#thoran o'donnelly

[eldritchdiplomacy]

oh hey @alterac, @paladerp , I just realized current timeline makes Thoran 17-19 years old, so.

....miiiiight gotta write some half orc/worgen angst, die mad about it purists.

[eldritchdiplomacy]

Thoran O'Donnelly

(playlist)

Mag'har | Clan McAllister

Half-Orc, Worgen, Brawler, Headlander, Just a kid from the Canals

Father | Mother

Age: 19 Height: 6'5"

A tall, broad, olive-skinned lad, Thoran might strike one as older than his 19 years, until they truly took in his cheery, if scarred up face. Though roped in muscle and scattered with scars, Thoran has a very kind, open, youthful appearance overall. His auburn-brown hair is almost always tied back, revealing the scar that passes through his left eye ((pretend it's the same in both forms, c'mon game)). He dresses plainly when not in his Harvest Witch's vestments, his clothes simple but lovingly mended and clean, tidy. He is prone to smiling wide, even with how unsettled it might make people at the sight of his small lower tusks.

In worgen-form, his fur is ((in model!)) a muddly black green, his scars ever more apparent slicing through rough fur. His ears are bid ol' ragged satellites, his same eye grey, yet somehow his grin is just as kindly.

Unless throats need tearing out, of course.

Thoran is a very pleasant, kind young man, despite the roughings up he's clearly been through in his short few years. He is quick with a smile, a joke, a drink on him if you're short….but don't be fooled. Don't start nothing, won't be nothing, those scars were earned in the brawlers club, starting when he wasn't strictly old enough to be there.

Some points!

He grew up in the dwarven and mage districts since the age of 2 - his father the mage schoolteacher Mykhael O'Donnelly. While sure, some might be wary of a half-orc, anyone who's lived there and been active in the local community would know him on sight as a big nice boy, who breaks up far more fights than he starts….outside the ring, of course.

Along with his three Gilnean Headlander cousins, they probably influenced some truly insane accents in their peers growing up.

His mother is Gaezull, an Outland Mag'har orc living in Northrend since BC. Though not together, his parents cared/care greatly for each other, and he WILL correct anyone who implies his conception was anything but loving and consensual.

Darnassus was.....an education >.>

"In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of every glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains..."

"But I know being reckless & young is not where the damage gets done."

Gaezull:

You'll Be In My Heart Everyone Is Someone's 10,000 Miles A Stor Mo Chroi Mykhael:

Two Of Us Sweet Afton Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies... Cloudbusting Two Worlds Reprise Growing Up/The Cousins:

Damage Gets Done Time to Run So Nice So Smart Darnassus:

Show Your Fangs Fast Car Safe & Sound De Selby (Part 1)

Present/Time To Adventure Bb Boi:

Studying Stones Learn Me Right Take The Heartland The Boxer

[eldritchdiplomacy]

Real footage of Thoran at Druid School as a middleschooler:

Malfurion: *drones*

Thoran: *tongue between his teef, scribbling*

Malf: ....youngling, are you taking notes.

Thoran: ....yah.

Malf: ...may I see them?

Thoran: ....yah. S'you.

Malf: ......;_;

[eldritchdiplomacy]

The din of the Dwarven District was a familiar, dim thrum in Thoran's ears as he worked. His strong arm, roped in muscle, bringing his hammer down on the anvil and shaping another standard, city guard style sword. It'd be a day like any other, were it not a Friday, and as such his cousins were crowding 'round for the end of his work day, and the coming Brawler's Night.

"Uncle Ham has ten gold on ya, I hear," A trilling, teasing voice rang out, and the 19 year old half-orc just shook his head, smirking.

"Uncle Ham's a paladin of th' church, if he DID bet on my fights, no way you'd know about it," He tossed over his shoulder. Seated on a crate behind him, 15-year-old Rose McAlister pushed out a pout, blowing her rose-red locks out of her face.

"I heard it from a bus boy at th' Keg, he works with Aun' Tam!"

"So, not Merida, yer best friend, but a bus boy," Thoran laughed, tossing a flawless, if simple, army-standard blade onto a pile, before turning and thrusting another slab of iron into the nearest forge, "...You all need some fresh entertainment in yer lives."

"Thus, why we're here," His eldest cousin (by two minutes) piped up, 18 year old Kern McAlister tossing his little sister a hard candy from the pocket of his kitchen apron, before undoing the ties and tossing the apron over his shoulder. Kern's shift in the Keg's kitchens had ended an hour earlier. "...Fer true, though, half the staff was talkin' about the fight tonight, regardless of rumor."

