Baron Arthur Langley

The Dishonored

Arthur during the events of Shadowlands.


Forsaken male icon Undead Human
Stormwindbanner Stormwindian Gilneas Flag Gilnean


23rd May L.C. (38) TOD
Achievement dungeon mawofsouls Northwestern Elwynn Waters, Stormwind Territory


Langley Shield Head of the House of Langley
ShadowCouncil Warden of Shadowtear
Necrolord sigil Baron of The Maldraxxi



Althalos Langley (Grandfather)
Matilda Longford (Grandmother)
Arcturus Langley (Father)
Rose Thornton Langley (Mother)
Katherine A. Langley (Sister) Undead


Corvinus Thornton (Grandfather)
Bathilda Bale (Grandmother)
Rose Thornton Langley (Mother)
Loric Thornton (Half-Brother)

Torgue Slagbeard (Adoptive-Father)
Pamela Stoneford (Wife)
Aedan Langley (Son)

Coat of Arms

House Langley Heraldry





Military Service


Grand Alliance Icon Grand Alliance (Former)
Necrolord sigil Maldraxxus


Grand Alliance Army Icon Grand Alliance Army (Former)

Necrolord sigil The Maldraxxi

Years of Service

23 L.C. - 31 L.C. Argent Dawn
31 L.C. - 36 L.C. Argent Crusade
36 L.C. - 39 L.C. Grand Alliance
39 L.C. - Present The Maldraxxi

Commands Held

Knight-Lieutenant of the Argent Dawn
Knight-Lieutenant of the Argent Crusade
Commander of the Grand Alliance
Marshal of the Grand Alliance
Baron of the Maldraxxi


"Alliance. Horde. Either is worthless. You're all worthless. All that matters now is the survival of this star. "


"You look just like your father..."

How many times had that phrase been spoken to him as a boy? Borne of golden hair and spirit brimming in his soul. Tall for his age and strong as steel that would be fortified upon the farm he grew. A physique made manifest with such temperance and a will of iron to match.

Years would come and go. And stains of white would streak the aurum strands. At the time when sickly green dove from the skies, did his chin and upper lip join in with sporting the same coloration. A cub of a lion now fully grown. Yet, with his escape from the imprisonment of the Legion, that same mess of hair was forever changed.

Radiant it was. Now, stricken with ugly greys and shined only with the unforgiving silver. A significant age to the young lord that permanently affected his form for all eyes to see. Though, in time, the appearance was claimed as a signature feature. And the brilliance of such argent colors would be known in fear.

Now, but a shell of a man, built on ruin and conquest he had cemented. A shattered body hung limp in its reanimated bones. Even in the disgraced carcass, he still held a manner of living qualities. The decrepit slate tresses still grasping desperately at the crown of such a cadaver. Patches of hair matted about his upper lip and jawline. Undeath had cost him the life he would have wanted. But, rewarded him the strength he always yearned for.


Iron-Scale Armor


With his return to Azeroth, a new armor was necessary to the Langley heir's campaign. A significant weakness to him was present and undoubtedly side effects from his imprisonment. A form-fitting armor of chainmail and leathers that were further reinforced with protection by his magical allies. Runes of magic sewn into the fabrics and imprinted on every link.

(The armor was set aside with the conclusion of the Legion War.)

War-Plate of the Runic Marauder


Though, with aggression between the Horde and Alliance only increasing, a new regalia was to be forged. Having reignited the strength he had lost since his capture, a vie to conquer new lands drove him onward. Titanium, claimed from his allies in the north, lay segmented on the broadness of his figure. Laid across a similar chainmail to the armor worn prior to it. In symbolic nature to his newfound allies, a wolf's head would seat itself atop his right shoulderplate. A silent staple to the debt he held to his lupine companions.

(The armor was retired at the peak of the Fourth War.)

Greyguard Plate


In mourning to the apparent death of his late brother, Loric, a new plate would be molded and fashioned. Though melancholic in his promotion to the status of Marshal, the Langley heir held true to his values. Leaving behind the bulkiness of his preceding defense in favor of a more sleek design.

