A secondary blog dedicated exclusively to my OCs. Each post has been tagged with the name of the character/s depicted so a quick search of this blog with their name ought to bring more specific information up.
A terse sigh was ushered through thin lips, expelled harshly and in a clipped manner. Figures seemed to shift around the two siblings like water, a sea of bodies and faces that neither of them could even really identify - nameless mannequins that contribute to meaningless and indistinct chatter. Lyanthar regarded these guests as strangers despite the fact that he could have put names to some of the faces. Yet on this day, they were mere foreign elements that only served to relentlessly appeal for his attention - calling upon the golden crusader as though he were an exemplary display of Sin’drael lineage, as though he represented something significant to them. Ordinarily, this may have emboldened him or stroked his ego but it had become an annoyance, a blanket of irksome pressure that swarmed around him, insisting that he must live up to some unseen standard.
A single broad hand was unhooked from his belt and lofted to his neck, sliding beneath his collar to some degree so that he can knead his palm against the nape of his throat, massaging out the knots that had gathered there. The words uttered by his brother were putting a halt to this gesture, gloved digits halting in place and simply remaining curled around the side of his neck whilst he swivelled to regard Threnesh. Gold-flecked emeralds went a little wide but the scowl could only deepen as he laid eyes on his smaller kin, a tepid snarl pulling his lips away from his pearly incisors.
“He spoke to you?” the crusader was incredulous, a hearty dose of malignant derision latching onto his tone - a noxious tumor. There was bitterness lying beneath the first few layers of contempt, a jealous gleam flitting across his gaze fleetingly before he snapped his head away and pretended to regard the crowd again - though, he could not seem to truly fixate upon them. Calendieth had not spoken a word to his second-born in days, a brief encounter in a corridor acting as the only balm to his supposed neglect. Even on this day, before the service or following it - there had been nothing. His father had hardly even seen fit to look at him. It was one of the few defining relationships in Lyanthar’s life and it had become an increasingly barren wasteland. No matter his attempts, he could not seem to gain the approval he desired. But feeble little Threnesh seemed to garner more sympathy somehow, more attention in spite of his stunted growth and lack of interest in matters of family. These insecurities manifested in the sudden distance of Lye’s gaze and the agitated gnawing of his lower lip - a restless mannerism he had unknowingly exhibited since childhood.
Ringlets of gold had begun to spill across his countenance and he addressed this now by slipping his digits away from his broad neck and instead employing them to flick his hair back in a few haughty motions, finally casting a heated glance toward the hall’s exit and the grand staircase that would lead upstairs. It was quite clear that he was debating whether or not to intrude on his father’s office and demand answers for the questions that had recently arisen, the conversations he had overheard across the hall. “I really need to talk to him,” he blurted this in a sullen manner, growling the syllables partially under his breath and peering intently at the path he could take. There could be retribution if he was too hasty, if he allowed his impatience to get the better of him. After a few extended moments of indecision, he was huffing forcefully again and rounding on his heel to pace a short distance. Plated armaments were clinking audibly as he raised both arms to fold them tightly across his broad chest, coming to a brief halt before pacing back and restlessly unfurling those arms to instead rake them through his hair.
Strands of gold were gripped loosely betwixt large gloved digits, the curling tresses dragged through combing fingers in a restless manner. Lyanthar didn’t seem to be grooming himself, merely seeking purchase for his restless hands - something to occupy his grasp and avoid the allure of violence or destruction. Fingertips dug into his scalp, massaging for a few moments before drawing away and sweeping his bangs back, the golden tresses settling back into their usual places. However, the crusader hadn’t quite ceased his incessant pacing, slowing it to a dawdle yet remaining in motion - too restless to stand still. Options were mulled over and debated, unable to come to any real conclusion. Calendieth was not the sort of man to forgive interruptions, a lesson that his children had likely been forced to learn through the brutal penalty of harsh lectures and cold gaze. As such, it was the fear of a scolded child that kept Lyanthar from his impulses, lower lip curled between his teeth.
All awareness of his younger sibling’s presence had seemingly been cast aside but as the young scholar began to tread closer, Lyanthar was forced to notice him again and thus revive an additional wave of irritation. Blazing emeralds were flitting toward the smaller man and scrutinizing his exterior whilst he spoke. The slowed pacing was halted now and the armored crusader was rounding on his estranged kin, now singling him out as a target for frustration. He had pivoted fully toward his foe and faced him completely, not an ounce of him shying away from the confrontation that he sought. A bitter, mirthless snort was issued through flared nostrils, a sharp sound accompanied with a churlish little smirk - no ounce of true warmth lying in the expression, only a plethora of contempt and derision. “Oh please, don’t act like you give a shit about any of this,” he spat the bitter words like they were acid in his mouth, dribbling out in his crude drawl and dousing them in hostile venom. For a moment, he stood a short distance away from the scholar and merely watched him intently. His breathing was somewhat hastened and his gaze was narrowed, an aggressive squint directed toward the center of his ire - the impish creature that seemed so intent on provoking him. A silent decision was apparently made in this moment, the initiation of an aggravated advance.
Ceremonial plates were rattling now, beginning to step closer to Threnesh in hefty motions - hauling his armored frame closer and feeling the resounding thud that was issued by each of his dense boots as they landed firm upon the wood below. Inflicting destruction, immersing himself in violence - it was overwhelmingly tempting to concede to these impulses and simply unleash what was held inside. He wanted to hurt something, it almost didn’t matter who it was but Threnesh would have been a prime target. Gloved fingers were curling into fists, bunching tightly at his sides and tension rippling beneath the armor. It was enough to shake the plates, muscular frame bunching with unbridled strain. “This is all just a big fucking chore to you, isn’t it? You don’t even want to be here,” Lyanthar was yelling now, raising his gravelly drawl to a thunderous bellow and practically spitting in his brother’s face.
Some of the people nearest to the siblings were turning now, their mannequin faces contorting with shock and judgement, whispers spreading among those that were within range. Lyanthar was beyond caring about them now, they could make their own assumptions, they could share their gossip - it was irrelevant. All he knew now was that he wanted Threnesh to feel the impact of his actions, to show remorse, to show anything. The crusader would continue to push himself into the smaller man’s space, an act of intimidation that would persist until they were inches away from each other and Lyanthar was close enough to strike out with minimal effort. But he only stood there, scowling and practically vibrating with hostility. “You were his fucking favourite. And look at you, you don’t even care,” another roared accusation but this one was accompanied with a fierce shove, plated arms rising to press his palms against Thren’s chest, likely hurling him to the ground if the impulsive strike managed to land. Moisture had gathered in Lye’s gaze again, shuddering with it as he had in the chapel - but it was contrasted with the ugly twist of hate that wrinkled his nose, furrowed his brow and turned his lips into a grimaced downturn.
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.
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.
(( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVN1B-tUpgs - put this on loop, it’s gorgeous ))
(( This is a prelude to a RP from several days ago. Felt a bit like elaborating on the full scope of the situation for my writing partner but it took all day so I’m throwing it online.
It starts below the cut because the content is pretty horrifying. TWs in the tags, be safe. ))
A lingering sense of malaise had managed to infuse itself into the very atmosphere that surrounded the Aur’elon residence, seeping into the walls themselves and blanketing everything beneath a dense layer of unease. Long shadows stretched across the interior of each room, the light of a swiftly fading afternoon casting orange rays over the upper floors in abundance. All of the furniture within one of the bedrooms in particular had been crafted from elaborately detailed mahogany, the medley consisting of an enormous double wardrobe set against the far wall and a sizable four-poster bed consuming the majority of the space. Several bookshelves, side-tables and small armchairs were arranged artfully throughout the composed interior and each surface was adorned with tidy displays of jewellery or other small trinkets. There seemed to be no surface left plain and each was dusted - polished with religious care. Expensive paintings and tapestries had been pinned to the walls, brightening the room significantly in coalition with the imported rug that had been laid out atop the floorboards.
However, a few sections of the oaken floor were somewhat damp and the rug had been peeled away from these segments of flooring. A pair of willowy hands were working away at the boards with unparalleled fervor, grasping the handle of a scrubbing brush with such intensity that his knuckles had whitened. The oaken panels were scoured relentlessly, fierce repetitive motions wracking the scrawny frame that huddled over these damp patches of wood. Potent chemical scents were drifting around him in copious quantities, a caustic aroma of disinfectant that floods his senses and clings to the interior of his throat.
Yet there was comfort to be gained from these acerbic fragrances, inhaling them deeply until his nose was burning with them, taking deep unsteady inhales whilst his frail arms continued to pump the bristles of his brush against the wood. No trace of blood still remained upon this section yet he persisted regardless, huffing labored exhales through his pointed nose with every swipe of the brush - seeking perfection. He had the wealth to hire someone else for the task but no one would complete it with the same degree of commitment and perfection as he himself would. Moreover, one could rarely trust a maid or a housekeeper to maintain complete silence when it came to the spilling of blood and Esterius was not eager to draw attention to himself or his debauched personal life.
At length, he was finally ceasing the furious abrasion and heaving a weary sigh. Fatigued arms were loosening and his digits slipped away from the handle of the brush, raising the hand in order to peer upon it in a dazed manner and regard the shrivelled pads of his fingers, soapy moisture clinging to the surface. His entire hand seemed aflame with a red flush, the flesh still tingling in a manner that should have incited discomfort yet to the contrary - it was a welcome sensation for the frail merchant. Unfocused lime irises remained fixed to his inflamed hand for several moments, the chemicals that he had inhaled clearly having a minor effect on him. Labored breath was still being huffed through his nose, his lungs taking this moment of reprieve to recover from the exertion. However, he was soon plucking up the brush again and dipping it into the wooden pail at his side, dousing the bristles in cold soapy water - now somewhat reddened by the blood he had washed away.
As Esterius withdrew his bristled tool and began to work on a different section of the floor, he was regarding the dried blood with distant aversion whilst he showered it in soapy disinfectant and began to scrub again. Perfectly plucked blonde brows were drawing inward into a loose frown, peach-tinted lips fused into a grimaced downturn as he worked and a few sleek strands of pale blonde hair were falling from the loose bun that he had tucked them into earlier. Ester had garbed himself in a set of loose violet robes with a high collar and richly detailed gold embroidery. Additional gold trims and fixtures were fused to the garment - enhancing the entire conglomerate immeasurably. Numerous bangles, bracelets and pendants were hung from his frame, though their numbers were significantly lessened when compared to the over-abundance he usually adorned himself with - having removed a few of the more valuable articles before beginning his work on the floorboards, electing to also discard the abundant coalition of rings and bands that were often displayed on his frail fingers.
The faint crease between his pale brows was deepening somewhat as he continued to scrub the boards and peer down at remnants of caked blood that he hadn’t quite cleared away at the time. Farathis had arrived in a stupor several nights prior - after months of absence - swaying upon the terrace beyond the entrance to the residence. It was nearly dawn and Esterius had been woken in his bed by the thunderous booming racket of fists against his front door. His initial thoughts had been a flurry of panic, fearing that the wards he paid to have set into place had failed, that the Highwind boy had come to take him at last. But a quick glance out the window of his bedroom had been enough to authenticate the presence of a more welcome guest and he had rushed in confusion down to the ground floor of his residence in order to swing open the door and regard his visitor.
