TOOT TOOT MOTHERFUCKERS

The streets of Silvermoon were busy as ever, despite the war efforts on Kalimdor. The Sin’dorei were especially adept at burying their heads in the sand and pretending that things were perfectly fine. Nothing could disrupt the balls and galas held by the city’s rich. They were as much a part of the hum of the city as anything else.

Kirian’s cane tapped quickly on the pavement. It was as close as he could get to properly running, to limp quickly along and squeeze between people and walk around them as they ambled along the same avenues.

He passed through alleys to the part of the city that was still being salvaged, rebuilt. He knew this house better than any others in the city, and he approached quickly, balling his hand into a fist and banging on the door, raising his voice to carry into the home..

“Veilyaa!”

Please don’t have left. He perched on the front step, uneasy and uncertain of himself. Please still be here.

Within the halls, the sound of his fist rapping against the door echoed - Veilyaa turned from her satchels, hearing the voice following after, and whispering to herself, “Kirian?”

She turned back to the satchels, potions for all occasions: health, wellness, mental state. Cures for several known poisons. And, a final, an old metal flask from a friend long ago, “for courage” read the pressing upon the steel. A pause, a finger trailing over it, and in moments, a quick drink before replacing it on the table. She moved through the halls, and through the entryway, she could see his shadow, the specter of the man, Kirian Dawningsun.

Her hand hesitated as she approached: he’d gathered what she had intended to do while they were in the Barrens, over one quiet night beneath the starlit sky.

“It wouldn’t be hard to escape, to run,” she thought over the sounds of her heart pounding in her chest. “Grab the last: robes, satchels, and sneak out the back door, invisibility concealing her from vision as she ran to a safer distance, and then…?”

Her breathing grew shallow, and her hand grasped the door handle. A cold sweat on her fingers as she resolved: a single pull, the door opening. “Kirian?”

“Veilyaa.” He breathed, a hand on his chest and his heart racing at the sight of her. “I’m not too late.”

And then, gathering himself, straightening and looking down at her, he raised a brow.  “Are you going to leave, then? Just like this?” He frowned.

“Like this?” she gestures to herself, matching his frown with her own. “Of course not, there’s uniforms and preparations. This isn’t a weekend lark, this is a war!”

She stood aside, and then turned, gesturing, “Come, then. Come, come. I’ll prepare you a cup of tea, and you can belittle me further and I can ignore your barbed words, same as we ever do.”

“I don’t…” He stepped inside, resting his cane by the door. “Veilyaa, I…” There was an oddness to his tone. No longer cold and distant, there was a strange warmth there that had only existed what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Veilyaa, listen to me. Please.” Adding the last word because he knew that she could be every bit as stubborn as he was. That’s all this was, seeing who could outlast the other.

“Don’t go to Orgrimmar.”

“Don’t?” She turns on her heel, one eyebrow raised, lip curled into a tentative snarl. “For what ends should I stay put? Do you think there is charm in your insults? That there is pride in being on display for others to look at?”

Her face softens, her eyebrows droop, and she breathes in, deep and slowly, before opening her green eyes, locking onto his, even as errant strands of red hair fall into her face, obscuring her furrowed brow.

“A soldier serves Silvermoon. We served the crown, once. There is no crown, no, but there is a nation. And we march on Orgrimmar to serve the nation. And that is why I go,” she continues, pausing, “You could accuse me of refusing to let go of old days. Do you mean to, now? But, do not insult me by insinuating I’ve lived well since coming home from Northrend.”

His own anger is colder than hers- she always burned, passionate, and he was as resolute as a glacier. He inhaled, raised a brow.

“There is much I could have done differently, but I hope you’ve still enough care for me to listen to my words- if you go to Orgrimmar, you go to your death.”

He waved a hand. “I’m not done. Veilyaa, I will be honest with you.” For once. His face relaxed slightly. “We’re older than most, and we’ve lived well...for the most part. But I do mean it when I say that...I would...be unhappy to live in the next centuries, knowing that you met your end in some dirty pit in a desert far away from the forests of our home.”

“I would go to a dirty pit in a desert far away from the forest of our home to live. None would miss me. You’d be unhappy to be alone, rather than be unhappy to lose,” she shook her head, “You’ve spent years pushing people away. Does it sadden you that you’ve finally finished?”

“No, I…”

There was something there, the ghost of the person he had once been. He could remember that, before the vines and thorns of bitterness choked out his heart. And, true, she was right on some things. He wasn’t a headstrong man, not anymore. The fire of his youth had been tempered, and now he could barely do anything but watch Veilyaa throw his mistakes, his faults, in his face.