The blackened armaments appeared lackluster comparative to many of the higher-ranking officers of the Alliance. Yet, such a fact did not hinder him. Holding itself to the same testament of its forbearer, yet tight-fitting to compete with those of subtly and subterfuge. In recent times, the collar was adorned with a furred addition to comply with his repeated journey's north. Even to the very end.

(The armor destroyed at the onset of his arrival into the Shadowlands.)

Maldraxxi Battlegear

Whilst the armor smithed for him in life would do him a great amount protection, it would not suffice for long. The world of the Shadowlands being that of unforgiving. Upon his arrival into the Maw and subsequent battle with the forces of the Banshee, the armaments were greatly damaged. Struck down and granted safety only in the arms of his lover. It would be then that the man found himself a new image for himself.

Materials unfound on the plane of the living, such plate was to only find its fate in Maldraxxus. Deathly magics emanate from its pauldrons and a skeletal design providing its haunting visage. The unmatched cruelty in the field of battle. An insatiable thirst to pursue the fight. The undead was tenacious in his quest to further comprehend the machinations of the Maldraxxi. And in that time, he grew not as a weapon for the Undying Army, but to his person. Their unholy raiments were granted upon a champion worthy of the title of Baron. For when the forces of the living would inevitably cascade into the Shadowlands, he would be ready.


Lupus & Mordere


Lupus; Paired together its twin. The first blade being the treasured weapon passed down the Langley lineage. While unable to claim the item from the initial destruction of his home. It would be many years later until the weapon would join with the present heir. Wielded by Arcturus in the First War. And by Althalos, during the settlement of their kingdom. Its steel having drunk in the blood of its wielder's enemies. A blade etched with emboldened runes that emit a curious hymn when in battle.

Modere; The pair to its kin. Forged in the coming of the Legion's advance to Azeroth. In its development, a glance back to the alternate world of Draenor was to be made. Materials of truesteel would mold the shape of its figure. The blade could ignite with a destructive and magical core by the runes granted unto it.

Utilized in tangent with each other, a tale was spun in accordance to those that brandished them. Be their owner of wolf, lion, or bear, the fangs of these two would pierce any surface. Flesh or armor. Nothing would keep them from the purchase.


Arthur sword

In lament, the twin blades would meet their untimely end at the Legion War's pinnacle. Symbolic in their craft, the Langley heir would search through the native vrykul land of Stormheim for an opportunity. Their craft in runic magics would aid him in shaping a master weapon. With the minerals of its ancestors used as its matrix, another material would be fashioned inside. Azerite. Only recently discovered with the Fourth War's arrival. Its legendary status of burning retributive justice would earn it a title of its own. The Lunar Carver. And such a name would reward it the fear of its handler's enemies.

(The weapon was set aside at the peak of the Fourth War.)



The War had wrought terrible acts of his own doing. He had committed feats that darkened his soul. Horrors of the past would forever haunt him, whilst his new future held hope. The true meaning of his fight to preserve life would come in the form of a Brotherhood. Knights of the cause. His leave of the Alliance had welcomed a weapon he would develop in care.

Reclamation. A name in resemblance to the Knightly order he oversaw, the blade was to be simple. A truesteel base forged and quenched with a righteous purpose. Leather straps bound to the grip, while pronged circlets hugged the guard.

The true strength of the weapon was, in fact, not the blade itself. But, his own faith. His faith in the Titans. The Makers. Many a time, the casting of blessings would be shone upon the metal's surface. And in those times, blue flames would sing upon its face.

The Black Fang


Following the Fourth War, there would be another addition to the Langley heir's arsenal. In the shape of an over-sized recreation of the actual model of a 22 mm revolver. The barrel held a rather impressive four inches in height and width with bullets able to puncture virtually anything with such an impact. The weapon itself held an almost paranormal resistance to most forms of attacks. A grip carved from the fragmented pieces of a wooden symbol to the Church of the Light. The metal of the gun was to be forged from a combination of dense iron and blessed true-silver ingots. Both supplied by the church.

