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(( Tyro 2.0! ))

A much more accurate rendition of how I picture Tyrosius in my head.

A Tribute to Failure

“Your name is Bindon Fizzlebrain.”

“Yes sir!  Well, more like Bin-Don, y’know, not Bind-on, that’s just kinda weird and not really-yes.  Ah…okay.”

The frown remained on Tyrosius gaze as he looked down at the miniscule gnome with violet irises standing before him.  He was not entirely certain of gnome biology or lifespans, but he was almost certainly just barely into adulthood.  An oversized coat of shoddily forged chainmail clinked awkwardly around his form, the hauberk nearly reaching down to his feet, and a linen sash which barely passed as a sword belt ringed the tiny man’s waist, upon which a dulled shortsword hung.  The only part of him that looked truly intimidating were the ludicrously oversized pauldrons, nastily spiked and ornate in a deadly fashion.  Tyrosius gestured.

“Where did you get the, ah, pauldrons?”

“The what?”

“Pauldrons.  Shoulderguards…yes, the ones you’re pointing at.  No, not the collar, the shoulders.”

“Oh, these?  Family heirlooms, sir Tyrosius!  Passed down through the ages of the Fizzlebrain family, yes sir!  We called ’em…the PAULDRONS OF MIGHT!!!…oh, I see!  So that’s where the pauldrons word comes from…”

Tyrosius nodded slowly, privately wondering how the name Fizzlebrain came about and how the Argent Crusade even managed to consider him as an aspirant to join their ranks.  Idly he noticed that what little leather remained on the shortsword’s grip was already hanging loosely and looking to fall off.

“Very well.  To qualify as an aspirant to join the Crusade, a simple test of martial skill is all that is required, little more.  Keep in mind if you succeed, it does not mean you are a ‘Crusader’.  You simply…qualify, for further testing and training to be one.”

Bindon nodded eagerly, nearly hopping on his feet, face set in grim determination and a hand resting on the sword’s missing pommel in impressive manner.

“So!  When can we start!  Sir Tyrosius?”

The soft ring of a beautifully crafted blade being drawn from its scabbard was the only answer, to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ of several onlookers.  This was a public event, and many a crusader and simple townsfolk were in attendance.  Briefly he wondered whether Aeliwyn was watching, and a smile nearly touched his lips at the thought.  But this time, he managed to retain his focus on the task.  The arena was a simple square of hard packed clay, with four wooden poles at each corner whose usage he could not truly determine.

“At ready, sir Fizzlebrain.”

“I…ah-right…”

The chirpy voice did not sound quite as bright and confident, facing the crusader in obsidium armour, bearing a fine blade and a nobly wrought shield.  The grim determination slowly slid into confidence, then a sheepish neutrality, then a slow terror working upon the face as Tyrosius’ blade swung, point now directly facing the gnome.  Perhaps it might have been less frightening, as a matter of fact, were it not known that both combatants armaments had been enchanted to prevent serious damage.

Bindon drew his shortsword, and unslung the piece of metal which he called a ‘shield of righteous fury’ over from his back, settling into an awkward combat stance, somewhat mitigated by the fear which now began to make the young gnome tremble in his boots.  Then Tyrosius began to advance, and a slight squeak erupted helplessly from Bindon’s throat.  Some of the audience chuckled, believing the outcome settled.

“Hmm…let’s see…combat stance engaged!  I am Bindon Fizzlebrain, heir to the family, and I shall do them honooouurrAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

Bindon’s shield came up just in time to block the sweeping overhead stroke that Tyrosius aimed for the gnome, the terrified shriek which now pervaded all ears unhindered nearly masking the clash of metal upon metal.  Sparks flew, and Tyrosius nearly lost balance there and then – he had not expected the tiny gnome to be so…unmovably heavy.  In his heart, he pitied the boy.  But yet he knew even deeper in…this was a test, and all had to learn one day or another whether one was up for it.

With the slashing motion fended off, Tyrosius used the rebound of the blade to aim a stab now, this time angled such that it would slide off the shield if it struck it and spear into his guard.  Bindon was still screaming, quivering – and he threw himself forward, scrabbling to escape this terrifying man with a blade several times taller than he was.  As it were, he threw himself right between Tyrosius feet, actually managing to somehow slide forward despite the rough ground, a cloud of brownish red dust coming loose in the process.

“AIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

To his credit, Tyrosius had actually seen the move; the blade angled further down as Bindon dove between his feet, as awkward as it was, aiming to catch the gnome in the back and more or less impale him into the dirt.

“NOT THE BACK, DON’T SKEWER-AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

To his credit, it would have succeeded.  It would have, were it not for the nastily sharp spike on Bindon’s right pauldron which sliced clean through the gap in the obsidian plating of his boot where his ankle was, protected by thick leathers…but not enough to fend off that unexpectedly sharp piece of metal.  The arcanists had dulled their weapons, true…but this was rather unexpected.  Some members of audience gasped, the crusaders gaped, but most remained silent.

None of that occurred to Tyrosius as the explosion of pain at his left ankle sent him keeling forward, unbalanced, left knee crashing painfully into the dirt.  As he scrabbled to get back up, Bindon more or less valiantly attempted to rush forward to kick Tyrosius in the shin, neglecting the fact that it was covered by a solid piece of obsidium.

“Take that, warrior of the Ligh-OW!”

Leather did not do very well against obsidium plating.  Bindon dropped his blade, hopping about on one foot and beginning to shriek and squeal again, desperately attempting to hop away to one of the four wood poles.  Tyrosius nearly snarled – nearly.  This was getting personal.  How many warriors kicked the other in the shin!?  Staggering upright, dust staining the formerly pristine white tabard, blood trailing from his ankle, he limped towards Bindon, blade raised, a stern but composed look upon his face.  Annoyed, yes.  But not angry.  He could not afford that.

The miniature thing now had his back to the wooden pole, quite ashen with fear.  The trembling was visible for all to see now, and he did the only thing that true warriors could do in the face of inevitable defeat – charge.

With a shout that was supposed to be of courage and defiance but came out as terror and fear, Fizzlebrain rushed Tyrosius, shoulder first.  The elegantly crafted blade came down…Bindon saw, and at the last moment desperately tried to back off the charge, flinching away.  Yet by some stroke of luck or pure insanity, the flinching caused Tyrosius’ blade to come down hard upon the pauldron, which deflected the blow sideways with ease with no apparent harm upon the gnome.  Yet Bindon’s momentum carried him forward – the spiked pauldron impacted hard with the human’s left shin, flinging it backwards and up into the air.  Now a full suit of armour with sword and shield was a bit more than most could manage to balance on one foot, and Tyrosius was no exception.

Bindon skittered out of the way just in time to not get pancaked by the crusader who now fell face first into the hard-packed ground.  Panting, exhausted, hungry and completely wishing he had never come here, Bindon made for the pole again, not quite sure what to do.  With a heroic idea that only Fizzlebrains could come up with, he recalled…DAETA, the avenger of worlds, and how the hero had single-handedly uprooted a tree to thwack a dragon in issue #97 of the Warriors of Azeroth comic strip!  Surely he could do that!  With a wrapping of arms around the pole, accompanied by gasps of shock from the audience, Bindon heaved and pulled – only to pull himself up onto the pole.

Tyrosius had recovered.  Somewhat.  The blow had concussed him however slightly, though, and he sort of rolled over onto his back to get a perfect view of Bindon climbing the pole.  Bindon, for his part, did not quite seem to realise he was actually climbing, desperately trying to tug the…damnable thing!…out of the ground.

“Come on…come on…get out of the earth, stupid wood, your roots cannot-oh.  Hello.  Wait…why can I see your eyeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

For the gnome had just realised he was staring a crusader at face level.  And he looked down.  And noticed the massive height difference.  That there was a brown haired crusader, deep blue-green eyes opened wide in astonishment and confusion lying there was not truly noticed.  The brown haired gnome immediately felt dizzy, mind swirling.  Heights…heights…he never liked…

“Okay…okay…if I cover my eyes, like Avenger Avo…maybe I can…save…mysel-WAIT, no no NO pole, pole!  Pole come back here NO!”

Hands reached up to cover his eyes and save himself from the height.  It was only when he felt himself falling that he realised the tragic error that saving himself had doomed him in turn.

And the crusader who was lying right under him.

The last thing Tyrosius saw before his world went black was the shield of righteous fury, silhouetted by the bright glow of the noon sun, bearing down at him from above.

The last thing he thought was the hope that Aeliwyn was not there.

———————————————————————————-

(( So.  I bought BoA tanking shoulders on WrA, and I thought I could send it across servers to another char.  I was wrong.  Coincidentally, I had a char of the same name on WrA and I sent it to him instead, making it non-refundable.