"Woooonderful," Thoran grumbled, pounding away at his last blade for the day. Directly to Kern's right, removing a leather butcher's apron, his other cousin Nate, Kern's twin, was chuckling as well. Both lads were dark-haired, like their mother, but with the broad, strong frame of their da, Thoran's uncle Tristen. His human, worgen, headlander family were all that way - broad like a barn, dark brown to ginger of hair and every shade between them, and far too easy to prod.

Light, he was the half-orc, olive-skinned, with long thick auburn braids and tusks that poked juuuust enough above his lower lip to make life complicated, and he had more calm than most of 'em.

Presently, he just met Nate's eye with a smirk.

"I mean, I'm up against VaanDaam," Thoran made a show of rolling his shoulder in a shrug, hammering into the sword louder, "It's an easy bet, really..." His smirk widened as he heard Rose groan, his twin cousins laugh...

"Hilarious," A prim, rather exasperated voice cut through them, though, and Thoran's arm stopped short, "You DO know I ended up patching VaanDaam's last opponent, yes?"

Thoran swallowed, turning to spot Abityria Lorcain hauling herself up to sit on the crate next to Rose. Her Neophite robes so pristine, even after 8 hours training and healing at the Cathedral. She was pushing a gloved hand through her long black curls, her blue eyes settling on his face as she went on.

"He kicked a man's kidney clear across the ring, Thoran."

"I just...won't let him kick my kidneys?" was all that came out of his mouth, faced with her perfect, pale, judging face. Bit snorted, shaking her head, looking away.

"....You're lucky I can fix pretty much anything."

.

.

.

@hamadeus1133 @theacidvats @alterac

[eldritchdiplomacy]

Smelly Ones.

((Of all the toons I need to write stuff for, this is the first scrap of something that demanded to be written!))

 He's big, for either an Orc or Human child his age. Thoran is eight years old, and already broad, his hair falling in thick shaggy red curls over sharp green eyes. 

 'Brightstone eyes,' Myk thinks, privately, for all he and Wynn had left their father's surname buried in Gilneas. His eyes were a piercing link between them all, and his tough little lad carried them on, against olive skin and over two small tusks.

 Presently, Thoran has his tongue poking out, concentrating hard on the task at hand - arm-wrestling his mother. In a shadowed corner of the tavern in Booty Bay, Myk had managed to catch Gaezull between ports, on her way off to heal her fellow Horde soldiers. Their contact was sparse, meetings always brief...but for the sake of their lad, who was already trying to figure out who, exactly, he was, they tried. 

"Yer given me a time of it, boy!" The orc woman grins, allowing herself to be bested. The boy grins wider.

"Aww, yuh let me win," He scoffs good-naturedly, picking back up a hand-pie from a plate of them, tearing into the pastry and meat happily, "Schtill, better fight 'en Kern. E' always cries uncle!" 

Gaezull chuckles, drawing a long drink of her ale. Myk just smiles from the shadows, leaning against the wall. "You get along with yer cousins, though? They are good friends?" She asks, casually enough, but with a glance to her son's father. Myk nods very slightly.

"Oi yah! Bes' friends!" Thoran tells her earnestly, "Call ourselves our own wolf pack, us an' some other 'eadlan' kids from school."

"Fits in jest fine there," Myk notes, sipping his own brandy slowly, "E's learnin' 'is numbers an' letter an' such at 'is Aunt's schoolhouse....lotsa scrappy kids." He smirks. Gaezull nods, approvingly, giving Thoran a nudge.

"One day, you can teach me to read an' write in Common, maybe." She suggests. The boy brightens. 

"Caw ye!" He bounces, chattering on, and Myk doesn't imagine the way Gaezull's throat tightens, at how smart he is, how much he speaks with a Headlander brough. How he makes plans about what they'll do when she comes back, if he can see her, of course.

 Later, when they part, she will to a terrible job of hiding her sadness when Myk casts the slightest of glamours over Thoran. It hides his tusks, and the slight green cast to his skin, leaving him looking like a big ginger human lad with ruddy skin and bright green eyes. But still, so much of her features in his face. "Jus' fer travelin'," Myk says, softly.

"Ye, cause folks is dicks!" Thoran pipes up. Gaezull snorts, clutching him close and tight even as Myk scolds him softly. His mum undoes all that good work, and Myk's glad she's there to do so.

"Yeh, they're all big ol' smelly dicks."

.

.

.