Holding in itself only six outrageously large rounds, the weapon could quite easily break any normal man's grip if held incorrectly. A common sight is his weapon recoiling farther than normal firearms when in action. Typical bullets held ground bark of the Great Ancients, truesilver shavings, and a vial of holy water.

Vrykul Rune Magic

With his abandonment of the Light, Arthur found himself a different calling. During the time of the Legion War's climax, Arthur journeyed to the ancient land of Stormheim and its native people; the vrykul. And the latent magics of their runic spellwork.

Two sets were drawn onto him. One to instill boons of strength, fortitude, and stoicism. The man's strength to be that of ten and the endurance to rival. The second was to mend the damage and secure any further ailments of the Legion's corruption. It was to be his lifeline. In death, however, the runic additions be that only of faint and lifeless markings to his skin. At the hour of his raising, the glow of these markings would never glimmer with life. Never again would the gift of the makers be granted upon such a hallowed form. The runes miraculously fading from his skin in gradual succession.


An upbringing of hard work and the laborious days to achieve what he desired. No time of his childhood was without it. While his father did share the roots of nobility, he believed his descendants would understand the sensation to carve out their own destiny. A kind soul he was. The young boy would no nothing of the wars that had guaranteed their peace. He and his sister would bask in the tranquility of the farmstead that lay in the shadow of Capital City.

Never truly grasping the importance of his noble blood in the lands that lay south. He saw the futility in seeking a seat of power. A seat amongst vapid nobles and uncaring officials that dared not to offer aid to the common man. With his rise to power in the Alliance, this value of thinking was not lost in his perspective. In the presence of his fellow nobility, the boy would only utter the phrase "A man with the gold made from the blood of his people is no man at all..."

With his development, the Langley heir grew from the clever paladin of the Argent Crusade to a fearsome combatant of the Alliance. His outlook began to alter in shape with such. His views on the reality of the world began to sharpen with age and venerable experience. True to a cause, he would do whatever necessary to achieve the goals he had set. The agreement of his fellow peers mattered little to him.

With the comeuppance of the Fourth War upon the shores of Azeroth, Arthur's change in persona was noticeable to any who have interacted with him in the past. No longer the kind soul his mother had praised him to be, but someone cruel, war-like, and unmerciful. The man's commanding heart desired nothing more than victory.

A trait shared in his undeath.


Abridged History

An impeccably gifted combatant that fought for the betterment of the Alliance and Azeroth for years. With his undying heroism in the face of danger, he was awarded the Alliance Legion of Valor medal. It was only recently, after the culminating events of the Fourth War, did Arthur resign his rank as Marshal and take leave of the Alliance.

A fruit borne from the seeds of Stormwind and Gilneas, and nurtured in the lands of Lordaeron; he is a man of three kingdoms. Having leaped between factions, initially in the hands in the Argent Dawn, he soon transferred to the Alliance after the fall of the Crusade. However, with the threat of the Legion having returned thrice more, he found himself a prisoner of war at their hands. If not for the aid of the famed Army of the Light, his life would have been forfeit. With these continued acts of defiance of death, Arthur pledged himself in safeguarding life.

Shadowing the Fourth War's culmination, Arthur operated as leader of the newly formed Brotherhood of Azure Flame. Knights operating from the two fortified strongholds of Greywatch Pinnacle, situated in the mountain Hinterlands, and the southern Greyguard Keep, seated in the peaks of Dun Morogh. The time he had to spare was offered only to his son. The boy being all the father had left remaining.

Following the defeat of the Old God, N'zoth, and the actions of the Banshee Sylvanas Windrunner, the Scourge once again ran rampant through the lands of Azeroth. In defense of the realm, the knight gave his life to guarantee the survival of numerous men and women and support in pushing the undead back considerably. His legacy having been left in his son, while the latter unbeknownst to the truth.

