Benjamin clad in a simple jacket and linen shirt right after having regained his sentience.
Profession: Apothecary
Race: Human
Age: 31
Age at Death: 14
Birthplace: Lordaeron
Status: Undead
Height: Short
Build: Frail
Allegiance: The Forsaken, the Royal Apothecary Society
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Thick wool draped the boy’s shoulders as he sat by his desk, the trembling quill held by his feeble hands scribbling away tirelessly into his journal. His haggard, sickly frame sat by the window, occasionally throwing a wishful glance at the children whom played by the pond by the sturdy, oaken house of where he lived, wishing of the good health that they had. What caused this illness was beyond him, but it felt like nothing he had experienced before, his gut wrenched, his complexion glistened and his eyelids struggled to hold themselves up, protesting at the boy to lay down and rest.
He wasn’t the only one afflicted by this ailment, however. His father and mother seemed to be equally as pained, his father having had to close down his smithery to rest and recuperate. His mother toiled tirelessly, though, keeping both him and his father well fed and comfortable in this time of strife. The boy quirked a brow, casting a glance outside while writing. Less and less children seemed to frolick around the pond, may it so happen they’ve fallen ill too? Only Light knows.
Yawning, he placed down the quill and closed his journal, leaning back on his chair. The boy’s eyes fought against him, threatening to close themselves, despite it only being afternoon. He thought to himself as to why this illness was so persistent - having clung onto him for close to a fortnight now. He shrugged and hoisted himself up from his chair, before turning around, laying himself down on his bed, letting the wooly embrace of the covers lull him to sleep.
Kept oft-wrapped under layers of cloth and wool is what seems to be a child, his mousy brown hair and dimly smouldering eyes pointing towards him barely having crossed the threshold of his teenage years, at least when he was alive. A pale, smooth complexion seems to be stretched over his now sickly frame, that despite its yellowish, corpse-like hue doesn’t really seem to have any blotches besmirching its softness. Belying his saddened look, his back is kept straight in an attempt to measure up to the fellow man, as he’d stand far below the shoulders of a male his age.
On the head of his sprouted a crown of mousy, brown hair, kept messy and uncombed in recent times, the thin strands forming a windswept bowl atop his head, a haircut faintly reminiscent of what a villager’s child would have. His eyebrows curled upwards and his lower lip kept lifted, giving the beholder a visage of innocence which truly would detract from the norm of an apothecary, a wicked brewer of vile concoctions.
When outside, the professor’s attire of choice would be a thick, lengthy coat and a cloak, draping him in earthy tones of oaken brown and mossy green, hiding his waifish frame behind the attempted gilt of mystery. A hood covered his mousy crown and a scarf was wrapped around his mouth, only showing the ghastly, glowing glare glaring out from the shadow of the hood. Underneath this mess, however, a collared shirt and a pair of brown pants donned the apothecary, his closet a modest assortment of layman’s clothing.
Yet within the shadows of his spire, as the apothecary was looming over the cauldron of vile concoctions, he’d don the beige coat of a scientist, accompanied by a pair of thick goggles to protect him from the fumes of the bubbling brews.
Tales were told of the boy from the northward forest who succumbed to the illness of the plagued grains, that later came on to be risen as cannon fodder in the Lich King’s arsenal. Wandering with his mind trapped, he limped through the plains with droves of likewise unfortunate undead, the child later found himself to be trapped in a well in the village of Brill. Some time passed, and as the former prince boarded the northernmost continent of Azeroth - a few fortunate undeads found themselves to have their minds free from his grasp, while others had slipped too far. The boy was one of those who got to keep their sanity as a living dead.
Many months he sat alone in that dried up well, pondering about his unfortunate predicament. How did he get there? How would he get out? As his now incandescent, yellow orbs scanned his bony hands, and as he noticed that he could live for weeks, and then months without food and sleep, he realized that something was wrong. He asked himself if his sense of time was ill, or if mortal needs were but a past for him. It took some time, but he heard noise from above. The neighing of horses, and the buzzing of people. So his hand stretched itself upward, and with a frail, dusty voice - he hollered for help. Yet to his fear, he found his gaze to be met with looming shadows with yellow eyes. Rotten people, the walking dead, seemed to be surrounding the well, yet as the horrendous tales he had heard as a child telling him of the flesh-hungry, mindless zombies that had risen from their graves - these were nothing like them. They rolled down a rope, helping the child free himself from the well.
After quite some time, the boy had begun to come to terms with his condition of undeath, of not having to eat, drink and sleep. He started aiding what now came to be the Forsaken with uniting the likewise unfortunate and the abandoned under a banner of unity, where those forgotten and forsaken by their fellow man could find refuge.
