[Gwathagor]

Gwathagor ShadowBlade, Scourge of the North, Defender of Truth, Terror to the Lawless, Friend to the Fatherless and the Oppressed was sick and tired. Despite being a level 41 Ninja-Elf (Sign: Thief, Class: Scout, Guild: Warrior), who could do 1,305 damage to all enemies (save the Grand Half-Orc Claw-of-Doom-bearing Wizard of the Fourth-and-a-Quarter Dungeon) within a 30-foot x D20 radius with his favored Sword of the Godly Winds ability, he found himself bored. In addition to be being bored, he had a stuffy nose. He had just slain 3 armies of 500 and their gryphotaur captains on an unspecified hill-top, and had sat down to catch his breath, when he discovered that he wasn't having fun anymore.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. He wiped his nose. Sniff.

"What am I doing here? Am I really happy? Did I miss my true calling? Is this a mid-life crisis? Hold on....I'm immortal, that's impossible. I don't have a mid-life."

This wasn't strictly true. ShadowBlade was not an elf; he only played one in D&D.

One of the abject gryphotaur minions was still alive. He leapt up and ran at ShadowBlade with a blood-curdling screech. Absent-mindedly, Gwathagor ShadowBlade flung his Battle-Axe of Cold Northern Death 100 feet or so, splitting the beast cleanly in two.

"I need a holiday," he declared.

However, he only thing his travel agent could find was a Werewolf game taking place in the Barrow-Downs. He packed immediately, and caught the nearest stagecoach to the Downs, ignoring several pleas for help along the way.

He thought it would be fun.

He had no idea it would be dangerous.

[Note: I prefer to be referred to as Gwathagor, BUT if you INSIST on finding something shorter, then I will settle for Gwath, as that seems to be a common truncation of the full name. As long as you don't call me Gwathy, we can be friends.]