This is the story of 2175 JP down the drain.  This is the story of a fail, and the character born out of fail.  May he have a beautiful RP life.

/sagenod ))

A Report

To the High Crusader Danielle Belliveau and the Headquarters of the Argent Crusade in Darnassus,

To the High Crusader James Greysteel and the Offices of the Argent Crusade in Stormwind,

To the High Crusader Thalirien Lightstar and the Argent Domain of Hearthglen and Lordaeron,

Report on entrance to the private-registered military formation Vanguard of the Alliance

 

Leader: ‘Field Marshal’ Arlen Ironison.  Did not appear at recruitment process; rank from Stormwind Army.  Leadership has yet to be observed in action, highest ranking a captain seen.

Formation role: unknown.  Separation into basic groupings of infantry, medicae, etc.  Specific aim given as to ‘serve the Alliance wherever needed.’ With such a general aim, base of operations in Theramore seems questionable at best given Forsaken threat to the Northern Eastern Kingdoms, conflict with Horde forces within Ashenvale (thus rendering the formation cut off from other Alliance forces save the Southern Barrens) and Twilight Cult threat in Hyjal.

Strength: Approximately 45 men.  Formation would appear to be a general task force, which would necessitate larger numbers than this to be effective.  Note that it is also questionable why a ‘field marshal’ is leading a force of 45 men, when officers in such a station generally lead forces numbering into the hundreds.  Also note that small formation size means that there is no realistic basis for the formation to break through Horde control of Northern Barrens to assist Alliances forces in Ashenvale.

Capability: questionable.  Interview process generic, standard questions with no actual test of military capability or education.  Directives after recruitment poor; essentially left standing.  Organizational capacity of formation is seemingly insufficient for combat duties, with uniform and communication tools handed out by separate member (Corporal) who happened to have spares.  Why a female soldier happened to have a set of male clothing is…queer, to say the least.  No quartermaster to speak of.

Individual members seem competent enough.  One Corporal Varlun Mulland (who first approached me for recruitment) seemingly ‘arrogant’ in newly-promoted role, though militarily plain.  Not respected by other soldiers.  Prior mentioned female Corporal indifferent to Mulland; blunt and direct.  Few other members visible or available for contact, given that entrance to formation was conducted in late evening.  Unknown private handing out pamphlets advertising the medical unit, which is…odd.  Given that this is a military formation, one would expect those competent in healing to be ordered into service, not asked in the form of flyers.

Equipment of foot-soldiers seem competent enough for standard duty; plate, mail, blade and shield.  Note that this would mean, as battle reports of the Crusade from initial engagements in Hyjal shows, formation is unfit for duty against elite Twilight forces due to lack of prevalence and seeming availability of obsidium armour and/or necessary warding.  Widespread use of swords and few other melee arms also open up possibility of one-dimensional combat capacities.

Drill and formation training not yet observed or participated in; further reports on such will be delivered in the coming days regarding such matters.  I will note here that events roster and calendar for formation is completely empty, with no timetable.

Threat of formation to the Horde: unknown, leaning to negligible.

Threat of formation to the Twilight’s Hammer: negligible, and therefore:

Viability of co-operation between Argent Crusade and formation: at the moment, not viable.  Though I would stress that further observation and participation in the formation is required to get a better sense of competency in conflict resolution.  Estimated time for accurate report is currently at two weeks.  Note that the Argent Crusade reserves the right to withdraw attaches without prior notification to joined organizations; though I would not recommend such a course of action so soon, the amassing of elite Twilight forces in the Highlands and the gathering Argent and Wildhammer forces there might necessitate a consolidation of Argent personnel in the region to ensure focus upon the true conflict at hand and not petty wars.

Crusader’s note: it is my hope that this formation will turn out to be superior to my initial perceptions.  At current standing, this unit will not be ready for the true war when it comes to them.

 

In the name of the Light,

Crusader Tyrosius Dawngarde, Argent Champion

 

Memories of the Past

“Am I…free?”

“Now and ever, brother.  You have done well.”

“All this while…I…I…never knew…my ignorance…than-k…thank you…”

“We do the Light’s work, brother.  You have saved yourself, and now we give you peace.”

“Will the Light…take me?  A-…after the corruption…of my body, mind, soul…”

“The Light embraces all who are willing, brother.  You are no exception…now rest.  You join the Light today.”

