Jeth is the leader of The Lionheart Company, a group of merchants and traders who are very active in Stormwind City's economy. Some call the man insane, others a mastermind. He likes to think of himself as a businessman. It has been known that Jethamus constantly throws himself into life threatening situations for the well being of the "family", barely making it out alive.

Raindrops patter onto my window as I gaze out at the decrepit metropolis of Stormwind. 'The city seems to be perpetually dilapidated; smears of mud are plastered across a majority of the buildings, walls are scorched from recent fires, and the feces of paupers are left to rot on the streets. To a tourist this is a cesspool of disease and debauchery. To me this is home.

I sit here with a stack of clean parchment and a phoenix quill dipped in violet ink before me. Clustered on my desk is a variety of memorabilia to which I have garnered over my lifespan; they are trinkets and tidbits which remind me of earlier times. With my mind clustered with a myriad of pensive thoughts, I have made my decision: I will begin my autobiography.

The scribing of my autobiography has been postponed for a numerous amount of times. “Why“, you ask? I believed that there was no point to write such a trivial summary of my life which no one will ultimately read anyway. I’m still not entirely sure as to why I feel the urge to jot the depressing spiral of pain and suffering which encapsulate myself. Regardless, if at least one person manages peruse this series of disorganized letters and notes, I will be content. My legacy will interminably live on so long as there is someone there to tell it. So I sit. So I write. So I begin.


I. Organized Anarchy

Psychologists have attempted to prove that a criminal’s background begins with a traumatic experience in his or her life. It has been one of my many goals in life to defame this ridiculous theory, but unfortunately I myself am not living proof of a counterargument. Then again, I am no criminal.

The first memory which I can vividly recall was my father’s public execution. Though I was unaware of it then, my father was originally a prestigious diplomat who belonged to the People’s Party of Lordaeron City. This political sect, though granted a minute amount of power, ultimately had socialist ideals regarding public services such as constant sewage management and communal soup kitchens. My father’s political party ascended quite swiftly to the point where Terenas himself acknowledged this vastly flourishing sect. His plans were to finance and promote the People’s Party so long as their ideals did not serve as a conflict to the monarchy itself. Agreeing that his idealism did not involve a coup of any kind nor an anarchy, my father agreed to these terms and was soon funded by the throne.

Valmodeus Holywrought

Unfortunately, it had become apparent that others did not agree with this coalition of socialist principles. So much so that a series of notable politicians from the Royal Political Party of Lordaeron had planned a mudslinging campaign of false evidence against my father in an attempt to force him from his soapbox.

Only a month after Terenas funded the People’s Party, the city heralds bore with them freshly printed news pamphlets. On the front page? A sketch of a disgusting emanation which slightly resembled a human with several of paragraphs of calligraphic text below. My mother had clipped the editorial for the sake of recollection and I had stumbled upon it every now and then. It took me several years, even up until my late adolescence, to realize that this hideous abomination against art was a preposterous depiction of my father. In bold text, the calligraphy read:

Valmodeus Holywrought: Enemy of the People

Socialism? Try absolute chaos! As many of the Lordaeron citizens of today know, there’s a fairly new system of politics being introduced to Terenas and they’re here to suck every coin from our coffers only to waste it all on fruitless public welfare programs! Where does our funding go for military progress? To the vagrants of the city! To the killers, thieves, whores, and scumbags! 'Who leads this filthy mob of so-called ‘fighters for the people? Valmodeus Holywrought (lifelike portrait above) is the ringleader of internal collapse. While most politicians strive to improve their community, it is clear that Holywrought’s sole intention is to eliminate the foundation of our stabilized monarchy which took years to secure.' Worst of all, it has been recorded that Holywrought has been most recently accepting bribes from local mobs in order to turn a blind eye in their direction. Deceit, corruption, and treason - these three properties are a coalition of what comprises a horrifying leader. Valmodeus Holywrought exemplifies this with his treacherous ideals; however, you can end this internal strife by supporting the Royal Political Party today!

When I read this in my late childhood I was shocked and appalled at the information which it had proposed. My mother had to extensively convince me for several months before I believed that my father was a good man again. Perhaps what shocks me the most about this incident is how simple it is to convince someone of a blatantly false fact: an editorial scribed in formal font. The tool of organizing fabrication would be utilized by myself in the near future.

To this day I find it ironic how those who claim they are fighting for the common welfare will persist to veil their true intentions and thus ignite the flames of an interminable cycle of fascism and totalitarianism: two things which they vowed in the first place to eliminate.

Censoring the media, a true mark of totalitarianism, merely led to the ruination of my father’s reputation and ultimately his life was taken from my family as well. All of this was the payment to lie to the public and spout petty midwife gossip in order to “fight for the people”.

