Author's Note; Yes, the Warlock's is longer, and clearly the one given most thought. I foolishly started with that one, and had to shift them around a bit after. As it is, the list compares relatively well to the one I see upon logging in(Earthen Ring, Europe, Alliance), with the exclusion of at least two; a druid I can't seem to work up real enthusiasm for and a Shaman that has been woefully abandoned once the initial fascination died away.

As for the 'family'-remark somewhere in this document, that's new as of my writing the relevant segment. Might make something more of it should I happen to write more like this, but I wouldn't hold my breath, considering how long it took me come back here at all. :)

Vyrla

The Warrior

Standing at the very tip of the hippogriff-landing of Telaar, the full majesty of Nagrand spread out before her, she could not but cross her arms in an absent self-hug; the peasant-clothes she wore making it a far more accessible motion than her more trademark ensemble of metal plates.

She had wandered Azeroth from North to South, and now she stood here in Outland, having largely explored what mysteries it had to offer, as well...and so very few of those she'd encountered so far had been conducive to a decent night's sleep. She wondered idly what new and greater horrors might lie in her far future...or if that future at all would have to bother with her, anymore. She'd had more than her fair share of close calls, lately; either she got wise and restrained herself with regard to the sort of tasks she undertook, or she got arguably wisER and made her peasant-identity the real one. She could not claim that the thought did not attract her; To have clean clothes and keeping up with local news be her greatest worries, perchance find the Right One to settle down with at last...she figured drawing a blade to charge at nightmare made real were hardly the sort of thing men looked for in a wife.

Discarding that train of thought with an irritated noise, she turned as the handler adressed her; a griff had become available. Did she still want to leave?

A last, long look at the deceptive calm of Nagrand's green forests and fields, she turned her back on it and went to get secured in the winged creature's saddle...

Vurgal

The Hunter

Fresh from another trip to his current teacher in the art of leatherworking, he drew a deep sigh, stepping up to the wooden barrier preventing(or perhaps causing) drunken revelers of the nearby inn toppling down onto the slipshod buildings on the level below. A ship was coming in, the usual crowd awaiting it with varying degrees of restlessness. He could not count how many times he'd been part of such a group...only lately having had the dubious pleasure of waiting with the sort of bottomfeeders this place catered to. He understood there were a similar port on the other continent, but had never spent any real time there; the very thought of the creatures inhabiting its surrounding jungle made him sick to his stomach. Much better then, to take the local version of an air-taxi; dubious-looking beasts that seemed more inclined to slice and dice an elf than to carry you anywhere, whatever their handler said.

Buyo

The Mage

Turning the corner into the room proper, he called irritably for the bartender; that last batch of undead had drained his supply of mana, and seeing the smile on the face of the woman that had just left as he came in took care of what was left of his mage-trained control. That she'd been his sister certainly did not help; he needed a drink, and a good and strong one at that. Luckily, it was just the place for it; the Scarlet Raven Inn sat smack dab in the biggest patch of dark and dreary, demon-infested forestland it had ever been his misfortune to be sent into. But where the mage-council in Stormwind pointed, he had but to go if he had any hope of ever learning more of the Art. And he had to learn more, ever more. Compared to the first flimsy spark he had produced, at the urging of an old man that had happened by as he visited Goldshire one day, he could now produce, with nary a thought, consuming flames that would turn places such as this to a smoldering ruin in short order...but of course doing so was a no-no; calm and control. Without it, he would be worse than excluded: they would never allow someone with his knowledge and skill to run free if they could not be sure he'd keep himself under proper control in every conceivable situation. And they would most certainly not teach him any more.

Fire was grand, but Ice...oh, Ice. Blue and glittering like diamonds, and freezing his foes solid at a wave of his hand. A secretive smile accompanied his next draught of ale as he thought of the bonuses Ice could offer even in hardly noticeable amounts...The notion/memory made him take an extra look at the female portion of the Inn's 'population'. Admittedly even the best of them failed to even hold a candle to the worst-looking elf he'd ever seen, of either gender, but enough of them would do for a comfortable night that he could afford himself some appreciative moments in consideration. Making no secret of his trade in clothing or behavior, the measuring looks he offered were recceived with a mix of fear and fascination, something that made him chuckle softly. Even here.

"To women everywhere." he murmured into his mug before draining it, slamming it down and tossing an easy grin at his selected partner of the evening...

Sherezade

The Warlock

From her seat in the Scarlet Raven Inn, she observed the comings and goings of peasantry noticeably more wary of strangers than most other small towns she'd been in, during travels that had yet to acchieve the infamy her profession all but demanded. Her person, such as it was, went largely unremarked as nothing more than a peasant-wife..or, more to the tone of this place; a peasant -widow-. She had encountered quite a few of the horrors that kept these people inside unless need forced them out, and would have found it difficult to understand that they were still there, had she not had a streak of similar 'ground rock' stubborness. For the moment without a 'companion', a test she regularly put herself under to avoid the risk of having one around when it might reveal her for what she was.

With a slight, wry smile she thought of those of her 'collegues' that looked with annoyed puzzlement at her insistence of maintaining an identity outside of her chosen 'profession'; to them, handling the forces that humbled demons and made the strongest fighter a shivery old man with a thought were the very meaning of life. To distance oneself from it's use, to at all care of what other, 'lesser' people thought, were close to an outrage. As yet, she had managed to maintain her strength of position that gave her such liberties, if on occasion only just.

Getting up, she went to the bar to get herself a mug of the local ale. Considering the sort of stuff she'd had to consume over the last few years, alcohol did not have a prayer of unbalancing her, whatever it's potency. Returning to her seat with hardly a glance sent her way, she hid a smile behind a sip once she sat; To show these peons who they were ignoring...but no, she chided herself the next instant, that way lay disaster.

A total surrender to the energies at her command were precisely what she were trying to avoid. Draining the mug with a casual ease that earned her the first real attention of the evening, she put it aside, got up and headed for the door, smile back in place as she passed the last table; they would never know they'd had one among them that could have left their precious commiseration heaven a smoking ruin with half a try...