|OOC Game Stats|
|Guild||Broken Horn Warband|
|Professions||Jewelcrafting / Mining|
|Age||37 (31 when turned)|
Average height with a wiry build, Pusrot generally dresses in immaculate leather armor. His hair stands in long green spikes atop his head and his eyes betray no emotion or indication as to what he may think or feel about a given situation.
Pusrot was a sociopath as a human, and little of that has changed since his undeath. On the occasions when he acts civil towards others, it's always a ruse to gauge their reactions to his various behaviours in order to use those reactions himself when presented with similar situations. The 'real' Pusrot is nearly impossible to relate to on any level.
Pusrot handles his tasks with a sense of clinical detachment and understands how powerful a tool fear can be. As a result, his attacks are often inordinately vicious and executed with the intent of sending a message to anyone who comes across the wake of his carnage.
Few things amuse Pusrot like breaking down someone else's belief system or just making them feel badly about themselves in general. His sense of humour relies heavily on jokes made at the expense of others out of sheer animosity.
More than anything else, Pusrot weighs every decision he makes based on an analysis of what could happen as a result and the risks incurred versus the rewards obtained. The risk/reward method of evaluating the inherent feasibility of a task is the only means by which he knows to operate; concepts like morality and fairness are nothing more than mitigating factors to consider when gauging the reaction of others vis-à-vis his actions.
That was the year that condemned me forever to a life of menial labor, elbow deep in sinew and flesh in that goddamned butcher’s hut; the year that Father’s dear boy was born and I was shunned completely. Dear baby brother Joseph…born to Father and the one he took as a wife three years after I was squeezed from between the thighs of a whore who’d caught his fancy in Brill. Oh well…they got theirs, one and all. Meredith for her pitiful attempts at being a mother to me on the rare occasions when she wasn’t looking at me like I was a pile of horseshit she’d just stepped in and Father for not being able to keep his prick in his trousers until after he was wed. Baby Joseph, who’d done nothing more than coming to the world with a life that was better than mine by virtue of the fact that he was born in wedlock, was spared their particular fate.
Over the course of my formative years, I decided that I had to punish them, simple as that. I’d done it a few times in my life when I felt slighted or abused, and I don’t think that anyone had ever really caught on…a tipped over paraffin lamp in a barn full of hay gave a local farmer something more important to think about than going to see Father about the vegetables I’d been pinching from his fields…the town drunkard tripping and falling and gashing his leg open on the ‘sharp edge of a trough’ the night after he’d cuffed me across the head when I’d tried to lift a few coins from his purse; in truth, the sharp edge was that of my butcher’s cleaver. I never washed it before working the next day either.
In truth, my plans for revenge only really came to pass a year after Joseph left to train as a City Guard. Father had been so proud to pay the entrance fee to have him taught at the local military academy by real knights and men-at-arms…the fact that he was gone made my goals that much easier to reach. You see, Joseph had become quite the honor-bound lad, and was fairly perceptive as well. At times I was sure he was looking right through my façade of pleasantness and into what was beneath, but when you’re planning revenge on a scale as large as mine was, a little paranoia is a healthy thing. Anyhow, I digress…with Joseph gone, I was left to my own devices and I came up with a plan that I’m still proud of to this day. My existence had always left an uneasy sort of tension hanging in the air between Father and Meredith…she never truly believed his story about his first love who had died while birthing me, but she could never really come out and say anything either because that would expose the fact that she was deceiving her self as much as she was being deceived. I, for one, was not about to bring the lie to the light of day. It was far too convenient a reason for her to not be outright malicious to me. Besides, it proved to be a pivotal point in my plans.
The night it all came to fruition, I inked a letter to Father as though I was Meredith, smothered her in her sleep with a rag doused in a noxious brew I’d nicked from a traveling snake-oil seller’s caravan that rendered her entirely unconscious, then tied a noose about her neck and hung her from the rafters. I then coated my belly in pig’s blood and stabbed through a heart I’d taken from the shop that I’d placed under my shirt, lay slumped in the corner and awaited Father’s return from the Pub. When he’d come home, he had burst into the house ranting about the coming of some terrible plague. He looked about for a time, confused by the lack of response until he entered his chambers. His concerns had been dashed away at the sight of Meredith’s limp, swinging form. I’d lain deathly still, waiting for him to find the letter, which he had a moment later. Eyes scanning it, he’d peered over at where I was momentarily, approached with trembling legs, knelt down beside me and pulled the knife from the heart concealed under my shirt. Sobbing, he’d laid back in the bed he and Meredith had shared for so many years, then ran the cutting edge of the blade he’d pulled from me up from one elbow to his wrist, then the other. I had sat motionless for a number of minutes until I was fairly certain that he would be conscious, but too weakened to do much about it. I had then risen up, noting the look of exhausted surprise on his face that soon gave way to dawning horror. With a smile, I’d said, “Father, this is the price you pay for the path you set me upon. I’ll be seeing Joseph soon.” As I mentioned dear Joseph’s name, his eyes widened and he reached out for me, flinging droplets of his blood across the linen sheets. “Ivan…not…” was all he’d managed to say before collapsing back into the bed and lapsing into unconsciousness, then death.
Their deaths never really got investigated because the plague billowed through our town only days after I executed my plan. In the chaos that followed, nobody was terribly concerned with two more corpses for the pile, especially since these ones weren’t rising anew. The plague took me not long after it blew through the city, and by the machinations of the Dark Lady, I rose some time after. I dropped the name ‘Ivan’ and took on the name ‘Pusrot’, which I felt was more fitting to one in my state. In that time, I was spared destruction at the hands of a party of the Alliance who’d raided Sepulcher by a Tauren named Benek, who admired my ability to remain composed under severe duress and invited me to join up with the Broken Horn Warband.