Only when champions of the Alliance and Horde did ultimately venture into the Shadowlands, was the former Marshal's corpse recovered and necromantically revived by undisclosed sources. His present whereabouts and thoughts remain an enigma.


The Fourth War had been the most catalytic to the planet's core since the War of the Ancients. The very same had been the pinnacle of the Marshal's military career. Across the raging battlefields, he and his forces had earned a victory in the face of uncertain odds. Claiming an unyielding conviction to serve the Alliance till his death. The Langley heir's task would never be finished unless the Horde threat was all but eliminated. Now in the face of death, Arthur assumed command to defend Stormwind and its lands from any threat that dare tread along this hallowed ground. The likes of which are closer at hand than he knew.

Amidst the underbrush, preparing to assault.

Upon the eve of the twenty-third, Alliance men and women gathered in Darkshire on troubling news. The threat of undead having made landfall on the shores of Stranglethorn. Surely, a paramount issue for the Kingdom. Dwarven allies were the majority, with other minor appearances of notable faces. A talk was made and the issue of Stormwind's troops and their whereabouts was questioned. In the end, the decision to evacuate the townspeople was decided and the forces of the Alliance would use Darkshire as a staging point.

It was time to strike. Their charge came down upon the southern slopes of Duskwood to meet whatever threat lurked in the northern jungles of Stranglethorn. Reports had arrived of the ever-increasing numbers of undead. A swarm of insects devouring all in their path. Yet, when they arrived at their destination, there was nothing to be found. Nothing. That was until the Marshal shone a torch through the thick darkness on the still armies. And without warning, they were upon them. A tide of flesh and steel. Waves of unrelenting ferocity in necromantic strength. The small forces fought bravely through the unending threats until there was but barely half left. Victory seemed assured.

And then she came. A Valkyr; torn from the shadows to aid the undead in their plight. Her hands raised and before long, the numbers of undead began to rise. Shambling to life once again to fight in the name of their 'Queen'. The living soon found they held no match against such a force. For whenever they attempted a blow at the valkyr, more undead would swallow them whole. And whenever they cleaved through enough undead, the valkyr would raise them again. A perpetual cycle.

A decision had to be made. The canyon separating Stranglethorn and Duskwood was brought down. Boulders crashed down upon the undead and momentarily halted their advance. Their peace would be made and aid requested from the capital and other various sources. It was when a scout returned to Duskwood informing of the undead horde's advance, did the Alliance troops begin to mobilize. Talk of a growing force began in the room as the undead claimed the Rotting Orchard and took relative ease in dispatching the Kaldorei soldiers meant to slow them. A barrier was constructed around the town of Darkshire's southern guard, while troops of the Alliance marched to Brightwood Grove. There, they were met by the undead that had stalked them in the trees. A collective spellwork by Lord Magnus and a handful of warlocks set the forest ablaze. Whilst the fires raged, the charred corpses clattered to the earth with the undead roasted to a crisp.

The army of undead was not yet vanquished, as its Valkyr leader paraded along with them. Even as they fell in battle, the spectral being would resurrect them as she did the previous nights. While the first time was completed well enough, her second incantation was stuttered. Inevitably, the magic was stunted altogether by Lord Magnus's handiwork and the valkyr was left without troops to her aid. Through questioning at the sight, the Banshee Queen was lead to believe the ringleader to the attack. Her enjoyment in seeing the races of the living scamper about by her doing.

Still, as the Alliance began their questioning, the undead had not yet had their fill. Hundreds more came pouring from the mountainside leading into the Twilight Grove. Forced to flee, the valkyr was quickly dealt with in a swift maneuver before the chase was given. Even at the riverside to Elwynn's borders, the Alliance found themselves trapped. Were it not for the sudden engagement by the Gold Coast cavalry, the living would not have survived the trip to Eastvale.

Dishonor claiming the Soul.