And maybe he deserved it. But something in these past months, here, and elsewhere- the Isle of Thunder, The Barrens, he knew again what it meant to care for something, and to admit that maybe he did care. That even though it made him vulnerable, that caring about something meant it could be taken away, his life had more to it than an empty void that touched nothing.

“Veilyaa.” He took a breath, trying to find the words. “I would be unhappy to be alone, but...it means more to me, that it is you.” He looked away from her. “I care for you. I always have. I regret some things- these past years- but I won’t let you go to your death without you knowing that.”

She flinched, and looked away, down to the ground. Her ears drooped low, and her voice choked, her mouth opening and closing. She peered back to him, then down again. Cheeks flush, her reaction a mix, rushing from anger, to sadness. Confusion, to despair. A hint of happiness? Of joy?

“Do not tease like so, Kirian. And if you tease, it is a cruelty. Do you truly think a few words could sway me? Show me something heart felt, tell me something that makes your world sing,” she speaks, her words quivering. She pauses, and looks up to him, her voice finally breaking a silence of what felt too long. “A sentence cannot bandage a wound, but if you would not act, then you reach at straws to keep your world from changing for your own best interests.”

“It is selfish, perhaps.” He looked at her, his eyebrows knitting together. “But it’s honest...perhaps more honest than I have been, of late.”

He fell silent for a few long seconds, and sighed. “There are...other things you can do, that would have as much an impact as throwing yourself at Orgrimmar.” He looked away. “I have something to put myself to...The Timewalkers, we call ourselves. We are the mortal agents of the bronze dragonflight. It is our charge to watch over the timeways, now that they cannot on their own.” He met her eyes. “Veilyaa, come with me.”

He held out a black gloved hand.

“This is a joke. You’re joking,” she crosses her arms, turning away. “You must be joking. Timewalkers? Working with the Bronze Dragonflight? You can’t stand to be anywhere without a made bed, but now you’re asking me to believe you willingly go out to the Tanaris desert to meet the Bronze Dragonflight? To work WITH them?”

She turns back, her eyebrow quirked upward, ears stiffening as she rounds on him again, “You hardly can stand to work among people, and you want me to believe you willingly work with other mortal races - AND dragons - to do… whatever it is you do over the timeways?”

A moment passes, a second, and she closes her eyes, a hand raising to massage the bridge of her nose, as she grumbles, “If I go with you to see this, am I going to regret it? And if I choose not to follow you, will you respect that, and offer no further complaints about Orgrimmar?”

She pauses, raising her head up, brushing the hair from her face, “I’m curious. But, you’ve always known that best, haven’t you?”

“I don’t think the world would look as favorably on me if I didn’t keep my secrets.” He smirked. “I’ve been working with the bronze dragons for some time now- since before the fall of the Lich King.” He raised a brow. “I simply don’t advertise my work...but my research has aided in the development of the time magic we now find ourselves using. Curious, isn’t it?”

“I will protest no further if you go to Orgimmar.” And this was more comfortable, even for him. “But, ah, what if there is something that I know about that decision that you don’t? Curious…”

And he turned slightly, raising his chin and looking away from her, smiling to himself.

“Ahh, if there was something you knew that I did not,” she smirks, back, “Then you know what happens to me while I am there, and you seek to change the future? Or is that not your charge?”

She moves, disappearing deeper into the house, and exiting, the red and black robes of the Sunreavers draped upon her shoulders, tying the sash tightly. “Let us go then. Best to not let your “I know something you don’t know” go to waste after you make heart-felt confessions to tease.”

She looks back to him, “It’d be easy to think you meant what you said. If you did, it would make me happy. If you did not…” she lets the sentence hang, sighing, her shoulders rising and falling as she passes by him, moving towards the door.

“By all means.” He nods, holding the door open for her, the cool night air bringing the smell of the sea into the city.

It would be some time before they saw the ocean again. But, then again, the passage of time would mean very little to them, by that point.

Height: 6' 4"-ish

Build: Thin, with more strength in his upper body than lower.  He was once more toned and muscular than he is now, years of lifting nothing heavier than books have lessened this a fair bit.  Generally, he looks like he doesn't eat too often.

Distinguishing Marks: Red tattoos that cover his arms and legs, ending at the tops of his hands and feet.  Those that see him without gloves will see almost abstract scrollwork patterns, with arcane runes throughout.

Face: Long, straight nose.  Brows the curl up at the ends, and ears that curve inward toward his face.  Bright green eyes, usually surrounded by dark circles.