These false accusations grew out of proportion and soon my father was accused of ridiculously false crimes such as murder and unforgivable treason against the crown. My mother recalled the night my father was taken away: she had said that the guards didn’t even bother to show enough common courtesy to knock. They merely forced our door open and presented my father with a letter de cache. With a solemn expression etched across his countenance, my father showed no aggression as he was forcibly removed from our meager home. Even now it haunts me at how such a pitiable lack of resistance is a prevalent trait in my family.

Three days after his conviction, my father was ordered to be hanged at the gallows without the right of habeus corpus. My family was in attendance only to console him and ensure that he would eternally be in our hearts. I remember that my brother and mother were wailing and exclaiming that my father was a good, innocent man. Meanwhile, I hadn’t a clue what was occurring and merely stared at my doomed patriarch.

Valmodeus Holywrought stood before a crowd of jeering, aggravated citizens who blasphemed his formerly good name with curses. It took several minutes for the executioner to finally tie the noose correctly and tighten it so that it wrung snugly along my father’s neck. The minutes felt like hours as I merely stared obliquely at the congregation of hate which surrounded Valmodeus.

Words like “pig” and “liar” had echoed throughout the execution court, being tossed around freely like mere greetings. It was hard for me to imagine that just months ago, these rioters worshipped my father like a god. Now, they were against him, fearful of the omnipresence of fascism. These were the true people of Azeroth: ignorant scumbags who could be persuaded and intimidated by several eloquent words and who would be doomed to a life of blissful ignorance.

The sun’s radiant brilliance had environed Lordaeron City on the day my father was hanged. I couldn’t help but think to myself that the gods had a dementedly sick sense of humor to have bestowed such a beautiful day, yet to have taken away the man who I respected most. It was like the entire universe was laughing at me while I could only sit there and scorn what my predestined fate was.

At long last, the time had come: my father’s noose had been completely tied. A sort of suspense overwhelmed the crowd as they merely gazed wide-eyed at Valmodeus. For a man on his way to the afterlife, my father seemed quite tranquil. I’m assuming that this is because my father accepted his innocence and new that ultimately, he would die as a wholesome man. That, or he was too frightened to react to his nearing death.

My stomach had lurched when the executioner began to let loose a wicked grin. His eyes wandered toward my direction - perhaps purposely, perhaps by coincidence - and he chuckled with a hint of malice in between his exhalations of air. The bastard was laughing at my misfortunes. In fact, he had enjoyed every Light-damn second of it. Little did the prick know that in ten years he would regret this action dearly.

It took one blunt kick to the wooden block under my father’s feet for him to fall off into the spiraling clutches of his demise. A subtle cracking noise resounded throughout the quarter followed by the uproar of cheer. My lessons had begun.

II. Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Pyre

"Lack of money is the root of all evil”- George Bernard Shaw

My family was by no means a wealthy one. Valmodeus’ pay rate as a politician wasn’t lucrative and he primarily worked for the benefit of the people, an ironic twist against our favor. We had to move out of Lordaeron City because my mother had two children to raise and couldn’t focus on a profession at the same time.

Fortunately, I remember us buying a small cottage by the outskirts of Andorhal where we could begin sustenance farming. Living off of carrots and potatoes wasn’t the glamorous life, but my family had never been closer.

I suppose now would be an appropriate time to describe both of my remaining family members at the time. My brother, Luthorin, was two years my senior (twelve by the time we had moved out of Lordaeron City). He was always honed more brute strength than I, which led him to instigate many of our physical quarrels. Despite this bickering, Luthorin and I were very close and had a bond of brotherhood which seemed impossible to break.

Luthorin enjoyed doing most of the farming and chores around the cottage. He was a born leader and would often send me to town to purchase provisions and sell off the very little extra produce which we earned in the profitable seasons. Though we were mere paupers at the time, my mother still had high hopes of Luthorin joining the Silver Hand. She would always insist that he go to the church of Andorhal every Sunday to learn the Light’s teachings; he would often do so, but not under his own motivation.

Mother Holywrought, or Daphne, become a disheveled wreck after my father’s execution. Strands of hair blocked her eyesight, bags under her eyes had become even more prevalent, and crows’ feet were beginning to form along the sides of her countenance. Despite her unsavory appearance, I had always seen my mother as a pristine beauty. She was my treasured jewel who may have gotten tarnished every once in a while, but ultimately always held something magnificent inside.

Daphne would do all she could to edify my brother and I. For example, my mother lectured my on the territories of Azeroth and taught me basic reading comprehension and writing. Though her lessons were very rudimentary, they had given me a general understanding of the concept of Common. She was my primary inspiration to break away from the chains of poverty and build myself a flourishing, fruitful future.