Rivulets of blood had been streaming from deep gashes in Farathis’s throat and there was torn flesh at his sides, an additional horrendous wound embedded into his bicep as though the limb had been brutally torn clean off and then haphazardly pressed back together. One may have perceived this as a foolhardy endeavour if not for the furiously streaming trails of regenerative mist rising from each wound, a cocktail of crimson vapor that mirrors the plumes trailing from the fringes of his gaze. Hollow scarlet pools were pulsing faintly within his optical sockets, emitting a steady vermilion glow that is exacerbated by the gloom of the night. Plated greaves adorned his lower body but they were caked in old blood and grime, in an abhorrent state of disrepair and nearly falling apart. His chestpiece, pauldrons and gauntlets were missing entirely from the armored garb, everything above his waist laid bare to the dim glow of the moon - scarred ivory flesh reflecting the cold light in abundance.
He had said nothing, offered no explanation for his presence and instead - had simply stood across the threshold, waiting to be granted entrance. Esterius accepted him almost immediately, stricken for a moment by shock yet recovering swiftly enough to step aside and permit the other man’s passage. Stomach turning at the sight of the blood, those willowy digits had been lofted to his lips and pressed gently against them as his companion trekked over the threshold, dripping crimson fluid all over the marble floor of the lobby. Despite the acrid stench of blood tying Ester’s stomach into knots, he was shifting closer to the tall porcelain man that had wordlessly entered his home - extending those frail arms toward him before he could begin to teeter toward a collapse. Such a feeble grip couldn’t have hoped to do much to keep him upright but he sought to do so regardless, assisting the horribly wounded creature and guiding him toward the hallway.
After a difficult trek up two flights of stairs, Farathis was escorted to one of the upstairs bedrooms and following a brief moment of compulsive hesitation from his host - he was permitted to sink down into the bed’s mattress. Esterius found himself wincing absently as his companion’s blood began to stain the sheets with deep red blotches of color. Yet regardless of these finicky compulsions, his attention was more fixed to the tall wounded elf in his bed - gingerly extending an arm to brush soft fingerpads against the side of his face. Farathis was leaning into the gesture like a tamed dog, nostrils flaring as he drew in the scent of perhaps his only ally. There was very little other action that he could enact with one arm lying limp at his side and the other holding it together, cells regenerating with supernatural rapidity and continuously emitting that cocktail of upward-trailing crimson particles from the fringes of each wound.
Esterius had slowly withdrawn his hand in order to step away and gather the materials necessary to assist in sealing his companion’s wounds - retrieving a sizable wooden bowl, filling it with water and collecting a washcloth from the kitchen. By the time he had returned to his room, Farathis was lying on his back and peering up at the opulent drapery strung over the top of the bed. There was little response in his wiry figure when Esterius began to sink into the fraction of space beside him, careful to avoid contact between his pale blue dressing gown and the abundance of dark blood that had begun to seep into the sheets.
The bowl was set down atop a side-table and gentle hands were soon dipping the cloth into it - raising it subsequently and wringing some of the water out. Translucent fluid dribbled from the strung washcloth until it had transitioned from drenched to damp. It was then applied tentatively to the wounded man, clearing some of the grime and blood from his scarred porcelain flesh. A criss-crossing patchwork of older wounds was streaked across the pallid skin in abundance, evidence of a long and violent history. Most were scars that Esterius had seen before but there were several that were new to him - causing the crease between his pale brows to return as he fixates on the mental map that he had constructed, on the older memories of his strange companion. Farathis had clearly been quite busy in all the months that he had been away.
Gradually, each wound was cleared of debris and Esterius was allowing the washcloth to sink into the bowl as he rose to his feet and began to carefully remove the dilapidated armor that adorned Fara’s lower body. Not a word had been spoken throughout the entire encounter, not a single utterance issued by either party. It didn’t seem necessary somehow, to ask questions, to wonder why. There had been an unspoken rule among members of the Syndicate and it preached an ideal of secrecy - but indeed, Esterius had been an adherent of privacy for longer than he could even remember. Thus, as two former members of that organization, it seemed only natural that they would keep most matters to themselves. Farathis was already mending himself at an alarming rate, only trickles of blood issued from his slit throat and torn sides, his sundered arm nearly intact. Regardless, a roll of linen bandages was still employed to ensure that each wound was bound into place, tenderly applying the soft fabric yet exhibiting perfect precision with every motion - utterly committed to perfection.
Abrupt pressure was encircling the merchant’s narrow wrist as he began to pull away again, preparing to rise and fix the sodden sheets beneath his associate yet interrupted by the sudden gripping of his arm. Farathis had lifted his half-lidded gaze to settle it intently upon Esterius, clutching the man’s frail wrist in an iron grip and denying him the opportunity to leave. There was a smug upward twist emerging in the thin lips of the regenerating creature upon the bed, slowly using his good arm to drag his little blonde companion closer. Delight was rippling across his features whilst a pained wince was emerging within the smaller man’s countenance, grimacing at the influx of pain. Yet it was soon loosening and the dead man’s gaze was growing distant, eyelids fluttering as though stricken by an abrupt surge of fatigue. Crimson streams of mist had continued to issue forth amidst his bandaged wounds yet now this constant flow was faltering momentarily, stuttering and starting again. His regenerative abilities had been pushed closer to their limits by the torrent of injuries, dozens of smaller wounds littering his frame in addition to those that were most prominent and each of them struggling to regenerate in unison.
As a result, his grip upon the frail proprietor was loosening and falling away - the arm slipping dead and limp atop the pale bedsheets. A loose, rattling exhale was expelled from Ester’s lips, shakily withdrawing his throbbing wrist and cradling it to his chest for a few moments. It had been so long since the rough hands of his companion had been laid upon him in such a brutish manner, immeasurably shocked by the sudden occurence yet simultaneously thrilled by the promise of possession, of submitting himself to the will of his counterpart once again. Huffing repeatedly, he was rising unsteadily from the mattress and plucking up the materials he had gathered with trembling hands, carrying them out of the room and mindlessly returning them to their appropriate places.
Along the way, he was perturbed by the sight of the blood that had been peppered right through his home from the front door, through the lobby, along the hallway and up the stairs. As a precautionary gesture, he was emptying the basin and refilling it in order to douse the stained boards in water, diluting the blood. It was then mopped up with a dry cloth, taking several minutes to quickly ensure that most of the damage was mitigated - committing himself to the task of scrubbing the floor at a later point in time.
For the moment however, a deep sense of weariness had set into the young merchant and he was eager to rejoin his companion upstairs. Methodical motions were exerted in order to softly gather the ruined sheets from beneath the bandaged man, straining to shift the linen beneath the hefty frame that lay upon them. Farathis remained unconscious throughout this, the forces keeping him mobile seemingly faltering under the strain of constant regeneration, evidently still recovering from more than one recent incident of severe mutilation. Panting and nearly collapsing, Esterius bundles the bloodied sheets under his weary arms and carries them into the laundry, filling another basin with water from the pump and depositing the sheets inside it so that they could soak until daybreak. Exhausted and pestered by thoughts of the cleanup that he would have to engage with later, he returns to his immobile cohort and collects a fresh duvet from the foot of the bed - unfurling it and dragging it with him as he crawls atop the bare mattress. This padded blanket was laid atop the slumbering undead and Esterius ensured that everything below his counterpart’s shoulders was covered before joining the other man beneath the duvet, curling up at his side.
Esterius was gingerly pressing himself close to the ivory man but was careful not to brush against his bandaged wounds, slipping a cautious arm atop Fara’s chest and clinging idly to him. Despite the remorseless nature of his associate, despite the frequent brutality that Farathis had exerted upon his smaller counterpart in the past - this was still the man that Ester would choose to rest beside, the only one that he felt would shelter him.
A blood-curdling shriek was interrupting Ester’s recollection of such an oddly therapeutic memory, realizing that he had slowed his scrubbing of the oaken boards and was now arriving at a jolting halt. Static expounded up the length of his spine, flesh tingling with shock and the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. At first, it seemed almost as though the scream had been imagined, one of the many sounds that he had witnessed during his employ with the Syndicate. But the piercing shriek was resounding from one of the lower floors of his residence for a second time and causing the scrawny merchant to stiffen in place, lungs emptying of air. At length, he was struggling to push himself to his feet and abandon his brush temporarily, legs nearly buckling - yet he managed to merely stumble forward as opposed to collapsing outright. The screeching had ceased but a muffled cry still rang out occasionally from the lower floors along with a series of distant resonating thuds as Esterius padded down the stairwell in his soft boots.
His investigation brought him to his own cozy little kitchen down the hall on the ground floor, handfuls of his violet robes clutched in those delicate hands so that he didn’t trip over the hem, breezing round the corner and arriving at an abrupt halt in the doorframe. More blood, more injuries, another victim. One might think that the sight of the blood, the acrid scents and the open wounds would become less impactful with repeated exposure but Esterius was assaulted with a potent surge of nausea - prompting him to cover his mouth with a shaky hand. There were no words to describe what he felt, nothing that he could even think to say as his gaze is cast toward the scene in his kitchen. However, the opportunity to speak was snatched from his grasp as Farathis swivelled suddenly to glance over at him and peel those thin lips away from his perfect pearly whites. His grin was a highly unnatural sight, an entirely inhuman expression of delight that stretches his pale lips to nearly impossible lengths.
“Esterius,” Farathis shaped the syllables of his companion’s name in a slippery rumbling brogue, oozing outward like a thick stream of sickly sweet syrup. His features were nearly angelic in composition, so perfectly aligned and sculpted that they were often enough to enchant the gaunt merchant at a momentary glance. But that horrifying grin, the apathetic glee that was exhibited in those crimson optics was driving a shudder into his spine and doing very little to dispel the sickened knots in the pit of his stomach. Such a perfect face had no business contorting in this manner, displaying such a terrifying degree of morbid euphoria.
“You’ll never guess who I found snooping around in your office,” the saccharine syllables were rolling forth once again, a deep rumbling brogue that emerges from the back of the man’s throat. He was garbed in a simple pair of slacks and very little else, having removed the bandages upon his torso quite recently and now allowing the scarred flesh to be laid bare. Nimble hands were gesturing emphatically whilst he spoke, splaying the long digits of his left hand whilst the other was waving a large knife around, tapping his chin lightly with the blunted side. At his side, a tanned young elven boy had been strapped to a dining chair with what appeared to be a bedsheet binding his burly frame to the seat and tying his hands at his back. Moreover, he had been gagged with a dishrag tied around his head, pressing against his mouth so that every cry was muffled significantly. Farathis had evidently only just started his work, the boy’s face bruised from an earlier scuffle and a pair of flawlessly perpendicular cuts lining his cheeks. They had clearly been applied with particular precision that matched the criss-crossing patchwork on his chest, forming a tidy grid below his collarbone. Rivulets of blood were spilling from every gash, the incisions having been created with surgical precision. They ran deep but they were quite thin, the mark of a talented doctor. “He’s been a naughty boy hasn’t he?”
