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Broichan Silverbreeze
Occupation: Bard/Druid of the Claw
Race: Night Elf
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Birth Place: Darnassus, Teldrassil
Skills: Bard-craft (storytelling, singing, playing harp), feral combat
Backstory: Broichan was born fifteen years before the Third War. Son of a druid and a mid-ranking Sentinel, he was since birth educated in the ways of Cenarius. He was very good at fulfilling the requirements of a druid: he understood the cycle of living things, the way Elune guided the world, and how to talk to an animal, or even a tree, to get wisdom (or information), and later he would also be an adept at shapeshifting: instead of having the body of an beast, he was the beast, combining human logic and bestial instincts in one single, deadly entity. This was his best honed skill, making him a Night Elf in a beast's skin, and sometimes a beast in Night Elf skin.
When he was fifteen, he was brought terrible news: his mother, who was in the Battle for Mount Hyjal, had died in action. He was devastated; he knew it could happen anytime, but his mother always seemed a woman of pure iron, having faced terrible foes and surviving to tell the tale. His father tried to comfort him, telling him that the foe was too great, that she had died an honorable death, the best death a seasoned warrior could have: at the hands of great foes, while defending their nation.
Broichan, however, was confused. How could not only his mother, but the whole variety of courageous night elves in history, not be talked about, if they had died honorable deaths?
As of that day on, and for three long years, he split his every day into druidic training or serving Darnassus by aiding the Sentinels and the other armed groups. His dedication and competence in various operations gained him some fame among personalities of Night Elvish society.
As he turned eighteen, a turn of events came to his life in the form of a trip. He was invited to accompany the Night Elf embassy to Stormwind, both by his talent as a fighter and as a gift from his superiors. He diligently accomplished everything that he was charged to, proving time and time again the good choice it was to bring him along. He, despite all that, felt bored; he missed the whispers from the century-old forests of Teldrassil, and didn't enjoy the loud and ordinary humans.
One night, while they dined at Stormwind Keep, King Varian ordered a bard to entertain the guests. Broichan was charmed by the old man: he sung about great victories, brave soldiers who faced and beat terrible foes, and generals that courageously joined their comrades in the frenzy, boosting their morale. He felt that a bard was what the Night Elves needed, someone to sing the deeds of their ancestors, someone who would interrupt the connection with Nature to make known the ones that gave their lives for greater good.
For three years he was the wordsmith's pupil, learning how to tell a tale, how to distort it, not too much so it wouldn't become a lie, but so that it would make the listeners drop a tear for each fallen man, smile with each enemy slain, and bring out emotions where there weren't any in sight. That, the old man said, was the biggest reward of the bard: to see someone feeding of your story, to hear it so desperately like a man drinks water after a long stay on the shining sands of Tanaris.
When the teacher finally said his pupil had surpassed him, he told him to go, to look for new heroes, new adventures, new tales to tell. There was a hero in everyone, he said; you just have to find it.
So Broichan left the city of Stormwind, bringing nothing else with him but the clothes in his body, his ink flask, a handful of scrolls and a writing feather, in search of heroes who would color his stories with acts of bravery and sacrifice. What he didn't know, were the terrors that rest in the battlefield...
