Furil Idvel

Full Name: Furil Idvel

Birth Name: Anthony James Ashcroft

Age: 62

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Faction: Neutral

Place of Birth: Brill - Tirisfal Glades

Relatives: Mother - Leanne Ashcroft (Deceased), Father - Lorgain Ashcroft (Deceased), Sister - Esmeralda Ashcroft (Alive, location unknown)

Occupation: Ex-Senior Magus of Transmutation in the The Wizard Sanctum. Ex-Headmaster of the Wizard's Sanctum. Citizen of Helmsburg

Education: Stormwind/Lordaeron (On the field during the Wars), Dalaran (Before destruction in the 3rd), various tomes and texts given to him by colleagues/found himself which he studied.

Physical Description
Height: 6'1"

Weight: 98kg

Hair Colour / Style: Dark Brown (In youth), Black (current) with streaks of white. His hair is shoulder-length and loosely kept; parted to keep out of his eyesight.

Eye Colour: Green.

Skin Tone: A nice golden brown. (I.E: lightly tanned)

Face: Sideburns are shaved as well as around his cheeks, leaving a rough stubble and a nice long goatee around his chops.

Unnatural Blemishes (tattoo's, scars etc): Furil has two scars. One large scar blemishes his skin from his right pectoral down to the top left of his abdominal area, the second being a light scar going from the middle of his left ribs around to just before the spine of his back.

Clothing Style: Outwards, he wears loose robes which flow down to his feet; the robes are kept in place by several folds and a belt around his waist. Beneath the robe he has armor adorning parts of his physique. Long arm-guards that go from the mid-back of his hand up to the tip of his elbow on the outside of his arm, these guards being held in place by a set of leather bracers woven in parts of the metal; in order to keep the arm surprisingly mobile even for spellcasting, at the cost of defence inside the arm. Similarly, he wears a light, sleeveless breastplate which only covers his front and back, being open on the sides with no pauldrons to prevent limiting his movement as much as a full breastplate, the kit being held by leather straps at the top and bottom around metallic buckles. His legs are protected under his robes by leather chaps fastened over a pair of regular trousers, opting out of mail/plate armor as leg mobility is more important for his profession. Finally, he sports a pair of rough leather boots, more durable than the leather of his chaps to endure his travels on unfavourable terrain (i.e mountainous regions).

Spellcasting Abilities:
Transmutation: Furil has mastered the art of Transmutation throughout his life to the point where, for a human, he is considered prodigious in the art itself. Due to this immense amount of skill in the school, he has been picked as the Senior Magus of Transmutation for the Wizard's Sanctum of Stormwind, the spells and rituals he knows in this school are far and wide, but even to this day does he admit to not knowing everything about the school; and thus constantly experiments with the art to discover revolutionary ideas and principles.

Illusion: One of Furil's other school which he is considered, or close to considered, to have mastered. This milestone was only achieved recently in his life, as he has had time to sit down and study with relative peace in the Sanctum.

Enchantment: The final school that Furil has nearly mastered throughout his life, like transmutation he has taken many years to achieve his current level of mastery. Due to his occupation in his youth, he was often seen as a spellsword, or 'battle mage' due to his ability to enchant temporary effects onto his weapon and armor to aid in his melee combat during the Third War. Taught by both humans and high elves, Furil focuses mainly on the offensive aspect of this school, as he relies on transmutation more for mobility in battle, thus forsaken his need for a greater defense.



Abjuration, Conjuration and Divination: Furil only has between an apprentice and a regular mages knowledge in these three schools due to him focusing more on the above three for study. He is limited to basic spells for defence, and can only conjure simple things. Out of the three, he is greater at divination although not by much, his reasoning for this being that divination is helpful in transmutation, as it can help clear ones mind and locate an area easier before a teleportation.

Weaponry: One handed and Two handed swords: Being drawn as a conscript during the First War, he had to adapt to swordplay in order to survive, as his magic was extremely basic at this time, and no threat to the Horde. Seeing the benefits of this, he continued to go into melee combat even after he started developing his magic to greater levels, as he felt that a sword with a good arm to swing it can deal just as much damage as a mage with his basic spells, thus allowing him to focus his mana on more intensive spells rather than wasting it needlessly on spells that won't get the job done. He prefers a one handed sword, and it quite adept with them; but can also use a two handed sword if needbe, although he states doing so makes his spell aim clumsier.

One Last Kindness:
Fear… Agony… Death; ‘Why is it always those three? ’  FuriI mused to himself… In the plague-torn continent of the northern Eastern Kingdoms, it was –always- those three, before him sat a widow and fatherless son. ‘Why must we make them live through such misery and despair.’ Furil hated this, being the bearer of heart crushing news, his place was on the battlefield with his squad, by their side protecting the people, not watching them writhe in agony as their beloved are sent into the meat grinder known as the undead. “I’m sorry ma’am… There was nothing we can do… He shall be buried among his brethren and honoured in our hearts.” Were his parting words to the torn family.

