Name: (Master)Mordrein Dawnwreath
Age: One hundred and thirty
Class: Spellbreaker, Warrior
Personality, Likes/Dislikes: Spite, hatred and vehemence all manifest themselves within Mordrein, an introverted spellbreaker often seen patrolling the towering skyline of Silvermoon city. The aforementioned traits are all but a shell, however. A quaint Elf, habouring a tactical mastery and a certain fondness for the outdoors lying underneath his guise of condescension.
Appearance: His hair is rather akin to the vibrant plumage of the Dragonhawks that surround his domain in Eversong woods, brilliantly red, hoping to grant the impression of a burning visage. A patriotic gesture that contrasts greatly to his statuesque, marble-white face. Handsome and sculpted, as all of his kin; the above features are definately the most eye-drawing. His body is typical of his kin, lithe, with a muscular assumption having broadened his shape to the point where one could tell from a glance that his profession lies within the blades of Quel'thalas.
Being commonly seen within the Farstriders' training grounds would further such a guess, sending focused blows into a target's fictional points of weakness.
Strengths/Weaknesses: Being fairly apt in combat, he makes haste to place pressure upon foes who specialise in magical means. Or if forced into close-quarters, can play on pain or weight to try and topple an enemy if his thin stature allows it. His true strength would lie in his tactical ruthlessness however, using it to aid his equals in finding positions of power in order to play his enemies as a chess pawn. His weaknesses exceed such dedication to defending Quel'thalas, however. Being known to be as stubborn as even the oldest, most biggoted elves. Conviniently forgetting sleep to try and rush an objective. Another would be his social frigidness. Unwilling to bend to will (the exception to this rule being commands)if be believes his own idea best and being generally cold could only hope to give him a neutral standing... on a good day.
Childhood: The working class and the frivolous never mix, and with Mordrein this was no exception. Socially downtrodden and laden with both work and intensive studies, he grew up with a slight grudge for the haught garden parties of Eversong's socialites. Yet he'd still express interest for their nature, well, 'their' being a loose term; Mordrein deemed them all the same. And as the sun shone through the dew and dried the air's sleep to the grass, the young elf could sometimes be spotted looking on. More often in envy than anything else, one could say that the miniature critic wanted a way in to their small town, big remark dinners for reasons beyond being merely curious, no. He wanted to know what made them tick, and slowly, he became the sort of character that would persistantly judge his conversation. Truely taking chances to revel in learning how mindset controls action.
Adolescence: Growing fast, we would rejoin the cinic as a musician; his studies having been shed as a phoenix might to their soft, youthful down. Handsome and fledged, he could be found sharing birdsong with the very same crowd he once deemed so high up on their hawkstriders that they'd seldom see through cloud. And, in truth, he still did. A false smile adorning his lips, this was of course, replaced with a real one upon recieving his pay. Which he put to good use, slowly working his way through the vastly inflated entertainment business to the point that he was becoming something of a known face about grandstands and able to aid in supporting his family. His existance was still lonely at best, mind. And while many didn't know the musician who sang for them, he had a very good idea of his listeners' personalities.
Coming of age: Far from the most violent of figures, Mordrein fought out of grief rather than anything else. An emotion made manifest as his father lost his struggle to keep the family afloat. Even his extended efforts did little to quell the debts hidden from by his proud family, and with his failure came his sudden death. As proud as his father was, he'd never admit to how his father had darkened his soul. With what remained of his family, he led them with heavy steps and hearts into a smaller home yet and furthermore; stepped in to aid against the amani threat if only for the promise of consistant pay.
For the next few decades, he fought for his family. Playing the provider, the tear-burdened shoulder and above all, the man. Solemnly going about his duties, he focused wholly upon advancing to restore them to a modest glory. He did this to the point that edventually had the fair laments of pale lips cease within his household. He fell silent.
Opera Non Verba: "What makes a man? His actions, above all. Words are meaningless, I've learnt this the hard way." The statue would say, or rather, Mordrein. At this stage in his tale, his skin has become almost bloodless in appearence. The blue in his eyes no-longer fluid in appearence, but glazed as frost. His people had betrayed him, to the beholder. Taken both his former life and father. And as the shadow of a requiem fell upon his lips, he stared in bewilderment as all was reduced to an ashen landscape. Embers hurrying his courage, Mordrein ran onwards into the fray, but he was too late. Once again, he had been robbed of all he held dear. Taking arms, he fought by the lake, across the plaza. Breaking the impending doom wherever he could, yet he couldn't mend a broken heart, a broken race.
In what seemed like a moment later, the blade was reforged. Reflections of a mishapen past shatter, perishing as they peel from porcelain skin like cinders; yet hitting the ground as hail and staining his feet like blood. His eyes lit up, taking flight anew with jade vehemency. He was the embodiment of the sun, he was valued by a new nation that respects dedication, a new breed of vengeance. He'd be lying if he said that he didn't take pride in tearing the Naaru keep of Fahralon to the poetic ground, all of his frustrations unleashed upon the exiled Eredar. Furthermore, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy taking to the skies upon a dragonhawk; ripping those that would stand in the way of Thalassian progress asunder. But, this grim, black fortune had to end. And with the demise of Tempest Keep, the short-lived Blood Elves were torn to nothingness once more. Now the third time the place he had called home fell into an abyssal realm, he endured. Well, would you have expected him to flee? No, Mordrein was far too stubborn. The following days rolled into months very quickly, and unlike before; the transition to finding new hope was painful, agnoisingly slow. Edventually, he found his way back to the woods. Finding his citizenship once more, he was able to claim a hollow excuse for a "home".
Now a master of his profession, Mordrein was the epitome of potential, or so he believed. And naturally, he was the first to be conscripted into the hardship of shedding sunlight unto the snow. His time in the north was spent behind enemy lines, avenging his people with a quill. Ink falling to the sticking point, his modus operandi often having to be explained. A sound tactician, he was fond of striking from a distance; making use of smokey veils to minimise troop loss in melee. Ambush. And perhaps he would have been known for his very small part in orchestrating the symphony of quiet in Icecrown if he had allowed his name to be uttered. Alas, he now returns as but a pale ghost of what he used to be.
But yet, the statue was heard to sing on news of a final justice.
OOC NOTES: In a desperate bid to give him some connections. Your character may have perhaps seen him before if they too saw or played along to the eversong of Quel'thalas, or even crusaded alongside the Sun King. Naturally, this is only if you will it.