I remember one particular anecdote when Luthorin was quite ill and as a result, I was sent to Andorhal to buy some medicine. This was the first time in months since I had been away from home and I was quite excited to see what was unraveling in outer society for I had always visualized the possibilities. My mother seemed less enthusiastic about my short journey and I simply didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because her little boy was growing up, or perhaps it was because she knew I’d have to face the treacheries of civilization sooner or later.

Andorhal was something for me to marvel at, to say the least. From the people to the buildings, everything was new to me. Being just an infant when living in Lordaeron City, I hadn’t any recollection of urban life, so even simple rural towns had startled me.

Beggars were everywhere - that had startled me the most. It had frightened me that even children were entreating for my help. The funny thing was that I felt no pity whatsoever for these fools; rather, I felt a certain sort of hatred toward them. A hatred which would subtly yet surely build up to my middle-ages.

One particularly disheveled boy approached me with a tin can and a gloomy mood painted across his visage. Tears welled up in his eyes as he inquired for a mere morsel of bread or perhaps a copper coin. I savored the taste of elitism as I rejected the young pauper’s plea. In fact, I even had the nerve to kneel over, grab a handful of horse feces, and mash it in the boy’s face.

He stood there for a good thirty seconds before he had realized the extent of what I had done. A few tears trickled down his dirty cheeks before he wailed for his mother. Tripping along the jutting cobblestones, the boy disappeared behind a clump of wood in shame. I continued my tread to the pharmacist as though nothing of importance had occurred.

The pharmacy which I had been given directions to was derelict to say the least. It was apparent that the patio hadn’t been swept for decades and even the support beams out front were beginning to crack and splinter. Above the beams was a second floor, presumably where the landlord slept. Two elongating windows looked over the street as if they were depressed eyes which had to witness the poverty which had consumed Andorhal.

No surprise nor shock had enveloped me as I opened the creaking door and peered inside. It was obvious that the pharmacy was in dire need of interior decorating: vials had lain smashed along the musty floorboards, it reeked of cigarette smoke, and perhaps worst of all was the hideous man at the counter. Moles and other facial disfigurations were riddled along this man’s epidermis. The pharmacist had obviously not bathed for months if not years because his smell emanated throughout the disgusting building.

As he spotted me, the man waited no further to pronounce himself in a deep, lazy syntax. “Oy, you! Yeh li’le bugga’! Come o’er ‘ere! I ‘and’t seen a li’l one in clothes such as yerself in weeks now! Wot’ can I do ye’ fer?”I had hesitantly approached the counter and passed the man a neatly folded piece of parchment. He proceeded to take it with his grubby fingers. His eyes trailed from left to right as he perused the document at his leisure.

It had taken him a good five minutes to get through the one paragraph which was written upon it. Once finishing the simple request, the pharmacist waved his index finger in the air and declared profoundly, “Oh? So tha’s wot’ ye’ want, eh? Well I got wot’ ye’ need, ye’ li’l bugger!”

Flickering my seemingly innocent eyes at the pharmacist, I nodded thankfully. I was wholly relieved that I would soon be able to leave the excuse of a building. The pharmacist took five minutes to traverse to the back room and return with a messily-tied package. He slid it across the table and beamed at me.

“Me name is Earl, by the way. Earl Greenstone. Mos’ people jest call me Ernie, by tha’ way. Dunno why. An’ what’s yer’ name, li’l bugger?”

I replied hesitantly. My primary goal was to leave the pharmacy as soon as possible. With a proud faux smile upon my face, I straightened my back and proudly declared, “Jethamus Holywrought!”

Ernie scratched his chin and frowned. For the first time since we had begun our conversation, it looked as though he was actually contemplating something. “Listen, bub. Jethamus is way too long fer this ragtag town. How ‘bout Jeth? Sounds less fansy-pansy if yeh ask me!”

A moment of perplexed thought enshrouded me before I responded. “Jeth? That sounds like a hero‘s name. Like one who fights dragons and bandits!”

Resounding throughout the pharmacy was a boisterous guffaw which actually made me jump a little before managing to regain my footing. He raised a curious eyebrow at my surprise, then continued in the same tone.

“Listen, Jeth. I like yeh, yeh’re a funny guy. Are yeh lookin’ for work of some sort? Yeh seem like a smart feller and I wouldn’t mind haven’ yeh around!”

I gave Ernie a wholehearted look of complacence and scrutinized the offer carefully. After a moment of consideration, I iterated in a shy tone.

“Ok. My momma needs the money for our cottage. What do you want me to do, Mr. Ernie?”

The pot-bellied buffoon howled humorously yet again.