Everything was in disarray. Forces were beginning to mobilize upon Eastvale in opposition to the undead threat. And time was of the essence. Regrettably, the Alliance was running out of both. As most of their numbers were collecting reinforcements, the sound of battle rung anew. The undead had been sighted already crossing the narrow riverbed south of them towards the heart of Elwynn. Goldshire. It was a difficult decision, but Alliance leaders were left with no other choice. The small contingent fought against the overwhelming odds for as long as they could until reinforcements arrived. The Dwarves and other foreign allies would add themselves to the defender's numbers.

The scene was bleak. The Alliance swamped by undead as they had been the nights prior. Many would fall, even as the Marshal himself defended his troops with his own physique. Spears and blades protruding from his body, yet he pressed on. It was finally when all hope seemed lost, did the cavalry arrive. Knights of Gold Coast, Soldiers of Duskwood, and Stormwind Guardsmen. All trampled the undead masses.

The battle was won as quickly as it had begun. Elwynn had been ensured its fate, with Duskwood seeing future repairs. The injured would be brought to Stormwind and the dead burnt in memory. A pyre for all of to see and be reminded for those who gave their lives... so that others might live.

The weeks that followed such a horrendous ordeal were less than kind. The undying pressure of how much he had sacrificed for those uncaring of Stormwind's protection. The unbearable focus upon such useless noblemen sides the brave soldiers that had given their lives. While an armistice was made by the High King, such actions would not halt Arthur's thoughts. In the next meeting of High Command, Arthur spoke his peace. He strode to depart from the Grand Marshal Montclair and announce his resignation of the Alliance.

He was finished. The chains of a faction would never bind him again. Bound by no faction, no code, or nobility, Arthur set out with a small assembly of Knights into the Eastweald. Their first task was clear; eliminate the plagued threat that still lingered upon the land.

The actions of the Old God, N'zoth, were not the Knight's concern. The lands of Lordaeron, Quel'thalas, and even the Barrens had been stained by the color of undeath for too long. Far too many ventures into the north by the paladin and holy orders were met with failure. The time had come for results. With his band of Knights, the order of Azure Flame cast themselves against the undying masses of death in the lands of Lordaeron firstly. Stratholme, Scholomance, Andorhal; it mattered little in the end. Cleaving their path through the Eastweald to each location. All manner of undead were culled. No trace was left behind. Deatholme was cleansed thoroughly thereafter with little resistance.

Razorfen. The name would strike any living in the harsh landscape of Kalimdor with dread. The resident Quilboar people were suffering from the stench of undeath even to present day. Action had to be made in their salvation, as no other orders would answer the call. Their righteousness seared its mark through the tunnels and barrow dens. Even when the same creatures struck out in retaliation, the knights did not falter. They pressed on undeterred from any threat posed against them. Thus, for a time, the lands of the southern Barrens would be free of the plague of Death.

Surrounded by Death. Hope wavers.

Then, the news would come at the behest of the Old God's demise to the champions of the Alliance and Horde. Pleased at their handiwork, the Langley Knight pushed towards the northern glacier. There would be no rest for their cause. The Scourge had once again come to slaughter all in their path. Freshly wounded from their battles with one another and the forces of shadow, the Knights of Azure Flame took to the north before the warring factions. First upon the land. First to meet their foe. First to defend the life they treasured.

Still, even in those courageous moments, no true victory would last. The numbers of undead masses proved far too great. Surrounded and outnumbered without any chance of survival, Arthur did what he believed to be right. Casting the other knights to higher ground and safety, he held the line against the relentless tide. His silver hair and burning cerulean blade were the last images the Brotherhood saw of him.

The wild manner of undead was only matched by his own burning resolve. In a show of undying faith, the land was rent asunder in flames blended with the color of his blade. Hundreds of Scourge were decimated. Sacrificing himself for their own salvation, the Knights would continue their efforts evermore.

Borne Anew

Only when the world was left to defend against the Scourge's remnants, did a band of nameless sorcerers and warlocks find the scorched corpse of the man. Escorted to a nearby hovel, the body was resuscitated through dark magics, and his life became anew. Having been claimed as a manner of property by the undead she-witch fought so long ago; Sanari Shadowtear. An amalgamation of a lover. He would serve her in this new life, as the one thing, he dreaded most.