Farathis uttered this remark as he shifted closer to his prisoner, curling nimble fingers into the short russet curls atop the boy’s head and yanking his head back so that he can peer down into that youthful face. It was only at this point, as the brawny teenaged elf began to whimper helplessly that Esterius finally recognized him as the doorman that he often paid to greet visitors or to simply keep watch during the day. Moisture stung the fringes of Ester’s gentle lime gaze, a veneer of tears clouding his view somewhat. It was almost a mercy to see only a blur of shapes and colors as opposed to the horrific scene that he would have been forced to witness instead. Thandryn was shuddering in the grip of his interrogator, such a young soul forced to bear the torment of a very sick man.
“Look at this face. Isn’t he just the cutest?” Farathis was pushing his pale lips into a pout and speaking in a cooing tone, gushing like a parent speaking to an infant. It was with these adoring words that he began slipping his vice-like grip away from the boy’s boundless curls and instead pressed his deft fingerpads into Thandryn’s youthful cheeks, squeezing his face and digging those long digits into the cuts that he had made earlier - dragging his grip into the exposed muscles beneath the flesh. A muffled sob was clawing its way up the boy’s throat, tears streaming down his freckled visage and seeping into the dishrag that gagged him. Esterius wasn’t certain that he could open his mouth to speak, pressing slender digits more firmly against his maw as he felt the acid rise at the back of his throat. The inner flesh of Thandryn’s cheek was seeping out the gaps, blood cascading from the wounds.
Harsh laughter filled the tense atmosphere with a joyous cacophony of macabre delight, a tumble of succulent cackles - infused with deceptive charm. A light peck was planted into the boy’s hair atop his head, the interrogator bending to press his pouting mouth fleetingly against the top of the youth’s head. The blade of the knife was tapped lightly upon the bared flesh of the boy’s throat before Farathis was suddenly withdrawing it along with his squeezing fingers and pivoting away toward the kitchen cabinets on the other end of the room, leaving only a few tiny notches upon his prisoner’s throat. He was practically gliding across the tiles as though engaging in a gleeful ballet, arriving at a halt and wrenching a cupboard open so that he can rummage through the depths with his free hand, bloodied knife pressed against his own eager lips. A pale pink tongue was lolling forth to lap at the red fluid coating his blade whilst he searched the cabinets in hysteric frenzy. “You know, I’m feeling a bit experimental today,” he now monologued loudly, his saccharine speech devolving into a reverberating sprawl of seductive giggles.
“Farathis, please,” Esterius had finally managed to choke out a response, his tentative melodic tones bereft of the usual diplomatic charm and instead emerging as a disorganized jumble of anxious syllables. Swallowing thickly, he forces down the urge to be sick and begins to edge closer - only able to focus on the prospect of disarming the twisted interrogator before any more damage is done to his employee. Anguish had begun to lace his tone, prompting the wall of tears clouding his gaze to now spill down his hollowed cheeks in wet streaks. “You’re unwell, you need help.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t spoil this,” the porcelain predator was speaking in a mocking tone and briefly turning his head in order to roll his crimson irises at his companion before turning back toward the kitchen cabinets. Now he rummaged emphatically through the drawers, digging through utensils in a jittery manner - carelessly tossing objects aside, causing the bound and gagged young prisoner to flinch repeatedly. Esterius had scarcely been able to force his feet to move but at this point, he was at least able to continue edging closer to the other man - gradually picking up the pace until he was within grabbing distance of the nearly-delirious undead. Only a handful of choked syllables were able to be produced, trying to shape the name of his associate and tentatively reach for his arm. However, he stumbled through the word and was interrupted by the abrupt grasping of his frail wrist, powerful hands suddenly tugging at him. The knife was plummeting to the ground below and clattering thunderously against the tiles, having been released in haste so that Farathis can capture both of Ester’s narrow wrists in his iron grasp.
Choking on a whimper, the willowy little merchant is yanked against his manic lover and forced into a brutal locking of lips. Yet while he cannot fully escape the other man’s grasp, he is able to recoil from the kiss within a few moments, shrinking back. “I could teach you how to do it,” the taller elven man is hissing these words, an appetizing whisper. There was even a mote of yearning in his tone, leaning closer to offer the hushed words, lacing them with a faint layer of desperation, “We could kill him together.”
While he spoke, Farathis was crushing his companion’s wrists within his grip and prompting a grimace of pain to ripple across the merchant’s visage. This was somehow encouraging to the ivory-skinned predator, pressing the smaller elf firmly against a nearby cabinet and tenderly massaging his crotch against his skinny little cohort. This may have been a titillating gesture at any other point in time but Esterius could still hear the distressed whimpers of his doorman across the room and his nostrils were still filled with the bitter metallic scent of blood. He felt sick with it. The entire encounter wasn’t even remotely enticing, shuddering within the arms of the taller elf and feeling silent wet streams cascade down his face. He had always been aware of Fara’s taste for sadism, it had been a prominent part of their private affairs and for the most part, he had grown used to it, had even learned to somehow enjoy the submission and the pain. But this was beyond him, this was too much. Thandryn had never asked for a part in this, he was barely more than a child and he was sitting there across the room - bloodied and beaten, made into a victim of circumstance.
Even Ester’s blatant discomfort, all the tears rolling down his face and trembling of his slender frame were barely altering the predator’s behaviour in the slightest. Regardless of these indications, he molested the smaller man with the chafing of their concealed loins, huffed grunts emitting from his grinning maw. His breath was wafting into the merchant’s face, only half a degree above room temperature and laced with the frightening stench of blood. At certain points it had been a peculiar quirk of the ivory-skinned undead but now it was a scent of decay and devastation, inciting only fear and horrified revulsion. Soon enough, their forced kiss was resumed but Esterius was trying to shrink away from it, trying to turn his head to the side and escape the sickening contact. Yet Farathis was having none of this and instead dug his pointed incisors into his companion’s lower lip, gouging the soft skin open with his pearly teeth and drawing forth another choked whimper. He could now taste the red essence of his captive lover, rumbling giggles rattling in the back of his throat - morbid delight twisting his lips into a spasmodic grin.
Emboldened by these acts, eager hands were slinking away from the young proprietor’s narrow wrists and encircling his slender throat instead, aware of the effect this would usually have when the two were engaged in more subdued circumstances. Usually, Esterius would respond quite amiably to some degree of light pressure to his throat but his unhinged companion had no grasp of the horror that he had induced and had quite thoroughly begun to descend into outright mania. Deft digits closed around his windpipe and began to crush the delicate structure whilst the merchant’s violently trembling hands were shifting to feebly tug at this iron grip, now freed from their prison and already showing hand-shaped bruises around each wrist. Choked gasps were emitting from the squirming little man, his gentle orbs consumed by fretful tears and pleading with the hollow crimson pools of his associate. No protest could emerge from him now, despite the fact that he had seemed to regain enough of his wits to desire the opportunity for objection. Farathis took none of these indicators to heart, practically revelling in the torment he inflicted and still laughing as a result. “Come now, Peaches. I know you want this,” another hiss, another sharp expulsion of hushed syllables tinged with throaty laughter. These hollow chuckles were resounding through the tense atmosphere and his hips were still grinding against those of his captive.
Yet there was an abrupt clanging emitting from the building’s entrance, a brass knocker employed to thud against the door. As a result, the hysteric predator was immediately growing incredibly still, each of his motions abruptly ceasing so that he can adopt a stance of inhuman stillness. His ivory flesh had become like solid marble, every inch of his compactly muscular frame tightening into deliberate paralysis. Even his breathing had ceased, bearing no true need for the oxygen in the atmosphere and thus able to terminate it wholly. However, a muffled whine was issued from across the room, the captive concierge straining against his bindings in an attempt to make his presence known to the mysterious visitor. Farathis was putting a stop to this almost immediately, withdrawing from his violated prey and slinking across the room with uncanny swiftness, his motions blurred. The boyish doorman was hurled to the ground with a thunderous crash, still bound to the chair yet now collapsed on his side atop the floorboards - intimidated into shuddering stillness as his tormentor breezed into the hallway.
Now that Farathis had bolted to investigate the disturbance, Esterius was left to sink back against the mahogany cabinet at his back. He sank slowly to the floor, using the boards at his back to support his meek figure. The kitchen seemed to spin before his eyes, a great deal of stability and comfort to be gained from the solid nature of the boards as he descended down towards them. All of his prior panic had seemed to gradually dissipate, departing entirely now that he had been left behind with the memory of what had just transpired. Esterius could not bring himself to feel it, to feel anything. Such violations were perhaps deserved when applied to the merchant himself but the involvement of an innocent presence, one that was now sobbing quietly on the other side of the room - that was too much. It was all just too much.
Despite the wafting scents of spiced wine and the distant aroma of baked bread, Suramar's seasonal festivities did not quite reach every resident of the cold city. Lanterns had been strung throughout the most central districts but as one retreated from the singing and the revelry, a certain unwelcome chill seemed to rise. It was not a physical sensation, but it was indeed difficult to avoid.
Esgaldir had strolled through the center of the seasonal merriment, had stalked past loud merchants and smiling citizens, inhaled the hearty scents of festive wines and ales yet he had felt nothing for this display of euphoria. The air was warm and full of laughter but his heart was stone - a heavy weight in his chest. Idly, he found himself rubbing the back of his left hand as he wandered through the masses, feeling the scarred flesh and recalling the pain of the lingering wound.
Jade optics scanned his surroundings, a harsh fel glow emanating from their endless depths as his blackened pupils took stock of the landscape. Gradually, as though he did not even intend to do so, he was drifting further from the center district and strolling slowly through more abandoned regions. Few homes were lit, most of their residents taking part in the seasonal merriment only a short distance away.
Now distanced from the joyous cacophany, the sentinel could feel himself begin to relax and it was a visible reaction too. The tension in his wiry frame was evaporating somewhat and he was able to release his wounded hand, folding his arms behind his back and arching it - correcting his posture whilst huffing out a heavy sigh. Now he strolled more comfortably, still analyzing his surroundings but now it was an occupational act as opposed to one of caution and mistrust.
A few stragglers still lingered in these streets but most were on their way to the festival, regarding the felborne sentinel with either veiled wariness of averting their gaze entirely. Esgaldir regarded them in turn but for the most part, he ignored their abhorrence and continued on his way. His regalia was clearly Nightwatch but his other features were difficult to ignore. The fel runes, the eerie glow - it was a remnant of a time that had recently passed and few were sure of how to deal with such remainders.
Both arms were now reaching for the cruelly sharpened halberd sheathed within an ornamented harness. The weapon seemed to unleash a hissing breath as it swung free from this prison, held with loose dexterity in one nimble hand whilst the sentinel began to follow after the incensed arcanist. Deft digits curled around the hilt of the halberd, gathering very deliberate tension in both hands and the rest of his densely muscled frame. It was a practised act and practically automatic. Esgaldir was a well-oiled machine when it came to his duties and this was the exact image he displayed now whilst traversing the short distance toward his new objective.
