Age: 62 at time of death
Affiliations: Member of the Royal Apocathary Society
Appearance: Even for a Forsaken, Malebranche is particularly withered and decayed. His weathered skin and rotting body speak of an man who was old in life, and a body that has spent far too long as an undead already. The remnants of his face are only barely held together by heavy leather straps, leaving it stiff and expressionless. His jaw is practically immobile, but seems to be locked in a permanent scowl. A scraggly, matted ponytail is all that remains of his hair.
His robes are tattered and hang from his wiry body with seemingly little thought to his appearance. He often leans on his staff when walking. Various bags and pouches hang from his belt, stuffed with a variety of herbs and vials. Much like his body, he seems content to let them hang how they may.
"I'm dead, and I hate it."
Malebranche is a bitter and grumpy old corpse. He is weary of life and unlife, and more than tired of the many surprises it has thrown his way. He frequently complains, to travelling companions, guildmates, passersby or even himself about anything at hand. His favourite targets are such as the Forsaken undeath, the Royal Apothecarian Society, the "primitive stick magic" of Horde religions, the "irresponsible, joke-shop magic" of Warlocks, the inane tasks he is constantly ordered upon, the disrespect of modern youth and his considerable loss in power, prestige and memory upon becoming undead.
He is apathetic to the point of laziness, taking no delight in the many missions assigned in him and only undertaking them "because it's easier than working my way out of it." He's very much a follower when working with others, prefering to let them do the hard thinking and take the blame, although he uses his few spells remaining with considerable tactical expertise. The only thing that seems to fire up his curiousity (or even a hint of enthusiasm) is the pursuit of rare herbs for his private alchemical work.
Malebranche remembers only the vaguest snippets of his former life, but his favourite amongst those are his twilight years. He eagerly tells anyone who is interested (and plenty who aren't) about his expectations of retirement to sit around and do nothing but take long baths, read thick books and have a smoke on his pipe now and then. More than anything else, he wishes people would just leave him alone to rest in peace.
Malebranche remembers precious little of his early life. Most annoyingly, he forgets his old name and goes by one he chose out of an arcane tome. His younger days are long lost to him, to the point that others find it hard to believe he was ever young. He does vividly remember fighting in the second war, sending devestating magic against rampaging horde armies.
He holds vague recollections of a family - He has at least one son, who he constantly refers to as "a fat merchant in Stormwind" and believes he has grandchildren. Mal assumes he was married, but finds that he can't remember his wife or what must have been his happiest years to be the greatest frustration of his unlife.
His clearest memories are of his final years. He had settled into single, solitary retirement, resting on his title of "Archmage of Tirisfal." He resided in a grand tower, stuffed to the brim with all manner of arcane paraphenalia. He holds memories of the stuffed crocolisk that hung from his laboratory roof as some of his favourite. He had isolated himself from his home of Lordaeron, which proved his downfall. When the plague struck, he was caught unaware and quickly perished.
Malebranche has few memories from that point, but enough to piece together his movements. His body rose as a member of the Scourge, and he served unwillingly in that army for a few years. He remained in Lordaeron as the Scourge was pushed back, until he was finally beaten down by a new Forsaken and thrown on a pile with other bodies.
Although his was easily the worst corpse on the pile, he eventually arose. This time, awareness had returned to him, although with it came only a fragment of his memories. Before he could get his bearings, he found himself swept up into service of the Forsaken. Given precious little time to adapt, he settled into a newfound routine of complaining while shambling from one inane task to another.