An Undead.

Those once sought as comrades. Now enemies. The people of the Alliance were equally guilty of their own folly. The Horde being but animals in pens. Those he had called friends. Nothing more than that targets for him and his newly found guidance. The corrupt bond between the undead would urge his actions to fruition. Antagonistic in nature.

As time would progress, the man's acceptance of his current state became true. As did his adoration of Sanari. His own path would take him about Alliance and Horde stations. Their blood staining the festering armor plating. Soaking the steel of his weapon. It was an elated sensation bringing an unprincipled justice to their lives. Mercy being vacant in his charge.

Men. Women. Children. None of it mattered truly. Merely the riddance of their lifeblood from their bodies was what brought the emotionless shell of a man to great euphoria. And even then, it was short-lived. So he had more. And more. And more. Until the very blackened plate, he wore was painted a permanent scarlet.

He drank in their torment. He breathed in their fear. What he could not have, they would neither.

Love? Is that what they called it?

No. This was more.

Impure Euphoria. Perverted Bliss.

This was who truly was.

A hallowed pair of ruinous intentions.

Still, with such dreadful undertakings, there was but one goal he held close. To protect this Star. To end the life of the one who would cause it the most peril. And that being was the Windrunner Sister. Her designs had brought the planet more harm than many and would do much more in the coming future if she was not brought to an end.

The Scourge would be the first to flood the landmasses in an animalistic flurry of bone and steel. Despite the wishes of his companion, he made ready to cull the undead swarms as he had done in life. While he held no true love for the races of the world, it was his undying duty to ensure them a future. A hood shielded his features in journeys to the Eastweald and informing of the Crusade his discoveries. Claiming the Arthur Langley they knew in years prior was no more. A fool meeting his death and a restless champion to take his place. His time visiting the Alliance and Horde was short. Caring not for their likeness. Only to be cast aside, his newfound power would bubble to the surface. The forces of the Scourge would know his wrath in the frozen north.

Each step would lead them closer to the truth of whatever misbegotten place Sylvanas had vanished to. Every foe that was cleaved in half by his own doing. No time would grant him rest as he made to ensure the life of the Star. Though, one would not make the mistake into believing his care came to the lives of warring factions. His loyalty would be to his Mistress and in turn preserving the planet's survival. With or without the lives of those spoken prior. And in the dark magics that arose prior Windrunner shattering the Helm, the two of them raced to such prophecies. The ideal location for their own machinations to come to fruition. To an end, not even they could speak of. Still, the pair agreed to take part in molding their play with the Knights of the Ebon Blade. A peace; one could say. As time went on, the Knight gazed upon the numerous faces of Alliance and Horde. A sickening remark drew from his lips, only to be silenced by Sanari.

How did they continue to bicker against one another? While he held no adoration for the Horde in life, he had assumed peace was permanent in his passing. That they had given up in their infighting. Knights in tin plate. Beasts howling for war. To see such, was more disappointing than relieving. A shame. For they knew all too well the enemy that was their central focus. The Banshee Queen should have undoubtedly united them against a common enemy as it had done for wars long since passed.

Yet, it had not.

The Knights of Ebon called forth for their Highlord to initiate the ritual. As Fordragon did; raising forth the shattered Helm of Domination. Deathly energies spilled out from its surface and contaminated the surface of the Frozen Throne. He, Sanari, and the Knights were wrenched into the raging chasm of the Damned. The Maw. Freezing, even to his own person and attributes, he and his companion formulated an escape at a moment's reprieve. Hastened only by the sensation of eyes perpetually watching their every move. But, they could not now. Their haste would end in a loss that would spiral them into an unimaginable future. Their subsequent manner of action would require the utmost caution and patience.

Luckily for them, the former Highlord would lead them right to such an opportunity. Their grasp of the realm increasing with every moment spent. And the path onward offering them just the occasion to clear from the remainder of the group.


Atop a Throne of Carnage.