“Thank you…thank you…” 

Preparations

“Come now.  Try again.”

“I…I can’t…”

“But you can, Alex.  You yet have the strength of a youth in his prime.  Now come.”

With a small groan, the smallish youth of fourteen years of age awkwardly reached towards the ground, picking up the practice blade.  This one was metal, made to handle and feel just as a real sword did save the lack of a cutting edge; the brown haired boy gazed at the weapon absent-mindedly for a moment, being brought back to his senses with a loud yelp by a rap on his knuckles with a similar practice weapon from the man standing before him.

“Focus, Alex.”

“I…I’m sorry…I just…”

The boy averted his gaze, looking away.  The dark brown-haired paladin that stood before him watched passively for a while, before his features softened.  Kneeling down in light off-duty armour -a simple silvered chestpiece with the symbol of the Argent Crusade etched upon it and a simple steel hauberk that ended at the elbow and mid-thighs-, the man gently brought a leather-gauntleted fist to the boy’s chin, lifting his face up so that their eyes met.

His face was healed, but in no less horrendous condition.  The mark of the Twilight’s Hammer had been branded right into it, the hammerhead of the symbol resting on his brow just above the right eye, the circular design then running jaggedly across the remainder of his face; it was a miracle that he was not blind.  The face, which once could have been described as handsome, was now marred for eternity by ugly purplish-red scars that had lasted too long for any medic to heal.  Gentle dark-blue eyes latched with the gaze of hazel brown ones that looked close to tears.  Who could blame him?

“Listen, Alex.  I know how you must feel, how great the urge is to simply hide away from the world and never see light again.  You remember what I showed you, yes?”

The boy nodded slowly.  When he had first met the paladin, he had been near breaking-down, unable to accept himself, berating himself for his stupidity, wailing his misery at what he had done, right up until, after several hours of fruitless discussion and encouragement, the paladin had torn off his own shirt.  The marks that had defaced human skin and flesh had silenced the teenager almost immediately.

“Yes.”

“You know that I have been through this before.  The stares, the contempt, the discrimination.  And yet…I have largely succeeded, with the aid of so many others, in saving myself.”

“But where are the others for me?”

“Am I not one of ‘the others’, Alex?”

The paladin chuckled, the deep sound oddly musical as the boy attempted to dip his head to hide his embarrassment, only to be kept in check by the hand that yet held his chin up.

“There will be more who will aid you, Alex.  You will never be alone…always will there be someone amongst the crowd ready to support you, no matter how unfriendly the crowd might seem.”

The boy named Alex nodded again, or attempted to nod.  His eyes flickered down to the practice blade that he yet held; it was of average make, the kind that was mass produced for footmen at the frontlines, the kind that was not designed for ornament or display but for sheer practicality.  The handle itself, wound with leathers stained dark by so many sweaty hands, while the unadorned steel-grey hilt and blade were nicked and notched from constant sparring and use.  The only genuine design that could be said to have existed on the blade was on the pommel, where the lion of Stormwind had been stamped onto a circular-disk like device, with the blade’s serial number etched at the bottom.

The paladin caught his inspection of the weapon.  “Did they ever teach you how to use these?”

“…a bit.  Not a lot.  I don’t think they wanted us to…to last very long.”

Now it was the paladin’s turn to nod, as he thought back to that ash-choked day.  The swarms of misguided men, women, children, streaming forward with no organization, no weaponry, no armour, wearing little more than cloth robes on their chests and pure terror on their faces, both at the sight of the disciplined formations ahead of them and even more so at the fate that would befall them should they turn back and flee.  He sighed softly then, understanding all too well how it must have been like.

“Do you know how you can fight back, Alex?  How you can win against them?”

The boy stiffened, suddenly feeling an onrush of emotion as he gazed downwards, beyond the sword.

“How?  I…I am…cri-”

“Speak not that word, Alex.  I have told you.”

The paladin’s voice remained respectful, but harder; a gentleness tempered by definite boundaries that were not to be crossed.

“But…it’s…”

A stifled sob, as both gazed downwards for a few seconds.  The boy was seated on a wheelchair, locked into position.  Where legs should have been, though, there were only stumps that ended just beyond the knees, covered over by linen pants that hid the blackened flesh that lay beneath.  Normally, the wonders of Gnomish engineering should have been able to provide some sort of artificial support; as it was, though, the cursed flames that had literally blown off his legs had rendered the nerves there completely deadened, with no medical procedure able to get the stumps to function again.

