63% Caregiver - Friendly, sincere, and compassionate, the Caregiver finds their reward in helping others. No one could ask for a better best friend.
21% Advocate - The Advocate is the one everyone wants on their side. In the name of justice, they are not afraid to challenge authority or speak up for others.
16% Tastemaker - The Tastemaker is always on top of the trends—or starting their own. Their sense of style is second to none and their taste, impeccable.
The Lower City was a place of curious memory, a time when her blood burned hot with purpose, when the damp air was a sense of freedom, and the presence of her animal companions provided a familial comfort. Although she still bore the weight of a crossbow at her back, it was of little pittance against the fitted, full plate encasing her masculine frame. It was as much a skin to her as the open air had once been and the twisted ruin of her physique now was.
Now the wild lands brought back memories with a discomfort she refused to recognize.
Her initial reason for skulking about Shattrath had left in the company of a Red, a pallid monstrosity of an elf, and what was obviously enough a Titan Construct in the form of quite a large drake. They were a common enough sight, certainly attempted to exude the air of capability. Still, she could not leave the post she had placed herself in: she watched from afar as her brother, the last living direct member of their family, lived his life. She was certain he--or perhaps those with him--had glimpsed her, but it was not them she needed to stay invisible to.
A brief trickle had curled up her spine as golden eyes turned in her direction in brief, but she did not shrink away. It was a simple enough communication, really. Those that she had sensed following her in turn were likely somehow related to him. Interesting. And then they were gone, and she was left pondering as always the individuals Kailenn kept company with. At least he seemed to find himself among those at least appearing able to keep him from too much trouble.
That was when she had spotted another familiar face within the sea of refugees as she too had turned to leave. Hunched over a crate below, nearby a pair of Scryers in fervent discussion, his powder blue hair draping over a shoulder too large for his slight frame she saw him.
At first she was to continue on her way, too focused on Kailenn's protectors to bother with the skittish knight she named brother only by way of experience. From her vantage on the upper level of Shattrath, she could still see him relatively clearly despite limited perception of a one-eyed gaze. Unable--or unwilling--to stop herself, the towering Sin'dorei woman scoffed loudly, briefly drawing the attention of a nearby Aldor Anchorite on her casual stroll. Across the way, Andraon tucked one arm across his midsection, as if holding his innards within that mysterious, whirring body of his.
"So I see," the bulky knight murmured beneath her breath with an air of distaste, "the sympathetic fool still suffers for his embarrassment."
Their last conversation still rang clearly in her ears. Too concerned with how invasive the repairs would be, Andraon had planned on requesting the assistance of living mechanics. Briefly she wondered if they had refuse to give aid. She didn't much blame the living for not wanting to stick their hands inside a death knight's body under the best of circumstances, and Andraon was not normal for their sort.
Science experiment that he was, she readily admitted her own curiosity as to his inner workings. Earnest curiosity was no longer such a prominent drive for her, a trait that had mostly vanished along with the majority of her emotions--and her life, of course. Still, the tick and whirr of his innards provided quite the burning interest in her. Just how much of him was mechanical?
Beyond that, he was a target, made so for his shy mannerisms and hesitance. Had they taken his balls from him when they rebuilt his body? Pathetic. He had a moment of insolence, but when she barked back, he shrank. Not that she was fond of the masculine bravado of course, but his sheepish guilt-ridden bleating was a particular sort of irritating. What was the point of continuing if he was merely going to wallow in his own self-loathing?
Feelings. Some connection to what he used to be. Friends, a sense of belonging, a disgusting cling to something that could no longer be.
He was moving now, and that crippled slink merely aggravated her further. He was leaving himself weak and vulnerable. And for what?
Fear. They were fear.
Rather than make herself known to him immediately, she watched unmoving as Andraon gathered his tools and shuffled toward the idle flying machine nearby.
It was a foolish thing, a waste of time. Regardless, she dug into the toolbelt at her side, quickly fitting a spare nut and bolt together. The threads scraped a quiet echo: foolishness. After he had loaded his supplies with mild difficulty into the machine, she took aim--Celebren long ago had adjusted to the change in depth perception for her missing eye--and wound back to lob the little thing at Andraon's back.
Why was she bothering? It was a waste.
The metal scrap clinked on the armor covering his back, tumbling onto the ruined stone at his feet. His reaction was an instantaneous thing, a freeze as if expecting more. When none other blows came raining upon him, he slowly turned to peek at the lazily milling denizens of the Lower City, and then warily up to the nearby upper level.
There she stood. There was little mistaking the woman as she crouched like a lurking tigress, snowy white skin barely seen for the dark armor encasing her muscular form. Silvery hair fell to her waist, littered with miniature plaits, aviary bones and feathers. That singular ice blue eye watched him with hawkish intensity, dulled none for death or distance. Lips darkened in her reawakening were drawn back to bare a hint of her teeth. As he looked up at her, she lifted her chin, and Andraon bent to scoop up the nut and bolt, skin crawling.
