#lyanthar

[electricb00]

paladin OC redesign

[electricb00]

not gonna finish this one but i WILL give him a full redesign in the future!

abandoned... hehe

[thefeglord]

(( RP Highlights ))

It was quite apparent that none of Lyanthar’s verbal assaults had drawn forth any true retaliation, each act of provocation falling flat and failing to induce the collision that he so sorely desired. It was difficult even to determine whether or not he had been heard, unable to take note of any shift in demeanour with his limited view and narrow perceptive skills. Aggravated, the crusader was huffing hot breath through flared nostrils whilst he continued to pursue the apparently indifferent scholar, following close and glowering down at the back of his head as though eager to drive his palm against it. Yet he refrains from this, working to suppress his crude notions of violence and clenching his jaw instead. Plated hands were tightened into fists at his sides, knuckles whitened beneath the plates and nearly trembling with the force of his coiled grip. Dense boots were colliding firmly with the marble below, gold embellishments adding further weight to the sturdy treads that thudded resolutely and emitted echoes down the cavernous hall.

The rest of the estate seemed almost haunted, darkness pervading in all places aside from the carpeted parlour room and the entrance hall. It was a hollow shade of their childhood home, a phantom place filled with only the ghosts of their memories and the light pattering rainfall that burdened the outer surface of the structure. Perhaps ominous by nature but even moreso on such a night. Lyanthar himself was too preoccupied with petty anger and restless anticipation to cast much thought to the atmosphere, fixating upon the hollow entity that granted him no hint of retaliation, no indication that any of his attacks had landed. Further taunts were springing to the tip of his tongue, eager to mindlessly regurgitate his thoughts without processing them, to ridicule and shame the creature that appeared now to have lost all ability to care. But by this point they had reached the sitting room and a single glance cast toward the perpetual scowl etched into his father’s features was enough to rattle all thoughts from his mind and leave him empty of words.

However, anger indeed persisted through the scrubbing of his mind and the glare was once again directed toward the slender scholar - huffing again whilst he did so. Calendieth remained beside the fire, glass in hand and his scrutinizing gaze landing squarely upon the two men that now entered the room. Wordlessly, he observed for a moment - lingering a little longer on the more wayward of his sons. Maintaining a distant demeanour, he was analyzing his youngest son as though filing away the details - perhaps exuding an air of judgement in the process. Yet there was an uncharacteristically open display of relief in his gaze, merely laying eyes on the boy and momentarily seeming to take some degree of solace in the sight. That is, until the morose scowl was returning in full force and he was extending his free arm calmly to one side in a gesture for the duo to take their seats. In the process, he continued to regard both of them in a guarded manner, draining the remainder of his glass and turning briefly to the mantle in order to top up the beverage once again.

Lyanthar was shoving past his smaller sibling and brushing brusquely against his shoulder in an unapologetic fashion before dropping himself heftily back onto the sofa, spreading out to such a degree that almost all of the space was consumed - indication that his smaller counterpart should select another seat, glowering up at him.

Silence pervaded throughout the parlour as the brothers sought their respective seats, only broken by the settling of their bodies, the distant ticking of a grandfather clock and the soft clinking of nearly-melted icecubes suspended within that crystalline glass. Yet it was also severed further by the interjected greeting, a quiet insertion - almost timidly uttered. Though secreted and unspoken, there were wounds laid open with the mere presence of the youngest Sin’drael. Lyanthar wore them on his sleeve, as he did with most things - sulking and glowering from across the room, directing blatant spite toward his younger brother.

If Threnesh shared anything with his father, it was perhaps their inclination for secrecy, for maintaining their guard under all manner of strain. The wounds would not usually show so plainly under ordinary circumstances but Calen’s grief hung over him in the form of a dense burden and one that was lifted somewhat by the knowledge that the smallest of his litter had persisted, that both of his remaining children were right there, sharing the space. It did not matter that they were in conflict with one another, nor did it matter that Threnesh had not seen fit to send word after his initial departure. It did not even matter that he still shared so many features with his conniving mother. For now, it was enough to see him doing well, to see him safe.

Calendieth seemed almost on the verge of a candid response yet he solidified his scowl and merely nodded with a clipped grunt of acceptance. He was quite a fair bit more content with the absence of noise than his second-born who now shifted restlessly amidst the oppressively dead air, rolling his shoulders and shifting his position atop the sofa repeatedly. Another sip was drawn from the freshly filled glass, the Sin’drael patriarch taking his time to unveil the news that clutched at the interior of his skull - inadvertently drawing out the tension. Once he had spoken, there would be no going back - the duo in his company would be forced to experience the same fracturing of consciousness that even now was inwardly tearing him apart.

It was not uncommon to see Calendieth Sin’drael with a glass of scotch whiskey in hand but by the look of him, it wasn’t difficult to assume that he had been at it for a while. His hair wasn’t quite the short, sleek mane that he often maintained and the tufts of blonde that sprouted from his jaw were more dense and ungroomed, left to their own devices for a few days along with his disorderly attire. Upon closer inspection, his necktie was undone, the top button of his shirt was loose and the entire garb was profusely wrinkled. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, darker than usual and the rims of his gaze were tinged with red - only truly noticeable when his optics were swivelled toward the observer in question. Even the decorated patch that was almost always employed to conceal the wound in his eye was absent, exposing the grisly scarring.