Sighing to himself, he made his way back to his commanding officer a few clicks away whilst thinking to himself. Not long after, he was broken out of his thoughts by a short and crisp; “Report, Idvel!”, pulling his shoulders back, he gives his commanding officer a well-practiced salute before speaking: “Sir. Thirty-four deceased. One hundred and three wounded, forty-six of which have been reported as being plagued. Orders have been given to purge upon signs of change.” The commander grumbled, not liking the news at all, before releasing his own daunting sigh. “This can’t go on Idvel… We are losing ground to the vile undead each week-… No. Each hour we hold out here. Something needs to be done. And fast!” Furil responds with a small shake of his head: “I am out of ideas Sir… Each encounter is inflicting my squad heavily, each clash demoralizes them further. I am not sure how many more encounters they will last before they perish, to themselves or the undead.”

True to his words, the following weeks have been progressively getting worse and worse… His men, who began to have the horrors of this god forsaken catastrophe catch up to them, started to take their own lives, stating they would rather die ‘pure’ than become one those…Things. Furil himself was beginning to have his doubts about his own rate of survival. ‘Wait. Why was I doubting myself?!’ he shakes his head to get rid of the depressing thought; ‘I should not be thinking of dying yet… I can help the others… Yes. I can help them.’ Little did his allies know however, was that despite his seemingly hopeful thoughts and demeanour, they were not so hopeful in practice. Furil was broken out of his stupor from a muffled sound below him… A woman was struggling in his grasp as he held a hand over her mouth; “Shhh... Your daughter is sleeping now with your husband… You will be joining him in a war-free existence soon.” The woman simply began to squirm more as he suffocated her, the light of her eyes slowly dimming; Furils’ lips moved in a pattern he has repeated often the past few days: “I’m sorry.” He released his hand; the woman was stiff and lifeless before him.

Similar scenes repeated over and over again throughout Furil’s history, even as he left his squad and the resistance army on the run from those who call him ‘monster’, him? He simply cannot comprehend what makes those who accuse him feel that way… He was simply giving his ‘victims’  one last kindness , to pass onto the next world through mortal, untainted hands, rather than the hands of one of the real monsters… He will wake them up from their misguided virtues.

…He will wake them...

Starlight and Shadows:
Fall. The fall of leaves as a midnight breeze rustled the canopies of trees was the only sound in the night. The great shapes of walls encircled the Mage’s Quarter, grey slabs and black bricks made of shadow as night’s veil sheltered the realm. Leyhand looked away from the window. In the dim lit room, the hearth’s flames flicked and flailed, thin streams of smoke emerging from cracking logs, embers dancing in the air while bright red coals blinked from within the inferno. The wrinkles threw thick shadows across his face as he smiled, raising the crystal glass high.

“To the Sanctum, the Empire and the bright future ahead.”   Said Furil as he paced in front of the hearth, his visage concealed by the angle of light. The two old wizards bring their glasses together, the refined crystal clinging harmoniously.

Firelight glinted off the side of the glass, half filled with dark-red wine. It was aged dalaran red, an uncommon rarity and luxurious beverage in the recent history of the realm. The flames turned dark-red as Leyhand brought the glass to his lips, his eyes peering through the liquid. Two small sips and half a gulp, the burning drink flowed down his throat as the flames changed colors once more with the lowering of the glass.

Furil nodded firmly as he took a long sip, his eyes closed while savoring the taste, feeling embellished by the quality wine before placing the empty glass down on his desk, near the inkwell, where it began to ring ever so slowly.

“That is the first  proper drink I've had in a long time.” Furil licked his lips ever so slightly before patting his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, removing the dampness as he goes on. “And for a worthwile occasion nevertheless. Thank you, for sharing such an opportunity with me.”

He set the glass down on the desk and  paced towards the window, resting his palms on the sill as he gazed into the distance, blinking. The stars blinked back, a plethora of white eyes spread across the celestial arch with the moon towering above, shedding its subtle light like a guiding lighthouse of the heavens.

Leyhand finishes his own glass, setting it down on the desk.“It is a miracle, an astounding feat of fate that such coincidences converged so that we would meet, our destiny being entangled in such manner...I am grateful for that. It was no doubt its way of rewarding our continued service for the realm and our unyielding resolve to root out taint and shadow.”

He pondered on the inner workings of faith and the complex mechanisms of probabilities that govern the realm, the wine already taking effect as his mind felt its sweet embrace. If the two wisened wizards were to attempt to cast even the simplest of spells, they would most probably experience great struggle with amassing the required focus, their spells sizzling or backfiring were the attempt be made.

Furil chuckled and spoke on, engaging with Leyhand in debates regarding arcane policies, relations with the political authorities of the realm, the younger generation’s mindset trends, various conflictual historical incidents within the circle and the various means to prevent future strife. During their discussion the moon had already ascended and was now starting its descent. Subjects and topics were juggled as they spoke about the Third, sharing tales of war and valor, praising the values of the former Alliance and admiring the bravery of allied races, commending their unity as a whole and honoring the memory of its fallen heroes.

The moon slipped beyond the distant hills and streaks of color graced the horizon. The shadow of night was receeding as leaves idly fell in the pre-dawn gloom, a distant seagull calling out for its companions. With a warm smile and a parting nod, Leyhand bid his friend good night and left the residence. The old man needed rest, being certain that the coming days will require much work to do.