Tiny slivers of black slunk through the cold jade abyss of his gaze, rapidly assessing his surroundings primarily but also the svelte aristocrat granting orders. A difficult man to read, his conclusions concerning the distressed arcanist couldn't truly be discerned - his judgements kept under firm lockdown. It didn't take long for the scene of the crime to present itself to him, the trio of delinquents absorbing his attention immediately. Analytical focus was brought to their features and their weapons, scrutinizing every available visual detail and upon realizing that the woman's spellwork was indeed going to be upheld - he loosened a portion of the tension that had been collecting in his seasoned figure.
Purposeful strides were taken toward one of them, peering into the visage of the closest ruffian and inspecting the other man further, plucking at clothing and otherwise confirming the identity that he assumed.
"You've done good work here," the gruff sentinel spoke in his usual gravelly timbre but there was a mote of respect lying beneath the grumbled tones, "Two of these are wanted men. The third however, is unknown to me."
As he spoke, Esgaldir was unceremoniously curling a nimble hand around the first man's back and shoving the bladed point of his halberd into the helpless assailant. Fel enchantments ensured that the wound would become immediately infected on the instant that he was released from his temporal prison, ensuring his death. Another of the delinquents was treated in the same manner, a cold gaze and the harsh termination of his life. The third was almost spared, a dextrous cyan hand reaching idly for the restraints kept at his belt but after a moment of hesitation, any possibility of a helpful interrogation was abandoned and this third assailant was given the same treatment as his peers.
With that, the sentinel was turning and beginning the act of cleaning his blade, regarding the immobile criminals in a calculating manner - ensuring that their wounds were placed in a manner that would result in their death as soon as the arcanist's spellwork had ceased.
"The Nightwatch appreciates your assistance," there was a pause after this, trailing off somewhat as though struggling to recall a name or a title that could be used to refer to his newfound ally, casting a dull glance toward her. "Miss Shavatir, was it?"
A thin blue square of cloth had been plucked from some recess in the man's armaments, used now to wipe away the rivulets of fresh blood coating his blade. Miraculously, the cloth itself was absorbing none of the thick red liquid whilst simultaneously serving to clean the blade with precise efficiency. Some kind of enchantment had clearly been placed upon it, indicating that it was impossible to determine how long he had been using that particular scrap of fabric to clean his weapons and his armor in the field.
"I have not, but I am glad to now know a woman of your stature," he responded bluntly, pocketing the square of fabric and subsequently locking his halberd into its sheath at his back. The weapon was either so light or his strength so profound that he was able to hoist it around with ease. Deft digits worked to swiftly lock it into the fastenings, pressing it into its prison.
"It is perhaps distasteful but still entirely necessary, ma'am," Esgaldir spoke in a simple manner, dull clarity ringing through the harsh tonality of his speech, gravelly tones rolling together as though conveying an honest fact, "I have absolute trust in the stamina of your spellwork but I would rather waste no time in exterminating filth."
Little can be said to discredit the inherent beauty present in the noble features of this particular elven creature. High cheekbones and a carefully hewn jawline present an image of prestigious heritage and high esteem. However, the lean lines of her face are often set into a fierce scowl and the perfect porcelain sculpture perpetually twisting with brewing hostility. Green war paint crafted from a crushed mixture of unripened berries and fresh tree sap is also smeared upon her cheeks on most occassions however, she will occassionally abandon this practise when among more civilized company.
A pair of slender elven brows are almost always drawn together into a tight knot, the same hue as her thick mane of teal strands. Her hair is a peculiar texture, appearing from a distance to be quite ordinary yet in close proximity one can examine a dense cluster of viridian leaves woven almost unnoticably into strands. These tresses are usually tucked away with a woven band, only her unruly bangs managing to find their freedom from captivity, falling partially across her sculpted features in a haphazard manner.
Once a gently ripened violet, her smooth flesh has faded into pale lime, darkening at her extremities and alternating between mixed shades of darkened greens and vivid lavender. Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that these darker patches are an accumulation of soft moss clustered atop the flesh. It seems to alternate between being present and being absent on varying days.
Jade claws extend from the tips of her fingers, a similarly colored substance protruding from her forehead in a spatter of miniscule spines. This hardened jade substance is a peculiarly colored accumulation of tree roots, sprouting from beneath the flesh as though it were perfectly ordinary to do so. More of these dark green roots protrude from her spine and from the tips of her elbows in hooked thorn shapes.
Several small violet hoops line the length of her elongated ears, the brisk curve marked with a pair of tiny beads inserted into each of them. Other dangling pieces of jewellery adorn her slender ears, namely two cloudy amethysts at the lobes and on occassion, a lavender chain suspended along the length of one ear. Anklets fashioned from the same lavender-colored metallic material are visible, sometimes adorning herself in bracers of identical design at her wrists.
Minimal clothing is worn at any given time, relying primarily on a compiled assortment of vivid violet leaves to grant her modesty in addition to some other items tied to her frame with woven vines. Within Suramar, only a slight attempt is made to aim for more modest attire, shrouding herself in a sapphire cloak touched with hints of purple hewn into the fabric itself - likely through the use of instable arcane magic.
A bladed staff is often strapped to her frame with a harness crafted with assorted vines and adorned with violet leaves. However, she often wields the weapon in a hostile manner rather than allowing it to remain sheathed. The staff itself is decorated with a multitude of feathers, leaves and what appear to be animal trophies strapped to the shaft, the hilt and the pommel. These trophies consist of an amaglamated assortment of teeth, claws and a variety of small bones dangling from the weapon.
History/Reputation:
All records of Lythandra's existence seem to indicate a spotted past, known to most as a frequent nuisance. Suramar's local authorities are likely to be aware of crimes committed shortly after the Legion's occupation of Suramar. It didn't take long for these violent protests to grant her exile from the city along with her twin sister (Lythendra).
Some of Thalyssra's other sympathizers may recognize these twins as members of the rebellion, however neither of the two participated in the seige of the Nighthold, simply aiding their brethren in Shal'Aran. By the time they joined the rebellion, they had already altered their bodies through some peculiar unknown method, now barely recognizable as the descendants of Lianne Y'sendris - a notable arcanist that went missing several years before the Legion's pact with Elisande. Only those very familiar with Suramar's nobility might note their resemblance to the late lady Y'sendris.
As a known supporter of the infamous Nightfallen rebellion, Lythandra strikes an unfortunate stereotype - carrying a reputation for violent outbursts and public disturbances - only prompting further contempt for those that seek to enforce Thalyssra's regime.
High birth and noble heritage is abundant in every sculpted detail, high cheekbones and the smooth curve to a perfect nose remaining predominant. However, cheeks that ought to be fuller and flush with color are instead hollow and ashen. By contrast, those cheekbones protrude like razors and sunken eyes glow dimly with sullen luminescence. Deep shadows lie beneath those vacant orbs, densely clustered as though perpetually deprived of sufficient sleep. Anaemic flesh is laden with faint blue veins, her skin so transluscent that they are far more visible than they ought to be and somewhat distended during moments of excessive stress.
Those gentle eyes are misted with a layer of moisture at all times, shimmering with their watery contents as though on the verge of tears. Pale pink clusters sprawl from the fringes of her gaze, ensuring that her damp eyes are faintly edged with hints of red, veins forking across those pale grey moons. Muted radiance pulses from within the depths of her sunken gaze yet without enough strength to illuminate her surroundings. At times, the soft white glow is more concentrated yet the occurrences are rather sporadic and the cause of these bursts is difficult for any outsider to determine.
Pale tresses sprout from her scalp, coalescing and trailing downward in a sleek tangle of silver and white strands. These tousled grey tresses cascade toward the ground - forming a graceful river of red strands that are often left to sprawl over the girl's shoulders without any apparent regard for general order or grooming. However, it is soon quite evident that a great deal of care is applied to the sparse tangle- obviously washed on a regular basis and laced with subtle fragrant oils.
There are additional manufactured fragrances adorning her attenuated figure, every inch of skin scented faintly with either a pleasant floral fragrance or the rather acerbic scent of soap - the latter being more inadvertently applied yet also available in higher quantities. Her flesh is a slightly disconcerting shade of greyed violet, a sickly tone that pales significantly in certain patches yet darkens inexplicably in others.
Robes hang loose upon her willowy frame, possessing very little mass to fill them and often avoiding garments specially tailored to her slim figure - opting instead to disguise her inadequacies with ill-fitting clothing that only serves to accentuate her emaciated features. Willowy hands are often enveloped in white gloves and hidden within massive hanging sleeves. A few items of jewellery are fitted to her wrists, bangles that clink together with any sudden motion and a few chains fastened with runic charms of protection and healing.
Dangling sapphires are looped through the lobes of her ears as well as several hoops fitted along the slender appendage. Gold and silver chains hang from the fixtures to her ears, richly enveloped in further gems and light metallic adornments. Several necklaces are looped around her slender throat, amethysts and sapphires acting as pendants and smaller versions of the same gems lining the supple chains.
History:
Renowned for her studies into the fields of illusionary enchantment and arcane divination, Elun'dreth is additionally regarded as a pioneer of the far more nuanced 'arcane philosophy'. Several highly detailed papers on these concepts have been released and received a great deal of positive acclaim from not only her academic peers but many other members of Suramar's elite magi.
Points of criticism often arose in regards to her unorthodox terminology, producing papers categorized as discussions of arcane methodology yet her incorporation of philosophical elements causes these documents to become an amalgamation of conflicting topics. A significant number of her peers refuse to acknowledge the correlation between philosophical abstracts and the weaving of arcane spellwork.
Note: Ara’das translates roughly to ‘Rosendusk’ in Archaic Darnassian. There is no exact equivalent in any of Azeroth’s modern languages
Eons of experience and prestige glimmer behind the stoic glare of this proud guardian, harsh jade orbs piercing the surrounding atmosphere with analytical focus.
A pallid complexion greets any onlooker with the true extent of his unsavory habits, hollow cheeks and jutting cheekbones contributing to this effect. There are deep circles beneath his eyes that seem to display some kind of inner malediction - the likes of which continue to plague him relentlessly.
A sickly sallow tint has permeated his natural color and caused the hardened cyan flesh to carry a faint green tinge. Over time, cracks have formed along some portions of his skin that seem to glow with subtle green light - as though there are emerald lava flows coursing just beneath the first few layers of flesh.
Twin cerulean eyes are now flooded with dark jade - ardently luminescent at all times but becoming additionally prominent when his surroundings are dimly lit. Narrowed like that of a feline predator, his pupils are mere black slivers at the center of each eye, flitting around his surroundings as though scanning them for threat.
Tenebrous silver hair sprouts in a somewhat tousled cluster of strands from his scalp, sweeping down in sleek rivers - turmoltuous in the contained chaos that they seem to exude. These tresses are indeed cared for but somehow the inky strands appear dead and lifeless. Despite observing the rituals of personal grooming, even his hair fails to display the vivacity he once carried.
His build is incredibly sturdy, firm sinewy muscle in powerful clusters at his thighs, calves, biceps and forearms. Rarely ever concealed, his abdomen is riddled with more muscular toning. Very few portions of this man are devoid of hardened meat, having stiffened his figure over generations of brutal combat training and the fiercely devoted guarding of Suramar's elite.
