Howdy!
I’ve enjoyed writing ever since I was a little kid, and somehow I never thought to combine my writing with WoW RP. Thing is, though, that I’m not entirely sure where to go with my character arc, so I’d like to hear any suggestions you might have!
For context, my char is a Dwarf Hunter called Rajaniemi (for some reason I couldn’t find him in the “Change Character” section. Also say hi if you see me in-game 
) born and raised in Theramore, and this is his story so far:
I never saw myself fit to rule the seas; born on the front lines of the war against the Horde, I was taught to hate those who betrayed Azeroth with their presence, and yet in such close quarters, ironically enough, the Horde’s influence grew larger on me.
To laugh at the face of death, to fight for honor, and to stand united. I couldn’t blame them for what they did, even as much as it hurt.
They broke me, and so many others, and yet somehow I thank them. They helped rebuild a soul once lost between two worlds.
Once the bomb dropped, few managed to survive. I was one of those who hadn’t been on the island on the day of the attack. Those of us who survived, didn’t have a way back, and eventually we got caught. I expected a swift death, but they took us away.
They rode five days through desert and mountains and through dusty pueblos, where the populace turned to see us. The escorts in battle armor made by the finest blacksmiths, and the prisoners in rags.
We’d been given blankets and squatted by the desert fires at night. Sun-blackened and bony, and wrapped in these serapes, we looked like God’s profoundest peons. The soldiers never spoke our language, and they directed their charges with grunts and gestures. In these dire times, life for most felt fleeting. The end nears. But being there, by the fire, in silence, listening to the night, the thoughts wandered elsewhere.
Once we entered Orgrimmar, we were greeted by a phalanx of discarded corpses. Driven like cattle through the cobbled streets with shouts going up behind.
We were made to dismount and were driven afoot through the crowds down some old stone steps, through an iron gate into a cool stone cellar long a prison, to take our place among the ghosts of old martyrs and patriots while the gate clanked shut behind us.
When the eyes lost their blindness, they could make out figures crouched along the wall. Stirring in beds of hay like nesting mice disturbed.
In this tomb, sealed away from the rest of the world, where air could barely exist, hope was fleeting away.
Memories of the days to come fell short, as trying to remember the cold, dark days felt futile.