“Alex.  Look at me.”

The boy obeyed, gazing back at the paladin, a tiny trickle of tears running down his face.  Tyrosius lifted the hand away from his chin, brushing away the boy’s misery that ran down his cheek.

“Do you know how you can fight back, Alex?  Simple.  Last longer than they wanted you to.”

That gave the boy pause, as he looked into the dark blue-green eyes, containing within a gentleness lacked by so many fighting men, a respect lacked by so many in society for what they saw only on the surface, yet also a determined steel that would not allow him to falter.

“Last longer than they want you to.  Fight them the way they don’t want you to…live, when they wanted you to die.  That is how you can win.”

“But to live…surely, that must mean more than just…sitting around…”

The paladin smiled softly, pleased.  “Of course.  Why do you think I brought you under my charge, and make you take all these courses?”

“Common, Thalassian, numbers, swordplay, Azerothian history…studies of the Light.  Why do you think I make you do all this?  So that you can live, Alex, and remain defiant in the face of those who want you gone from this world.  In particular, recall the first lesson I ever taught you of the Light, Alex.  Speak to me of it, please?”

“The Light does not forsake its followers; only its followers forsake the Light.  Yet the Light does not condemn the strayed, and welcomes them back into the fold should their heart be willing; for none are beyond the reach of the Light.”

“Very good.  This lesson, in fact, is…quite new.  In the harshness of the years following the Third War, there was little room for forgiveness or redemption, for the strayed often meant the Scourge.  Yet…the draenei came.  You remember the draenei, Alex?”

The boy nodded eagerly.  They, unlike so many humans in the city, had been nice to him, been as equally gentle and respectful as the paladin had been.  At first the blue skin, glowing eyes and face-tentacles had scared him, but after the being had proved amiable and considerate to his condition the initial wariness wore off easily.  When he had commented on the oddity of their blue skin, the giant figure had laughed heartily and, in his thickly-accented Common, told him how mortified his race had been upon seeing the pale skinned things with frighteningly light shades of hair that looked like ghosts but were actually humans.  It had made him laugh.

“There is a reason why they have the saying ‘open your heart to the Light’.  For we stray often, and we stray greatly…yet should your heart be true and just, should your heart accept the redemption of the Light…you will live, and your enemies will have no power over you.”

Alex remained silent, face now hopeful, the tear-trickles already drying on his face.  He tried then to launch some mental force into himself, to wrench his own heart open if need be, just so to accept the Light once again.  He must’ve had struggled visibly, for the paladin chuckled again, patting the boy on the shoulder.

“You cannot force it, Alex.  It will take time.  Yet when it comes…no act those who once controlled you might perpetrate will be able to shake you again.”

“Now,” Tyrosius said with some finality, rising from his kneeling position, mail clinking softly under the noonday sun.  It was a pleasant day, even for Stormwind’s standards; clouds were absent from the sky, and the combat practice area was largely deserted, with only a few off-duty Army footmen watching curiously.  “At ready, Alex!”

Alex lifted the sword again; it was uncomfortable, doing so in a sitting position, and being forced to angle his body at an awkward position in order for him to assume as proper a stance as he could while confined to a wheelchair.  It did not help that he was being made to stab with a slashing weapon, though the paladin had maintained that stabbing with a heavy-bladed weapon would make his training with a lighter fencing blade far more easier and natural.

“Sword up, higher…!  Elbow back in, don’t let it stick out from the profile of your body, keep the forearm straight, relax your shoulder, you should only be gripping tight at the hand…lunge!  No, you tensed your shoulder there, did you notice?  That’s why your aim went wide.  Precision, Alex!  Control your blade, discipline your body…these skills will aid to sharpen the mind as well.  Finesse, elegance, calm.  Frustration will only impede your path, not clear a road for you.  Now ready yourself again, sword up…elbow in, again, remember that, relax…lunge!  Better, much better…you can see how even with a dulled tip it still managed to badly dent that link of chainmail there…a few more tries, Alex, then we break for lunch.  Now, sword up…”

Gleams of Past

Tyrosius sat by the dim candlelight of his own, officer-quarters like apartment, silently reading page after page of the Thalassian poetry.  Though he had thought to rest soon, the poetry was in actuality captivating, scrolling lines near mesmerising him as he read and contemplated the words as carefully picked as a summer flower upon a gentle, tranquil day.

