treasures to this day. It was a chance at revenge, as petty as it was. Killing the undead made him feel... Alive again.

Throughout this all he kept contact with his brother Solomon, who after the passing of his father had become the Lord of their ruined homeland. Phareon was of course religious and a steadfast believer of the Light, but zealotry was not something he'd fancy. Both the Argents and the Scarlets he respected in their own way for cleansing the homeland yet he did not see himself in their garbs. He was a soldier, and while reclaiming the fatherland would be his primary goal, he chose to serve what remains of the Grand Alliance first and foremost. They'd reclaim the north... In due time.

After the war on Draenor he got tired of waiting. Tired of fighting wars on continents and even worlds that weren't his own. So he straightened his back and left the army, to join his brother's forces – The Covenant of Lordaeron. He would once again put his back behind a cause he was dear to, after too many years away from home.