As such, there is a great deal of scarring to decorate his form, indication of the blows he has taken and the wounds he was made to bear. Most prominent are the stab wound at the center of his spine and the horrendous claw marks striking at the left side of his chest. Further wounds are visible upon his forearms (likely to be categorized as defensive) and a very old burn marks the back of one hand. Most of these scars are concealed by carefully arranged garments and none are visible upon his face yet this is due to a glamour. When dispelled, claw marks matching those on his chest are visible streaking across one side of his face, old enough to be visually muted but clearly still a source of contention (enough for a powerful glamour to be necessary).
Many attacks have clearly been prevented from becoming fatal blows by the heavy armor that adorns his battle-worn body.
Decoration on the plates is present and far from minimal, acting not only as an indication of his rank but also as a measure of pride, adorning himself in the colors and armaments of both the Duskwatch and the Legion. Runic sigils have been carved into his armor at various locations, likely acting as extra protection of some sort. The set is quite old yet one would still have to examine it rather closely to notice such a thing, every dent and scratch having been mended and cared for with almost religious dedication along with further magical glamours to conceal most faults.
And the pride of this entire conglamoration is clearly the sturdy polearm strapped to his back with the bindings of a harness, acting as a sheath to his halberd. The weapon itself bears a cruelly sharpened edge, evidently crafted to slice through even the most stalwart opponents. Arcane essence tangles with the jade fires of fel, circling and weaving around not only the bladed portions of the weapon but also the shaft. More of these intertwining magics are present throughout his garb, likely to have been added as some sort of enchantment.
It had been a warm summer evening and it had carried the most pleasant blend of both summertime warmth and midnight chill, creating the sort of atmosphere that one could only experience once or twice in every seasonal cycle. The streets of Silvermoon were still filled with a few leisurely strollers even in spite of the late hour, such was the perfection of the climate. Most homes were still lit, plenty of windows kept aloft in order to keep the warmth circulating throughout their homes. The Aur'elon residence was a stately affair and it occupied a section of the city known for its prosperity, mostly filled with the families of bankers and merchants given its proximity to regions rich with trade.
No time of the year could have felt safer and more full of promise. It did not matter that a vast conflict was raging onward elsewhere in the world, this was a realm untouched by time, untouched by struggle. It was a sanctuary, a beautifully ignorant corner of society that remained willfully distant from the world's complications. Esterius sat in his office, safely positioned under the protection of a pair of guardians at his door. They were barely directing any attention to their post but it did not matter, the air was warm and the promise of sanctuary was practically perpetual. The sounds of a closing night market drifted along the wind, carrying additional scents of honeysuckle and baked bread, evoking a desire to sample the warm food and festive wines that were clearly on offer such a short distance away.
As with so many others on such an evening, the office window was ajar and these scents were wafting through the room. Safety, warmth and seasonal bliss were in the air and the delicate merchant couldn't have been more at ease. Paperwork was piled upon his desk, important contracts and export listings remaining the most numerous. There was also an abundance of revenue projections and a wide variety of reports, all neatly arranged into separate piles and sections. Esterius had a process for dealing with such an overload of administrative work as always and he was gradually making progress. But even when he should have been concerned with deadlines and collapsed market trends, the gentle breeze and distant hum of nocturnal insects was evoking such an incredible sense of calm.
His office in the necropolis was always so dim and cold, only a single window provided any semblance of light and even despite its vast size, the stained glass could only evoke feelings of a vast cathedral - devoid of warmth and granting only harsh judgement in its place. It was a condemning space and nowhere near the vast brightness within the man's abode. A multitude of lamps and candles, every wall adorned with drapery or an expensive painting and the floor a gently sprawling mosaic of rugs laid atop stained oak panels. Every color was rich and vibrant and full of warmth, very reminiscent of traditional Sin'dorei decor.
All of this atmosphere, every inch of the wonderful facade accumulated into a sense of sanctuary. Silvermoon City was Ester's home, it was the crowning jewel of Quel'thelas, the most secure locale that he had ever known. And it was soon to be his prison.
Loud thudding steps. A hulking silhouette. Recognition. Initially, the boy was welcomed with a tentative smile. Roy's signet ring still glimmered upon the merchant's gentle hand and he owed the man's son an unending stream of respect, despite the alarming intrusion. But then the smell. It was raw flesh, it was exposed bone marrow and decay. And it was in his sanctum, it was already corrupting the pleasantly scented air. As chunks of unnaturally dark viscera were unloaded atop pristine paperwork, the atmosphere became a sweltering din, suffocating the immobile merchant with the sheer pressure. It had been warm and inviting but now it was smothering and dense and entirely unwelcome.
Ester couldn't look at it. Whatever it was, the source of the smell, the focus of his rising nausea - it was too much to take in. Usually so articulate, the merchant peered up at the familiarly scarred features without anything to say. There were no words for what he was feeling. He could practically feel the blood draining from his face, could feel the acid in his throat. But Esterius did not move, did not dare to make any attempt at an escape from this behemoth. Even a plea for mercy froze on its way to his lips, dying swiftly. Things began to blur together. The monster's fists were slamming into the desk and then he was speaking, saying something - it might have been important. But Esterius could only hear the buzzing in his ears, could scarcely bring himself to react normally and suddenly the creature that had once been Drexxel Highwind was already departing.
Ester had been spared. But it didn't seem to matter in that moment because everything was far away and he was staring down at himself, watching his own actions as he rose slowly to his feet and fell into the corner of his office. It looked like he was trying to empty himself of everything, purging all that it was possible to purge. In the meantime there were others entering the room and murmuring in hushed tones, inspecting the carcass on the desk and recoiling from the mess of flesh. It seemed to take eons for Ester's body to settle but it was so difficult to ascertain such details when time was irrelevant.
At length, an exhausted merchant was pushing himself to his feet and shuffling toward the exit, his silken voice in an unusually raspy state as he directs his guards, mindlessly adapting to the situation and calculating his next move. But even now, he can't bring himself to look at his desk. After giving a few quiet orders, he slips away from the scene and doesn't look back, locking himself in his chambers and waiting for normality to return.
It had been a warm summer evening, it had carried the most pleasant blend of both summertime warmth and midnight chill.
And it was the last time that Esterius Aur'elon would ever feel safe again.
Auburn leaves lay in almost perfect stillness despite the gentle caress of an ever-present breeze, stirring only faintly under that subtle touch. Evening was swiftly making an approach but the light hadn't yet abandoned the horizon and instead sent a dying voiceless screech tearing across the landscape, desperately clinging to the perpetual autumn of this enchanted woodland realm. It was a mosaic of russet, auburn and gold, spattered with muted pastel greens only in the undergrowth. Scattered wildflowers dotted the terrain in pleasant little clusters of complimentary color, a peculiar combination of natural life and artificial manipulation. Eversong was and always would remain true to its namesake. It was a forest of forever, a world without change.
Far from the heart of those woods yet still a longer carriage ride from the city, the Ara'das Estate crouched modestly beneath a canopy of umber and primrose. Vast gardens lay sprawled beneath the shadow of the buildings, their blossom-savvy attendees having already departed for the evening. Even the chattering birds and lazily humming bees were absent along with the gardeners, creating an unfamiliar ethreal atmosphere in what was often a far more welcoming location. However, until every last ray of dying afternoon light had departed, the Estate would retain its pleasant facade. Several spires rose from the circumference of the central building along with a few more reaching through the adjoining structure. Gracefully arched windows were positioned with perfect technical accuracy along the walls of each building, few of them displaying any signs of the life within. One in particular however, was partially filled with a small man of willowy frame and gentle demeanour.
Pale hair hung straight and thin, long enough to run down his back and across his shoulders even when tied back. Half-moon spectacles were perched upon his delicate nose, an expensive wire frame holding the magnified glass in place and a silver chain keeping them nearby if he were ever possessed with the desire to remove them for a moment. Although, even the best of specialists couldn't seem to grant him perfect sight, dull jade orbs always appearing somewhat watery as though on the verge of tears. Yet in this moment they were even more dewy than usual, fixed to a spot of grass that could be seen through the window. There didn't appear to be anything in particular drawing his attention to this spot, it was simply where his vacant gaze had landed.
That dying screech of amber luminance ensured that the man was illuminated in the empty gloom of the estate's library but only barely, casting deep shadows into the hollows of his cheeks and the dip in his collarbone. Loose robes hung from his spindly figure, draped across somewhat narrow shoulders for a grown man and fastened with a tailored band of fabric at his tapered waist. The robe was obviously expensive and very well-fashioned but it was evident that it had been worn for more than a single day and was in a slight state of disarray. Embroidered slippers kept his slender feet from growing numb in the encroaching chill, even the carpeted library losing warmth without the heat of a fire or even a lantern.
A single willowy hand clung to the outer frame of the window, using it to support his weakened frame whilst he lost himself to his own thoughts. At length, his vigil was interrupted by the sharp click of a turned doorknob and the entrance of another presence. A slender, well-garbed man of stiff composure and even stiffer countenance. The lean lines of his face seemed almost chiselled from granite, utterly perfect in every aspect and resoundingly masculine though still quite narrow. Thick raven curls were tamed as they always were by a dense gluggy substance that kept them slicked back, even his stern brows groomed to perfection. Not a hair could be out of place, such was typical for the gloomy physician.
"I've been looking for you, what happened in the archives?" he spoke in deep eloquent tones, no hint of unsmoothed texture lying beneath the gently muted words. A familiar furrow lay betwixt those perfect brows though it seemed to deepen the longer he watched his unmoving patient, adopting a gentler tone than usual, something that he had picked up for the benefit of his charge. "M'lord?" An inquisitive tone, softer than before and tentatively cautious now.
It took several moments for any response to emerge from the motionless noble, parting his pale lips at length but only enough for a murmur to slip between them. "Do you remember the last conversation we had in this room?" the words sounded hollow but for the most part they were spoken evenly if not for the brief crack in the middle. A soft click indicated the closing of the door as Rogeth made his way further into the room, halting a short distance away from the other man. "Like it was yesterday," he answered almost immediately, a smooth and gentle brogue. Lean arms were brought behind his back, tucked in a proprietous gesture of servitude.
"It was after her worst seizure," the boy breathed these words, his pale brows drawing together and creasing the translucent skin. He dared not blink because there were now definite tears pooling in his gaze. Voicing his thoughts was doing little to diminish their effect. "It hurt to see her like that."
Rogeth regarded the smaller man with concern, profuse furrowing at his forehead and a slight downturn presented at his lips as he summons some sort of generic assurance - anything to fill the room with something other than oppressive silence. "We all felt poorly about the girl's condition but it couldn't be helped."
A loose breath was drawn in through the nobleman's teeth, gaze still clouded with moisture and fixed upon that single spot of garden below. "Oh Rogeth, the things that I said..."
One hand still clung to the window's frame whilst the other was raised now to softly cover his mouth and inadvertently muffle his whispered words. His breathing clearly shook a little now, rattling ever so faintly in his chest. "They came from a sense of mercy," Rogeth offered, a painful twist entering his features for a fraction of a moment before it evaporated and he regained a portion of his professionalism - enough to offer the dutiful response.
"I should never have suggested that we made a mistake when we brought her back. How could I dare to say that she might have been better off if we'd let her rest?" these words were naught but a whimpered breath, uttered through a closed throat and almost strangled by regret. "Now I'm being punished. No, she's being punished for my thoughtlessness."