But of course, he thought with a sudden smile upon his lips, she would not choose anything lesser.

He had happened across an entire and sizable section dedicated to poetry of love; of ballads, songs, sonnets and the like.  Briefly he wondered as to how singing in Thalassian would be like, or of love songs; insofar, Belle’s lessons had trained him more in the basic grasping of the vocal chords, how to produce sounds, to control pitch, to allow volume to rise and lower like the tides of the sea.  Truly, it was an art in itself…and Tyrosius learned swiftly, progressing steadily through lessons and practice.

They had touched actual song more rarely than he had originally expected, though he knew full well that if this was how she felt people were trained to sing…he would trust in her judgment.  As well, each song had been in Common and seemed more glorious tales of humanity’s past than anything else, save in the form of lyrics and to music.  Sighing softly, he dreamily thought of the day that would come…when he would sing for her, for their love.  He instinctively felt as though it would please her greatly…and in turn please him to see her happy.

One day.  Another gentle sigh; she had already been asleep when he had exited another meeting, and so he had merely returned to his own home.  As thoughts wandered, he flipped over to the next page of deceptively simple poetry, elegant Thalassian flowing in graceful lines and curves over the page:

Soft

Soft, to be graced as rain;

Where Light falls, astride

the boughs of beaut,

the brush of naught but a feather.

To whence the caress as a tether,

the melodies of lute,

fingers a lapping tide

as Love a touch, made eternal; soft.

 

Soft, for dawn to sing hope;

Where visions watch, unturned

from their paths,

set blind, yet an eyelid brought open.

To sight wonder unseen, unbroken,

of wondrous laughs,

yet wonderment unburned

in the grace of Love soft.

 

Soft, for the blossom to grow;

to endure storm, unblemished

and untainted and unbroken in life,

entwined in hope and joy, united.

Upon Love, no taint e’er blighted,

nor wrought with war nor strife,

nor entered within famished

nor took root in Love; soft.

 

Soft, for Love to reach splendour,

unmatched o’er the world.

Soft, for time to slow and harbour,

Love enduring forever; soft.

 

He had pondered deeply all through the poem, reflecting how it all seemed to…fit so well.  That Love might have touched from the onset, only for him to be carried on in a path dedicated to redemption by arms.  A path straight and narrow, yet eyes opened…to meet hers truly, and to accept.  A gentle smile curved his mouth; it was a pretty thought, one he liked greatly.

Thoughts yet wandered now, though, to her…gaze.  That long, contemplative look, as though she were considering…something.

The wildest fancies of his mind guessed and grasped, finding some ledge to cling to; marriage?  He had not thought overmuch on it; such seemed…distant in itself, not by any definition but simply by feeling.  The concept was simply far off, though it nagged occasionally as a whim of fantasy.

Yet…fantasy?  Who was to say it would not happen?

Inadvertently, he thought of his parents; what was it they had used to symbolise their marriage, far more than the pendants of the Dawngarde line…the rings.  He remembered, as clear as a spring day in Lordaeron, the two bands that his father and mother had worn.

They were simple things; gleaming silver, though possessing an air far more refined and noble than silver if such were possible.  It simply…gleamed more, or it could simply be the Light flowing through the rings.  Considering that both had been tried and true paladins, such was not out of the boundaries of possibility.

What he remembered most, though, was the poem that had been inscribed upon the rings in minuscule detail; a long, expressive sonnet of love, in Thalassian…one half was etched on his mother’s band, the other hand on his father’s.  The poetry of love, the beauty of fourteen lines…it would not be complete without the other half of the ring; a clever idea, and highly symbolic.

Tyrosius shook his head abruptly, clearing the thoughts and closing the tome of poetry, rising from his seat and heading for his prayer mat to meditate and pray before rest.  It was a fancy of the mind for now, little more; such would have to wait.  At least, so he thought.  He had no idea whether it was what Aeliwyn was thinking of anyway, and it would undoubtedly seem rather foolish if she were holding in her mind a separate matter in its entirety.  For who knew?

 


(( Procrastination ))

And this is why I suck at time management.  In addition to WoW, of course.  My lower leg proportion is messed up as is nose length, but still decent.

I don’t know who this is. >.> Just fun, I guess.