His sole purpose was clear. She was in his sight. The Banshee. The High King of the Alliance met his vision. Uncaring the fate of the little Lion. The sound of such a horrendous wail from his lips split the area. Vowing to end their excursion preemptively. Yet, he would be misdirected by her own shackled thralls. Winged harbingers of the same plate she wore anew obstructed his path. The rage of having lost his target resonated a rage blinding the undead. His blade cut down each with ease at the assistance of Shadowtear.

Even with the Banshee was within reach, his grasp of her was laid bare. The vengeance. The hatred. The misery of failure. It all struck him whole upon her escape. Whilst the man would have gladly remained in the Maw's unrelenting chasms, Sanari would not. Laying her hand upon her partner and dissipating their physical forms away from such oncoming harm.

Regrettably, he followed her charge in directing them to safety. Ensuring a way out of the Maw by teleportation. Of course. An invasion portal to another plane of the Shadowlands. Their destination would be elsewhere on the fragmented shard of Maldraxxus. A wicked realm of unholy creatures wielding a might unbeknownst to the races of the living. A strength made manifest in the Shadowland's military might. And ripe to claim as their own. And just the setting the duo had elected as a point of interest.

The Undying Army





Virtue upon Undeath. (Art by psdeluxe.)

Days of in the frozen north had subjected Arthur to separate from most of his comrades. Drifting from their warmth as the frigidness seeped into all of them. It was at this time, buried in cloth nearest the stables, as he neared by a small mare. As if the equine could sense his unrest, she proceeded to settle herself beside him. As days would pass during the tournament, these events would continue. And it was only once the invasion of Icecrown commenced did the two begin to work as one body. One mind.

Titled 'Virtue', he and his companion would drive through the masses of undead like a hot knife through butter. The two would remain together even upon their return to the Plaguelands.

Upon his raising, Virtue followed the path he was to walk. Being raised into that of a skeletal steed in his name. She would shield the Langley knight even in undeath.

Queensridge Wolf Pack

With the recent redesign of Queensridge, Arthur found himself upon many hobbies within the mountainous canyon. While settling himself as a lumberjack for some time, Arthur came upon an unlikely ally. The dire wolves of Elwynn Forest; much known for their ferocity and the history of antagonizing stragglers on the forest roads. Despite ever-increasing tasks by the guards sent out to kill the beasts, they saw Arthur's home as an opportunity. He treated them with respect and, strangely, they returned such feelings. As his ownership over the land continued, the wolves of Elwynn have begun to migrate to Queensridge, as the land now serves as a safe haven for them. Following Queensridge's destruction in the Fourth War, most of the population sides the following duo did perish in the calamity.

  • The two specific worgs are as follows.




    Titled Kara and Lorath by the young lord, Arthur calls upon their aid wherever he may need it. Originally the pair were runts of the pack, but that did not hinder their will. Arthur chose the smaller worgs as companions to move across the land. The trio have been spotted together for most the Fourth War.
  • As with the venerable equine companion, Kara and Lorath both joined their master in undeath.


Shadowlands Art: Legion-BfA Art:Pre-Argus Art:

Trivia & Music

  • Arthur's voice reference in life draws direct inspiration from Robert Clotworthy.
  • Arthur's voice reference in undeath draws direct inspiration from Darin De Paul.
  • Argonaut (In Undeath)
    • A tenacious and unmoving force willing lay siege to whatever may cross its path. Unyielding in its desire to achieve victory at anyone's expense.
  • Balmorhea (In Undeath)
    • All that you've been granted is pain and betrayal. What do you have left? What do you have left to give to this world?
  • The Borne King (In Life)
    • An upbringing of pain that welcomed a life of happiness. Through that pain, one welcomes the hardships that they face.
  • The Partisan (In Life)
    • In a life of war, you forget what you have already. Instead focused on what you wish to gain. Losing everything until you see.
  • War Anthem (In Life)
    • To dedicate everything to a cause. To be unflinching in your resolve of whatever attempts to halt you.
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