“I swear by tha’ Light, kiddo! Call me Ernie! None of tha’ formal bullshit! Just cus’ I own a storefront doesnae’ mean that’ I’m all professional and such! Anyway, how sneaky are yeh’?”

My face became alighted with slight astonishment at the inquiry before I answered dutifully.

“Umm. Kinda. Sometimes I go to my neighbor’s farm and take his corn. He only caught me once, I think.”

“Only once yeh’ say? Good, I guess that’ll do. Come back here tomorrow - yeh’ll make a fan-fuckin’-tastic errand boy and pickpocket!”

Half of what came out of Ernie’s putrid mouth was estranged from what I was normally accustomed to. Not once in my life had I heard the words, “fucking”, “bullshit”, or even “pickpocket”. I suppose you could even say that I was a bit sheltered in my late childhood to my early adolescence by my mother. Daphne didn’t want me to grow up and kept me as her little boy; however, my preference was to break free from her maternal grasp and mature by myself. Ernie was the key to my new life. He was living proof that I would do anything to be my own man from stealing to pure brutality.

After a greasy handshake, I mustered up enough courage to take the package and leave the pharmacy. The door looked as though it would have fell off its hinges if I slammed it, so I was certain to creak it shut as the sun enveloped my youthful body from the outside.

Only for a short while could I enjoy the seemingly-perpetual sunlight which graced Andorhal. My pleasure and tranquility was briskly cut off by the thundering clamor of townsfolk. Though a mere echo from where I was standing, I could still hear a muffled chant. Curiosity got the best of me as I wandered toward the source of the yelps of anger.

The source of commotion was the town plaza of Andorhal where a group of peasants were crowded around an execution pyre. It was finally clear what they were saying.

“She’s a demon! She’s a demon! She’s a demon!”

Tied to this makeshift bundle of wood was a maiden who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Tears rolled down her eyes as she attempted to loosen the ropes which attached her to the tool of execution.

It was an obvious fact that there was no way in Azeroth that this woman was a demon of any sort. Her hair was a fine tint of dirty blond and her eyes had a crystalline tint of blue about them.

In an ideal yet cliché world, I would have freed the girl and would have been her knight and shining armor. We would have ran off into the sunset and had a happy family. I would have found an honest profession as a baker and she would have cared for our baby boy and girl. Toward the ends of our lives, we would have died in each others arms whispering loving statements. Azeroth is no ideal world.

I felt obliged to help the woman, but my body froze up as I could only stare at the event which unraveled before me. A torch seemed to have magically conjured into the crowd’s grasp as they hurled it at the pyre. I’ll never forget how the girl screamed in an incomparable hysteria. The flickering flames inched slowly but steadily to the outer contours of the woman’s body while all she could do was cry for help.

Though feeling the urge to turn around and flee before actually being forced to be victim to the murder, I couldn’t help but force my eyes onto the spectacle. I’ll save you the appalling details for your own mental well-being, but be aware that later in my autobiography, I will not grant the same courtesy. There are events contained in this coalescence of parchment and documents which have the possibility to scar your mentality forever. You have been warned.

III. Any Business is Good Business

Young Adulthood

Jeth - 17

Young Jeth under stressful training.




New Beginnings


The hair of Jeth is a midnight black, obviously dyed. The crow's feet and wrinkles across Jethamus' weathered face proves that the man's true hair color is gray if not white. 74 years have passed since the human's birth, and it definitely shows.

One of Jeth's most prized possessions is his tuxedo he wears absolutely everywhere he does business. He constantly boasts that the suit was tailored in the very halls of Silvermoon by the finest of artisans. Some say that Holywrought would slice the throat of any man who would insult this tuxedo.


Self Defense

Jeth is most definitely not the fighter type. If the man was cornered, he will hold his own, though. Hidden in one of the Lionheart's dress shoes is a small blade, eight inches in all. A small fortune worth of fireworks is securely kept within Jeth's tuxedo as a distraction or blinding technique. Finally, Holywrought's most prized alchemists create invisibility potions: Jeth's favorite method of escape.


"Cash is king."

"You want to screw with the Lionhearts? You'll get the *&^%in' Lionhearts!"

"My appreciation to you."

"I'd rather you run, given the chance."

"Help the Alliance! Support the Lionhearts!

Jeth: Not Directly Linked To The Lionheart Family?

A rumor has been spread throughout Stormwind that Jethamus' last name is "Holywrought", not "Lionheart", meaning that he is not linked with Validus Lionheart, the previous Boss of the family. This is very well a fact. Validus was Jeth's mentor, his protege, the company was Jeth's inheritance.

See also

The Lionheart Company

Obgrim's Oddities'

Reincarnation of the Soul

External links

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