"Don't say such things," the physician's tone was almost stern, riled by the notion that the addled noble could consider himself so lowly.
"They're true," this was offered in another whisper, sucking in the occasional breath through his teeth as his delicate features crumple and a sob gathers in the back of his throat. Finally, he lifts his gaze slowly so that he can peer up at his physician with those moisture-laden jade optics. His next words were partially drowned in a half-strangled sob as it sought to tear him apart on its way up. "I just got her back. Now she's gone again."
It was like watching a beautiful sculpted palace collapse in on itself, the finality of the situation finally landing for the frail magister and with enough strength to crush him beneath its weight. There was lead in Rogeth's chest, dense and heavy - some of it sealing the back of his throat. Abandoning all sense of propriety, the immaculately-dressed physician was swiftly approaching his patient and gathering the much smaller man into his arms, encirling those narrow shoulders in his lithe arms. The little magister still had a slender hand pressed to his mouth, the other one rising to join it in order to muffle his sobs, achieving this further by curling into Rogeth's broad chest and seeking solace in the physician's tight embrace.
A deft hand stroked the pale hair sprawling down his back, lithe digits gliding through those thin strands. "M'lord..." the raven-haired physician began to speak but his usual composure seemed to have temporarily abandoned him, words of comfort dying on his lips before he can utter them properly.
"Please," this was muffled, spoken into Rogeth's chest and choked with ebbing emotion, "Don't do that. I can't bear it."
"M'lord?" a soft inquiry, hardened emerald gaze drifting down to peer at the top of the magister's head. At this, the tear-streaked visage was re-emerging from where it had been tucked away, spots of moisture dotting the front of the physician's vest. However, Araeden wasn't quite able to meet the gaze of the other man, only lifting his streaming eyes high enough to blink languidly at his carer's throat. "I don't deserve such a title. I've no right to it," his gaze was falling again, brows creasing into a tight knot as he lowered his vacant focus toward the center of the other man's chest. "Maybe I never did."
Rogeth began to experience a heated sensation originating somewhere in his core and rising up to his throat. It laced his words with fierce intensity and a rather stern edge. "Never have I heard a statement more blasphemous than this. You deserve the title more than any man I've ever known."
From the magister's unchanging expression and listless demeanour, it was quite apparent that even such emotionally charged words from an ordinarily stoic individual weren't having the desired effect. He remained evidently unconvinced. This prompted a sudden shift in Rogeth's form, pulling himself away enough to grasp the magister by the shoulders and hold him at arm's length, meeting his gaze with a piercing sort of determination and a tight clench to his jaw. "True strength has always been something that I associated with silence and a sturdy demeanour but your warmth and your kindness says otherwise," he begins, speaking with swiftness and purpose and trying to meet the eyes of his charge directly - even if the almost vacant nobleman still wasn't looking up at him. "Unflinching faith is what you give to those around you with every breath, a steady stream of trust and love that I've grown to truly treasure over the years."
The intensity was gradually fading, first from his grip and then from his tone, loosening the grasp of one hand enough to employ it instead toward grooming. A few loose strands of pale hair were plucked from their place and tucked gently behind an ear, the nimble hands of a medicinal herbalist occupied in an almost uncharacteristic gesture of tenderness. "You're the kindest soul I've ever met. You've never been afraid to wear your heart on your sleeve and when I look at you, I feel like I know you. There's light inside that heart of yours, so much that it is bursting at the seams. It's beautiful."
Momentarily stunned, Araeden was finally meeting the physician's gaze once again as though seeking to confirm that what he was hearing happened to be truly genuine. Wordlessly, he shook his head for a few moments, those tears dried and forgotten on his hollow cheeks. Lips parted but it took him some time to finally muster up any kind of response. It was during this time that a steady flush broke out across the chiselled landscape of Rogeth's features.
"You're too kind to me, Rogeth," the little magister finally managed to huff the words out, even managing a half-smile. It felt like it had been months since he'd felt a genuine urge to smile and as feeble as it was, this one was the real deal. Rogeth's sincerity had truly touched the young mage in the deepest depths of bloodied and beaten heart.
So rare for the stoic physician, a slight upturn was tweaking the corners of his sculpted lips. A miniscule little smile, potentially the first to make any sort of appearance in years and one that immediately warms the expression of the smaller man, having witnessed the rare alteration and evidently feeling utterly blessed. It was a pure moment, charged with genuine empathy and a mutual friendly bond. "If it truly bothers you, would you rather have me use your given name?" the physician offered this tentatively, after giving it a moment of contemplation and searching those hollow features for something quite particular.
Araeden responded with a hint of legitimate mirth, a weak breath of laughter huffed from those pale lips. It sounded tired and in essence rather sad but no less genuine. "Certainly," he murmured softly, pearly whites making a slight appearance with the parting of his lips through that gentle little smile.
A sudden surge of relief and affection was taking hold of the well-dressed physician, sensations he hadn't been able to associate with anyone else in his life aside from this one frail creature. Some sort of barrier must have been broken by the affirmation that propriety was no longer necessary, that their relationship was no longer one of patient and doctor. And Araeden had mentioned that day, the day when his affections had become known. A charged moment had arisen from that encounter and despite the gentle rejection, Rogeth knew that the other man had felt something. That he had wanted the moment to continue. Despite the fact that it had likely been brought up for the context preceding that encounter, it seemed only natural that some part of the magister had sought to make reference to their contact.
All of this and more was flitting through Rogeth's mind in less than an instant, calulating and processing all of it - albeit recklessly. The result was a swift motion and a firm collision of lips and skin, an inadvertently forceful motion birthed partially in the thought that it would be resisted if it was too tentative. It was met with shock at first, Araden's willowy frame becoming immediately stiff and unresponsive. However, the physician was soon pulling back and holding the magister at arm’s length again in order to search his features, gauging a reaction. Both of them appeared rather stunned for a moment but it wouldn't last long.
A shaky breath was expelled from the nobleman's lungs, huffed through those pale lips as the tension evaporated, conceding to the moment and prompting Rogeth to tug him back into another embrace, this time eagerly colliding and seeming to melt into a far more desperate interlock. It was firm but it was also tender, the two of them mutually seeking some kind of relief in the contact. The catharsis obviously would not last, but for Araeden it was enough to be away from the cold, away from the soul-consuming despair that had followed him since he'd seen Ayalari's bloodied and battered body. It had pursued him inexplicably even when she had been in recovery, even when things seemed so hopeful. But it was only a cold breeze back then, now it was a blistering gale that sought to strip him of everything that he ever was.
In Rogeth's arms, in this moment, it couldn't reach him.
But the physician had waited too long, had become too desperate. Their longing was mutual for a few electrically-charged moments but it began to teeter toward something far more one-sided as the magister is shoved against a nearby shelf, feeling the delicate crunch of something at his back. Blinding pain shot up his veins, explosive ripples of agony pulsing from the source of the damage. There would undoubtedly be bruises. Squirming and crying out faintly, the sound is mostly muffled by Rogeth's insistent lips and likely misinterpreted. Noting that his distress was going unnoticed, Araeden began to experience a crushing tide of dread, blood running cold in his veins and his entire body seizing up. His robe was hitched up with force, tearing at the expensive fabric and prompting a strangled yelp, more pain pulsing from the side of his thigh.
Feebly, he struggled to free himself and explain, to use words that could not be misconstrued as his actions clearly were. But his throat was closed off and his small frail body could scarcely hold its own weight, let alone pry off a healthy young man. Desperately, he struggled to raise his voice enough for it to be heard, shuddering faintly and pressing insistently at his physician.
Stop. Please.
They were the words he wished he could say, the words that were being screamed somewhere far away, distant and remote within the cavernous depths of his consciousness. Fresh tears were streaking those pale cheeks, despair settling in and deep gut-wrenching fear taking up a spot beside it. Unwelcome grabbing, too forceful to be coming from the kind man that had reassured him moments earlier. This was not Rogeth, this was someone else - someone desperate and terrifying.
"Stop," he finally managed to yelp, strangled by the terror clogging up his throat and half-choked by a sob rattling in his chest. He repeated it a few more times, even though the first had prompted the gradual return of Rogeth's senses. Finally, the physician could feel how much the little magister was recoiling, pressing himself hard against the bookshelf as though desperate to sink through it and out the other side. And the shudders, they wracked his narrow shoulders so hard that he feared they might break with the force. Sobbing silently and shaking as though he would never stop, Araeden turned away from the man he had known, directing his unfocused gaze toward something else - anything else.
Rogeth released him as though burned by the touch, backing up several paces and colliding with a table, bracing himself against it with both arms and then remaining there - stunned and silent. As soon as he was released, the magister felt himself flinch away instinctively, collapsing into a heap and distantly acknowledging the agony of it. The bruises were already starting to show.
The robe was torn right up the side of his leg, exposing the fresh explosion of color upon the pale flesh of his thigh. More of this color circled his wrists, marks in the shape of grasping hands. A fresh trickle of scarlet was spilling from the left side of his lower lip, a small incision causing the trail to run. It was difficult for the physician to believe that he had caused that. A knot was forming in the pit of his stomach, nausea clawing at the interior of his throat and threatening to take action. Nimble digits were raised to his lips, pressed lightly against them in an effort to hold back the reflex. They were shaking.
"I'm sorry." His voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and far away, the voice of someone he didn't know. What had that man done?
Araeden wanted to respond, to say that it had been his fault for being too weak to make a proper protest but the words lodged in his throat and he couldn't do it.
"Rae, I'm so sorry."
The boy shakes his head as though trying to reassure the other man, offering a wobbly little smile that he can't maintain, devolving into a grimace. Even with this directed response, he still can't even look in Rogeth's direction. It’s like he doesn't know that man anymore.
Barely conscious of his actions, he slowly drags himself into the narrow area between two bookcases, curling himself into the space and closing his eyes as though to transport himself somewhere else. Rogeth doesn't dare approach. He'd done enough damage for one evening.
"It's okay," Araeden's words are strained, barely coherent through the stammering and strangled with apologetic trepidation. The assurance was evidently targeted at the both of them, an insistent plea for normality and the sense of safety that would likely never return "I'll be okay."
Disgust and horror were likely the source of Rogeth's grimace, still covering his mouth with one hand. Sickened beyond prior comprehension and unable to sit still any longer, Rogeth pushes away from the table and rapidly retreats from the scene. He wouldn't be able to outrun what had happened but it was certainly better than allowing further torment of the man he'd sworn an oath to protect.
It was all so broken. But no amount of medical training would mend it.
Rogeth's legs were collapsing beneath him, sending him tumbling to the ground and his arms were held out to save him. A moment on all fours was all it took to direct the contents of his stomach toward his esophagus, spending about a minute emptying himself of everything. If only he could purge more.
He had done questionable things, had considered some that were even worse but this was a new low. There would be no coming back from this.
Though the hour was late, the citadel's barracks could hardly be considered deserted. An array of acolytes and soldiers alike were scattered throughout the sparsely decorated room, some bearing an aggressive measure of muscular brawn whilst a few others remained rather wiry - perhaps more agile to some extent. Each were occupied with their own activities, hefting weights or engaging in some light sparring within the center ring.