There was only so long that he could wait before exposing the truth, reluctant to inflict those fresh wounds or perhaps simply to admit what had transpired. “I’m glad that you both took the time to journey home at my behest. But the news that I must share is not going to be pleasant,” Calen began with these remarks, ever the careful diplomat. They would need to be prepared for the knowledge, he could not simply thrust it out into the open. Yet despite his precise tone and eloquent speech, his voice was somewhat hoarse and did not carry the usual foreboding growl. Calendieth sounded just about as tired as he appeared, though he would be reluctant to admit it.

“Feradith is dead.”

There it was. It sounded like he had to force the words out. They practically emerged as a harsh bark of syllables and he was draining his drink again once they were finally unleashed, icy bells jangling within the glass. Stunned silence resounded for several fractured moments, the crusader on the sofa remaining motionless and in a state of uncharacteristic immobility. A bewildered gaze was distantly settled upon his stoic father, struggling to process the information.

[thefeglord]

Quel’thalas was often a realm without alteration, the climate of the region consistently fixed to a pleasant autumnal chill or the far more vibrant conditions of a breezy summer. As such, rainfall was a rather rare occurrence and was usually secluded to the deep wilderness of Eversong. Only a mere mist of rainfall showered the woodland province in moisture on one particular evening, dousing leaves of russet, auburn and gold with a peppering of translucent droplets. It dampened the air and shrouded the atmosphere in a blanket of pale haze, moistening anything contained within the region. Artificially maintained wilderness gave way to pockets of civilization, neatly composed clusters of architecture set into the larger spaces between the trees. Most were of moderate size and were illuminated ardently from within, pleasant little interludes of luminance and sophisticated construction.

Yet there was one particular estate that stood apart from its contemporaries, a sprawling conglomerate of turrets and spires. It was an incredibly foreboding affair, possessing only a few of the refined details that adorned its counterparts, darker in color and more intimidating in the looming height of its towers. There was a single central building that rose fat and powerful at the center with three skyward-reaching spires surrounding it, two on either side and one rising from the rear. Only a few smaller buildings were scattered in the estate’s sprawling shadow, consisting of a military barracks and a set of stables, accompanied by an armory filled to the brim with elven weaponry. Most noble estates would boast a vast set of gardens, some cottages or perhaps a richly decorated ornamental fountain among the grounds but such frivolous luxuries were evidently held in contempt by this particular territory.

Even the lights within the home lay dark and vacant, only a pair of rooms lit from the inside and a single glowing lamp ensuring that the entrance was visible to any visitors from the exterior. As such, both the lobby and entrance hallway were illuminated, along with one of the sitting rooms on the lowest floor. The marble of the hall’s floor gave way to an elaborate parquet of hand-crafted wood, smoothed and refined to perfection, laden with a few imported rugs. Large bookshelves lined the windowless sections of the walls, an enormous parlour room filled to the brim with polished mahogany furniture and Uldum rugs. Dense crimson drapery was strung across the large panes of a floor-to-ceiling window, stretching high toward the vaulted ceiling of the parlour. These curtains were pushed to either side, allowing the misty landscape beyond the glass to remain visible. All color within the room seemed to consist of traditional Sin’dorei pallettes - though indeed, darkened and muted - creating a formidable atmosphere despite the wealth and opulence displayed.

Two men occupied the space although a vast distance separated them entirely from one another. Both carried similar facial features, chiseled jawlines, sharp jade eyes and crooked noses all bearing inherent resemblance. Even the pale stubble running rampant along the lower halves of each face and the brutal scars that strike at differing positions in their respective features were a point of similarity. One man was sprawled across a large sofa, scarlet cushions at his back and both of his burly arms draped along the back of the seat - an indolent pose. Lyanthar had adopted this lazily relaxed position yet his stiff shoulders and twitching foot were indication to the contrary. Brilliant blonde hair, a shade darker than his father’s clipped tresses, was splayed elegantly across his armored shoulders in tousled waves. A rather elaborate set of travelling armor adorned his densely-muscled frame, nowhere near the gorgeous detail of his tournament set but still quite impressive regardless. One leg was folded lazily over the other but the slight twitching of his foot was causing the plates to clink faintly. It should have been loud enough to catch his attention but all of his focus seemed directed toward his father across the room, gazing warily at the other man and flicking occasional glances toward the door to the entrance hall - clearly anticipating another arrival.

Amidst all of this, Calendieth was nearly motionless beside the fire. One hand was outstretched toward the elaborate mantle of the fireplace, leaning against it whilst his other hand circled a crystalline glass of amber fluid. It was raised to his lips every so often - acting as the only true shift to his frame aside from the soft rising and falling of his chest and the languid blinks that briefly interrupted his vacant stare, scowling distantly into the flames. His garb was that of a finely-tailored noble, a formal russet vest and collared undershirt with dark trousers fitted to his lower body. Although, while this attire was indeed of respectable quality and style, it seemed in a minor state of disarray - as though he had slept in it for at least a single evening, perhaps two.

Oppressive silence filled the room, the only sounds emerging from the faint clinking of icecubes in a glass or metallic armored plates shuddering with the movements of a fidgeting host. Calendieth remained a patient statue yet Lyanthar was irrevocably restless, having received no true explanation for his summons yet finding himself incapable of demanding an answer.