Jonathan Riles Falheim

Character page

Information
Faction: 
Alliance
Character type: 
Player character
Nickname: 
Falheim
Title: 
'Do-not-call-me-by-anything-else' Falheim
Gender: 
Male
Race: 
Human
Eyes: 
Hazel brown
Height: 
6'2
Weight: 
Muscled

Falheim may be old, but he is hardly incapable - snow-white hair may fall to his shoulders and bristle at his eyebrows, but his build and stature speak volumes of the sheer amount of the word 'military' compressed in the man, or at the very least 'military experiences'.  Hazel brown eyes capable of an extreme range of expressions from utter joviality to murderous intent wander about quickly, judging people without giving a damn about what they might make of it, communicating information to either hands well worn from wielding the greatsword almost permanently strapped to his back or overtly-expressive eyebrows and mouth.

Oddly enough for his physical person, he bears no distinguishable scars beyond the minor nicks here and there and calloused hands from weaponry - a testament, perhaps, to combat prowess or ample amounts of luck on the battlefield (hint: the latter is more correct than the former).  His hands often ball into fists, either for wielding a blade or punching, a natural reflex brought on by decades spent around sharp, pointy objects.   

Besides the occasional bout of coughing and flexing of joints, arms and legs (not to attract ladies), there are no immediate signs of the consequences of old age.  His teeth, while kept as clean as possible nowadays, are clearly stained from a long period of smoking and coffee minus appropriate care.

He dresses simply, both as a civilian and soldier - a workman's wear for off-duty, and heavy furs with chain to deal with the sheer cold of Icecrown deployments.  An unmarked, silver flask often hangs around his hip, sloshing with an unknown liquid.  He wears a (fake) gold ring underneath his right glove, given that exposed rings tended to latch onto things and take the finger off as well when they got stuck.  The only unique piece of armour he wears are plate gauntlets with spikes on the knuckles, purpose quite obvious.

His voice is as expected for an energetic, muscled and rough old man - more like a bark than anything else at best of times, and a growl when angry.  Barks then turn into veritable bites when genuinely upset, which is rare considering his own experiences of the different levels that 'upset' could contain.  

Age: 
71
Home: 
Icecrown
Birthplace: 
Stormwind
Origin: 
Stormwind

Jonathan Riles Falheim was, somewhat unfortunately, named by his father who was at the time suffering from a certain medical condition commonly known as 'drunken stupor'.  While it could genuinely be a lot worse, a childhood of being teased with 'hey Falheim, Jonathan make you upset today?' and variations thereof did not contribute to the development of a kindly, civilised and cultured figure as his father (who's profession was, unsurprisingly, as a miner) hoped would lift the family into the heavens of wealth.  In fact, it led to a very important lesson that would remain with him for the rest of his life: the more you punch something, the less it makes fun of you.  And the man was very good at punching.

Despite not having a shred of arcane talent, Falheim somehow managed to become an apprentice-mage of the Stormwind Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences.  As to how precisely that even managed to happen, he generally responds with nothing more than a slow, evil grin, as well as expressive eyebrow movement.  

The street life carried swiftly over into the military, where punching skills quickly translated into weapon-savvy.  Serving in three Wars has mellowed his attitude to most things, and a general enlightenment brought about by a miraculous skill called 'reading'.  He currently serves with the Argent Crusade in Icecrown, not least because he earnestly believes that the undead deserve to die, but also to evade six valley-girl daughters at home who collectively manage to destroy him more swiftly than any Scourge or Horde formation.

 

 

He still can punch the living (dead?) daylights out of a ghoul, though.