As one could expect in the central hub of any militant force, several banners were strewn across the walls and each bore the crest of their mistress. It could almost have been considered a coat of arms yet the symbol threaded through the sturdy fabric was inherently demonic and as though lit from behind - motes of green light were emitting from the sigil itself. Each banner bore the trademark colors of deep dulled scarlet and fiercely luminescent jade, as though attempting to represent a vast sea of blood set alight by that crest of felfire. Weapons also hung upon the walls alongside torches lit with jade fire and other armaments were scattered throughout the interior of the room, some set upon racks whilst others seemed to be more randomly scattered.
To anyone familiar with the presence of a certain pale-haired advisor, it was immediately clear that the tidy little merchant hadn't seen much of the military wing - perhaps due to his aversion toward combative matters or possibly to avoid the disorganization within. One of Ester's associates however, seems to have taken position in such a place despite remaining quite plainly ill-suited when one merely took a glance over his appearance.
Elaborate and gaudily colored robes adorned the advisor's tall frame, tailored with dozens of unnecessary additions adding ornamentation to the garb. Deeply concentrated shades of mauve and light burgundy were the main focus of his attire yet it was accented with ivory trims, beading and embroidery wherever possible. An off-white hue colored the sleek tresses sprouting from his head and spilling right down to his lower back. His flesh appeared to be a very light tone of cyan, almost alabaster yet still containing a few motes of greyish blue that mark him quite plainly as a member or perhaps a descendant of the Highborne aristocracy. The noble elven man held his wiry arms in a loose fold across his notably masculine chest - not particularly broad to a heightened extent yet still clearly that of a man.
And the tall Highborne was not alone within the militant's wing of the citadel, another figure positioned rather close to his other side. Quite a bit shorter than her advisor, the woman was a display of porcelain skin and delicate curves. Glossy ebon hair fell in curling rivulets from her head, blossoming like cascading tulips that are currently bound by a band at the back of her head. A few sprout free and cover her forehead whilst also falling alongside the utter perfection of her ivory features. Spined horns curved upward from the crown of her head, blackened to obsidian and arching skyward. A splay of darkened veins clustered at the base of these protrusions yet grew more sparse in other regions - only making a more potent appearance at her wrists where that same obsidian sheen can be noted coating her hands and morphing them into slender claws. Casual attire adorned the demonic matriarch on this evening, though it may be difficult for anyone else to denote it as such. It was a favoured midnight blue robe, one that only fell midway down her thighs and was tied tight at her waist with a matching silken sash. That ripe alabaster bosom was almost on full display with the scandalous parting of the loose robe.
Conversing in low tones with her subordinate, the matriarch seemed to be gesturing rather favourably toward a demonic soldier pumping his muscular frame into motion with the hefting of several rather impressive sets of weights with almost no strain whatsoever. The creature was a significantly impressive beast, enhanced by demonic strength and endowed with the natural prowess of his kind - dark crimson flesh causing him to draw one's eye with more ease than most. Yet while the delicate matriarch seemed entirely fixated upon this majestic demonic presence, her advisor was not so single-minded. Avidly luminescent white orbs were focused rather intently on the horned woman as she spoke, flitting repeatedly down to the plush mounds that seemed ready to burst from the robe binding them in place. It was rather likely that Hex'ai had noticed the true direction of her advisor's attention yet held no objection to being so blatantly admired. In fact, she was welcoming it by honoring her loyal companion with increasing proximity.
At length, the Highborne himself was able to tear his hungry gaze away from his mistress and settle it upon the arriving figure of her lover. Those pulsing pearly optics were now meeting with Drexxel's, almost daring him to make some sort of move. And there was nothing playful about the Highborne's demeanour - it was pure unadulterated aggression issuing forth from the arcane-infused depths of his gaze and from his stout posture. And as though to add insult to injury, Eldre'thar unfurled his folded arms and reached out with one of them to softly place his dextrous hand upon his master's shoulder, reaching around her to hold her within his own gentle yet intrinsically possessive embrace.
The Aur’elon residence was a stately building set right into the centre of Silvermoon’s commercial district. On most days, the streets were littered with brokers exchanging goods and men of business sipping tea in courtyards or tiered balconies but at the hour that Isaac approached his destination, there were few individuals still occupying the frequently busy quarter. No one seemed to be guarding the entrance to the residence but it was more than likely that there were plenty of eyes observing the vicinity from concealed locations.
As Isaac mounted the steps and tapped his gloved knuckles audibly upon stained oaken panels, there were several extended moments in which nothing seemed to result from his action. Without the usual hired doorman standing at attention, it was quite apparent that visitors were an entirely unexpected element at this late hour. Any trained ear within Isaac’s immediate vicinity would have been able to latch onto the hasty shuffling within Ester’s home, something heavy had been knocked over and someone spoke briefly in hushed tones. A few locks slid out of place and carefully oiled hinges were put to the test as the expensive door was thrust open by eager hands.
However, rather than the pristine appearance of the usual inhabitant, a significantly taller figure stood in the doorway. Broad shoulders and a compactly muscled form coiled indolently against the oaken frame, one powerful arm raised to hold the door open. His other hand was occupied with a cigarette, a tendril of smoke wafting from the tip as it was held loosely between two dextrous digits. Gleaming scarlet oculars peered down at the masked man standing erect at the entrance to the Aur’elon residence. A steady stream of crimson mist was seeping from the dead man’s gaze, extra particles added to the mystic airborne cocktail the moment he lays eyes upon the stringent individual standing just a short distance away. In addition, a coy smirk tugged mercilessly at the angular features of this undead creature – gradually devolving into a lop-sided grin that exposes the perfect pearly teeth lining his mouth.
Farathis hardly had more than a few moments to give the visitor an exhaustive once-over before he cast a wily glance over his shoulder and finally conceded to allow his companion to greet their guest. Garbed in nothing but a pair of dark trousers hastily slipped on mere moments ago for the sake of his cohort’s bid for modesty, Farathis slinks into the background whilst keeping an eye on the man at the entrance – pressing the cigarette to his lips and taking a few slow drags with his streaming gaze locked onto the pairing.
Esterius was similarly garbed but he had taken the time to pull on a shirt and slacks, even wearing a pair of unbound leather ankle boots to complete the uncharacteristically dishevelled ensemble. Somewhat out of breath, the merchant directs his focus toward the street to determine whether or not there was more company before he settled onto the familiar shape before him.
At length, full recognition seemed to dawn on the man and he froze momentarily whilst in the process of idly buttoning up his shirt. Polite interest was apparently the default expression he had chosen for this encounter, tugging it on out of sheer instinct. Blinking rapidly, he expertly maintained as much of his composure as possible in such a scenario, resuming the buttoning of his shirt as he addressed the visitor.
“Forgive me, you’ve caught me at a rather inopportune moment,” the man offered this apology in his gentle, demure tones – fragile laughter ringing musically from within his slender throat as an orchestrated attempt to diffuse the situation. “You were part of Roy’s staff, correct? I seem to recall you at his side on several occasions.”
Rippling emerald flame spouted emphatically from the fringes of the matriarch's gaze, tufting upward with considerably more strength than usual. From within the endless depths of her gaze, these fires were spurting forth as though possessing a life of their own yet whilst this indicated the true extent of her passion there was little else to display it. Thrumming exhilaration invigorated her and ensured that her heart was thudding with zealous ardour deep in her chest, tainted black blood coursing through her veins so that they became somewhat distended in the same way that they often would when she was thirsting for essence to fuel her abilities. However, so few of these dark lines were visible amidst the lace of her garb.
A fine satin gown covered every inch of her from the base of her throat to the soles of her heeled boots, black lace encircling her arms and ensuring that every inch of her alabaster flesh was concealed aside from those serrated obsidian talons extending from her covered palms. More lace rose from a plunging neckline and rose to veil a large measure of the flesh at her throat, swirling patterns and designs laid out atop her smooth ivory skin. Pins and secure bindings ensured that her luscious raven tresses were kept trussed up in a loose bun, bangs curling at her forehead and at the sides of her sculpted visage. A soft curve had taken hold of her mouth, the corners of those tantalizingly luscious lips twisted up in a noticeable yet entirely subtle manner that fails to portray the true extent of her excitement. It seemed to have begun an almost permanent fixture upon her perfect porcelain visage, unable to genuinely portray anything contrary to absolute satisfaction in light of recent events. Reprimanding distasteful subordinates seemed more of a sarcastic joke when all she could do was consistently fail to guard her delighted expression.
In addition, her forked tongue was consistently darting out to snap at the air with the occasional gleeful hiss, tasting the essence that surrounded her and only becoming more thrilled with every passing moment. Obsidian digits hovered reverently around a pulsating green orb that was fixed atop a pedestal near the centre of the Council's Chambers, the meeting hall where the central congress of the Necropolis was held. It was a forbidden room to those that held no position in their matriarch's advisory committee but today was no ordinary occasion. Everything they had worked for in the last decade and indeed, everything that their sovereign had worked for throughout the centuries prior was at last reaching a pinnacle. The sensation was almost dizzying for the sorceress positioned on the central dais, relaying the images that she had sought for throughout such a large portion of her lifetime. Even Neltharion's reign could scarcely compare to the sheer glory of what she witnessed now, the utter demolition arrayed before her.
Decadent, inexorably succulent words danced on the tip of her serpentine tongue like a passionate lullaby that she could not seem to contain, addressing her subordinates as the images were presented to them and almost cooing in reverence. "Did I not speak of the true cataclysm all those years ago? Did I not only recently confirm that it was to be granted to us without delay?" Hex'ai articulated her words in the usual seductive drawl but it was even more slurred than usual, thoroughly inebriated by overwhelming satisfaction and anticipation, ego swelling to an impossible degree. A burgundy figure was coiled at her side, an elaborately gemmed loincloth with gold trim acting as the only means of concealing her most tender region. Claret flesh embraced her frame and all the unnaturally perfect curves that came with it. Light crimson hair streamed down her back, straight and sleek like scarlet glass and relentlessly portrayed without flaw. Dark red optics flitted between the faces gathered before her, scanning them thoroughly yet in a distant manner, black pupils drifting rather listlessly. Hex'ai had her left arm looped through that of the demonic consort on this side whilst the other remained busy with the orb on her right, absently stroking at the burgundy skin of Viaszma's bicep with an idle thumb.
Behind the ivory goddess that spoke with such enthused, commanding authority - a heavily plated figure stood rather rigidly, his features concealed by the helm yet beneath it lay the scowl that twisted his mangled visage. "This is it, my brethren. At long last, the Great Burning Shadow will envelop this world and slaughter the heathens that oppose us. Those that are truly faithful, those that truly embrace the wills of our demonic masters will ascend beyond the realm of mortality and claim the power they desire." At mention of heathens, the obsidian claw lofted above the orb made a languid gesture toward the images of destruction that were on display to her subordinates. About to continue, her full lips part once again but she finds the words wavering in her consciousness as the guardian behind her begins to take his leave.