Clothes: Plain robes, upon robes, upon robes.  Dark colors preferred, with gold embroidery throughout.  Occasionally covered in black cat hair.  Well tailored to him.  Generally wears black gloves.  Carries a cane with him- round, gold knob and tip, purple-black wood shaft.  Uses it to walk.

Smells: Not much at all.  He dislikes perfumes and scents.  Generally, he smells clean and often of smoke.  When he is working with magic, those sensitive to it would be able to smell it on him for some time afterward.

Voice: Polite, slight accent.  Usually always sounds a bit bored.  His Thalassian is much better than any other language, and he will default to speaking this around other elves.  If you really want a voice actor for him, think Kirk Thornton or Crispin Freeman.  Yes, those who know the canon, he sounds a fair bit like Rommath/Thalen.

Mannerisms: Reserved, often taps his cane on the ground before walking.  It is easy to read him sometimes- just follow his eyes.  Generally frowns or close to it.  Very rarely smiles.

 Too cranky?  Did he do something too nice?  Here's your chance to tell me.  Comments are screened.

OOC PREFERENCES:

•CONTACT METHOD: AIM - afterwits
•THREAD-JACKING: It's fine by me! Kirian, however, will not appreciate it (when does he appreciate anything).
•FOURTH WALLING / CANON PUNCTURE: I'd really rather not fourthwall, please.
•BACKTAGGING: Anything newer than a week is good. Older than that, I've generally lost my train of thought. Ongoing threads for weeks is fine, just not so much about suddenly getting a tag after two weeks.
•AVOIDED TOPICS: I personally don't care for plots that use mental illness or inhumane treatments as a plot device. Handle it respectfully, and I'm fine, I just cannot stand "this guy's totally schizo let's lock him in a padded room lol".
•WARNINGS: Not much except for I guess…medical stuff?

IC CHARACTERISTICS:
•PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Kirian is tall, roughly 6’ 3”, and is rather slight. He used to be a bit more heavily built, but those days are far behind him now, and the heaviest thing he lifts is a book anymore. His hair is light brown with a gold-ish tint to it where the light hits it. He is generally frowning or with a neutral expression on his face, and he has dark circles around his eyes from lack of sleep. He dresses well, in clothes that were clearly made to fit him, but his clothes are generally dark robes with little decoration save for embroidery.

He has no piercings, but he does have tattoos on his arms and legs. They generally look like abstract scrollwork, with runes scattered throughout the designs. These end at his shoulders and tops of his hands, and from his hip to his left foot. Very rarely does anyone see the extent of the tattooing of what remains of his right leg.

He walks with a rather pronounced limp, and uses a cane with a gold tip and a simple gold knob handle. Those paying close attention would note a small catch on the handle of his cane- there is a dagger within it. The shaft is purple-black wood, dubiously acquired and those sensitive to magic would be able to sense it’s been tainted with power, somehow.
•DEMEANOR: Kirian is very brusque and off-putting, sometimes rude when he feels he needs to be, especially to those that know him or are of his race. He is well aware that his attitude pushes people away- it’s carefully constructed to do so. He generally appears aloof, and the more someone attempts to bring him close, the harder he pushes away. He can be cold and calculating, and cruel, when he feels it is necessary, and uses words like one might any other weapon. He enjoys solitude and indulging in his vices, and dislikes people, generally speaking. He can be a terribly practical man when he feels like it.
•ABILITIES: Kirian is a mage, and before that, was a Spellbreaker. He is skilled in arcane magic, but especially in “support” magic- counterspelling, shielding, spellstealing, and the like. He can conjure food and drink (mostly for himself because what is sharing).
•MEDICAL INFORMATION: Kirian is a Blood Elf, meaning his body ages much, much slower than a human’s. He is fairly healthy, all things considered, save for the occasional smoker’s cough.

And he’s missing most of his right leg. He has a prosthesis crafted out of a hard, relatively lightweight tan substance that has designs and runes carved into it. It is enchanted, movement powered by a small arcane core. He suffers chronic pain that is generally worse on some days than others.
•OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: Sensitive topics include death, undeath, politics, PHOENIXES AND FIRE MAGIC IN GENERAL, his homeland.

IC PERMISSIONS:
•MENTAL: Fine with it as far as knowing more about him (gaining things that would have been "common knowledge" in Azeroth) and picking up on any train of thought stuff in a tag. Anything else- please ask first.
•MIMICRY: Mimic is okay, but shapeshifting into him and causing problems is something I'd definitely want to plot out first.
•VIOLENCE: With permission and it being plotted out first.
•MAGIC: With permission and it being plotted out first.
•DEBATE: He’ll likely tell you you’re an idiot, but go for it!
•ROMANCE: Kirian doesn’t DO romance. He finds it distasteful.