Without a single utterance to explain his departure, the heavily armored figure was turning and promptly disappearing into the corridor beyond. Darkly painted lips remained somewhat parted whilst Hex'ai watched him depart, noting his tension for the first time and finding that her constant smirk was fading into a downturn. Viaszma observed the exchange - or rather, lack thereof - and seemed to utter something softly in hushed tones, a short phrase. It prompted the sorceress to swivel her attention toward the succubus and then those arranged before her, appearing to struggle with drawing her focus away from the gaping archway that her companion had advanced through.
Mildly incensed, the matriarch's brows draw inward somewhat and she mutters something to her consort before gathering up her gown so that the hem is lofted as she steps down from the dais and begins retreating to follow after the mutinous creature that had so brusquely interrupted her moment. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," she offered in a terse manner whilst departing, her drawled brogue resonating with irritation. Simultaneous to her master's exit, Viaszma takes her place with the orb - ensuring that it was kept alight and peering at the exit for a while. Rather than saying anything to the gathered acolytes, she simply allows sound to accompany the images. It had been silenced so that their matriarch had been able to speak coherently. However, such a thing was no longer necessary, the sounds of conflict and explosive destruction could now echo through the chamber along with the displayed imagery.
Heeled boots tapped against the stones as Hex'ai followed the trail of essence that Drexxel had left behind, moving with swiftness and the faintest motes of urgency. Insubordination had been something that Viaszma was far more concerned with when it came to Drexxel, warning her mistress of it repeatedly when the consort was granted time alone with her mistress. Hex'ai's paranoia was not excluded from reaching the armored brute but everything was far less clear to her in matters pertaining to him. Those lovely sculpted lips were pursed somewhat and her brows were tightening, an image of discontent that she hadn't displayed in quite some time. Interrupting her presentation was an affront in itself and she would address it with severity.
Why does he have to ruin everything?
Hex’ai approaches the door to her chambers and confirms Drexxel’s presence within by allowing her tongue to snap out and taste his scent one more time, reaching for the handle and thrusting the door open only to be left blinking somewhat. A discarded helm lay behind him, having been quite hastily tossed to one side and the window was ajar, enormous panes unlatched and the drapery shoved aside. It was large enough to even fit the bulky undead through its frame if he chose to step through, a thought that struck at Hex’ai with more force than any blade. There was a wave of heat that traversed through the entirety of her frame like rippling static, a single resounding thud indicating that her heart had skipped a beat. Geysers of fel gushed from her gaze and began to sprout from her blackened hands as the notion rose in her mind. However, it soon became clear that he simply sought the air against his features – quite clearly making no motion to launch himself from the citadel as she had fleetingly suspected.
Further incensed now, the sorceress huffs out a curt breath and cocks her hips to one side, perching obsidian talons upon her hips and allowing every single angry accusation to boil furiously under the surface. They all circled her thoughts and sought to be hurled at her companion like invisible daggers, a reprimand for his defiance in the other room. Yet none of these rose to her lips. “You are troubled,” the sorceress spoke in a faint growl, motes of both accusation and confusion lying beneath her tone. It wasn't a question.
There was static in the air, an acrid quality permeating the very atmosphere itself with a lacing of caustic essence. It filtered through one’s sinuses and caressed the flesh like invisible mist, inciting a mild sense of dread in those that were more attuned to the world around them, sensitive to the subtle shifts in their surroundings. Nothing had reached the outpost – not yet – but the proximity to such potent demonic magic would likely begin to cast a shadow of trepidation upon the forces contained in the encampment. It was an omen, an inadvertent warning of the events that would soon follow.
A muffled shout resounded from somewhere atop the tower but it had been stifled so swiftly that it would be easy to miss, a single figure draped in shadow slinking away from the scene of this crime after ensuring that the scout’s body had been carefully laid down to avoid additional noise. Others were skulking through the outpost, ensuring that almost every guard or scout on duty had been dispatched or at least thoroughly incapacitated. Dull thuds resounded from some of the more careless saboteurs, allowing limp bodies to simply fall where they stood.
However, not all of them were as successful as their brethren, a choked cry ringing out through the air as one of the more seasoned guards managed to overpower his underhanded opponent and sound the alarm.
“Legion assassins!” the gruff cry rang out, “We’re under attack!”
Almost immediately, a series of harsh shrieks seemed to reverberate in answer from a short distance away. Several heavy wings could be heard beating at the air with exponentially increasing volume as the fel ravens approached the outpost, discordant screeching tearing through the tense atmosphere like knives of harsh sound. By this point, blaring sound had erupted in the camp – bells jangling with unrelenting fervor. Not that it truly mattered by this point, the attackers had already breached the camp and were no longer making any attempts to veil their actions. An entire squad was surging into the encampment, their more stealthy counterparts having already fled from the scene aside from the few that had been discovered and slaughtered by their targets.
Simultaneously, the prisoner bound within the outpost’s tower was emerging from within and garbing herself in the armaments that had been stripped from her at the time of her capture. Still wounded from her ordeal out at sea and the rough treatment received from her Illidari captors, Zarxes searches the sky for the ravens that she had heard shrieking from afar. As they neared, their riders would become more visible – along with the weapons that they carried. An assortment of explosive devices were fixed to the saddles and there were a variety of other oddities strapped to the harnesses.
By the time these riders arrived however, Zarxes had already disappeared from the scene and the battle itself was about to begin.
As with most members of the Sin'drael line (loosely translated to Bloodfury), Calen sports a fair complexion and similarly ashen hair. The strands sprouting from his head and forming this cropped mane are so light that they border on becoming white, groomed neatly into a pleasant arrangement of silken tresses.
Peculiarly long eyelashes and haphazardly rugged elven brows echo the hue of his hair, framing his pale lime optics in equal measure. More of this honey-white color lies in the tufts extending from his hairline to his jaw upon either side of his face. Faint bristle has been permitted to run rampant along the chiselled line of his jaw until it coalesces into a pointed goatee at the man's pronounced chin.
Stoutly defined cheekbones cause him to appear almost gaunt yet the definition is somewhat endearing, lining up with the sculpted angle of his jaw to amplify the prestigious visage he carries. Almost every aspect of his angular features seem to have been crafted in the name of being innately masculine and thus rather pleasing in that regard.
However, a single blemish tarnishes his lovely visage, a faint red line running diagonally through his left brow and over the bridge of his nose - slicing directly into his eye and causing some peculiar discoloration within the iris itself. Scarlet streaks stream along the line of the wound and the darker lime at the fringes of his gaze begins to pale around the edges of the incision, indicating that the flesh has healed over but failed to maintain the same pigments. This blemish is often concealed in some manner, especially when Calen expects to be in the company of others.
There are a number of other scars littering his muscular frame but none are as prominent as the one striking at his gaze or the large cauterized incision at the left side of his abdomen. This particular strike had evidently run him right through, an exit wound visible at the other side.
Though Calen carries a considerable amount of muscle, it is rather compactly arranged so that he naturally appears more lithe than a man of the same muscular mass. His abundantly defined figure is often adorned in ornately crafted armor - a combination of plates and leathers that provide protection, functionality and comfort whilst simultaneously remaining highly embellished with elaborate patterns and designs.
Calen is rarely lacking the presence of his constant companion, a large male lion bearing a handsome mane composed of both soft browns and striking golds. A pair of crystalline blue eyes peer out from the feline's features, assessing anyone nearby with predatory precision.
History/Rumours:
Calen is known to be more of a diplomat than a soldier, contrary to his birth into one of the more militaristically-orientated households.
Possessing both skill in swordplay and archery, Calen has served in a number of forces and still obliges to the call of duty when it is sent out to him despite having recently taken his place at the head of the Bloodfury Estate.
For many years, this man has been shown to differ from his elder brother - the former patriarch of their Household. Where Aurelion Bloodfury (or Sin'drael as it is known in Thalassian) was a man of stern visage and stubborn judgement, Calen has always been more diplomatic than formiddable - contrastingly different to most of the men in his line.
Tousled scarlet tresses cascade downwards - a graceful river of red strands that are often left to sprawl over the man's shoulders without any apparent regard for general order or grooming. However, it is soon quite evident that a great deal of care is applied to this luscious mane - obviously washed on a regular basis and laced with subtle fragrant oils.
There are additional manufactured fragrances adorning his lean figure, every inch of skin scented faintly with honeysuckle. His flesh is a beguiling shade of olive that is quite reminiscent of whipped cream and honey, smoother than glass. Every inch of him that remains displayed to the world is clear and unblemished, utterly free of marks or scarring of any sort.
However, there are a few blemishes that he ensures are kept out of view. Namely, these would include the gunshot wound at the small of his back or the twin puncture wounds at his throat. A red scarf is slung around his neck to disguise this particular wound, the fabric acting as a wondrous parallel to his hair.
Contrary to what one might assume from his occupation, the man keeps his figure rather concealed by clothing. A few undone buttons or a rather tight pair of trousers perhaps - but nothing so garish as to become indicative of his occupation. Additionally, the clothing that he garbs himself with is usually quite stylish and it abides with whatever is currently trending - at least amongst the denizens of Silvermoon.
Two dazzling jade orbs glimmer with ardent luminescence as he gazes out, the green irises composed of a contemplative pale green color. There is a certain soulful gleam to these eyes, providing whomever gazes into them with a plethora of inviting warmth.
His features are also pleasantly composed - with high cheekbones, a deep-set brow and a chiselled jawline. The man's lips are perfectly sculpted and only faintly pink.
History:
It is entirely possible that Auderius has a reputation for his occupation and the services that he provides - especially his reputation with a certain brothel most refer to as 'The Tart'.
However, a few may know him as the brother to an unhinged mercenary that has been banished from the city.
With a fiercely vibrant gaze and sharpened angular features, Eve doesn't generally appear very approachable. Her jaw is strongly defined and every aspect of her seems to be composed of straight lines and hard edges. There is very little softness in her face and body, her entire form encased in hardened muscle.
There seems to be not an ounce of soft flesh anywhere, only hard and battle-worn skin. Upon her arms are several deep scars, reminders of defensive wounds incurred throughout many battles. A pink stab wound is visible at the small of her back, though it has faded now and remains barely visible. Running through her left eyebrow is a thin white line which carries through on a diagonal to her cheekbone, also marring the eye itself. The wound is one that rendered her half-blind but she makes no effort to disguise or hide the blemish. In fact, it would appear that she's showing it off, proof of her service in some old conflict.
Eve would ordinarily be adorned in a dark scarlet set of heavy plated armor, composed of a saronite alloy and beaten into a finely crafted and definitely functional set of plate. Though, it has recently fallen into a state of disrepair - evidently neglected over an extended period of time. It is clear that it has seen a number of different wars and skirmishes.
More often as of late, Evangeline can be caught in a simpler garb composed of a light linen shirt and loose trousers held up by a partially-eroded leather belt - even the buckle neglected to the point where it had rusted beyond recognition.
Her hair is a light auburn and while it had once been frequently tamed into a tight bun - it how cascaded down her shoulders and back in wild curling waves. When necessary, she ties it back loosely with a strand of twine to keep it out of her face but the tendency towards upholding an immaculately groomed appearance seems to have departed her permanently.
History:
Eve is rumored to have once been part of the Silvermoon military (which branch in partiulcar remains unknown) but due to some disgrace it is said that she was dishonorably discharged.
She is locally known as a brawler and frequently initiates combat with complete strangers.
