Few souls wondered the ruins of Lordaeron, a place once of splendor and pride and welcoming air. In ages past, it had been the capital of a kingdom, ruled by a loved king, but ultimately, betrayed by an estranged prince... So many years ago that was, and now what remained to the birds eye, was a walled in city of destruction, the mark of a war long past. All the real activity, if one could call it that, was below ground these days. Few souls wondered these broken streets and husk homes, few more permitted themselves be found... Save for one, upon this cold, wind swept night.<br/><br/>He stood atop an old light post, body held tall, wrapped as it was in several cloaks of varying shades of grey, black, and smoke white. A dark hood hung low over his head, a matching scarf up over his nose, just below his eyes. He was tall, but willow like, Save for his shoulders, which were disproportionately broad compared to the rest of him, though not unbalancingly so. The cloaks fell in front of, as well as to the sides and back of his body, masking even his feet from view, though they still billowed slightly with the wind, but not as much as a light fabric should. Slowly, his golden ghostlight eyes would move, surveying the scene before him, head turning every now and again...<br/><br/>High in the night sky, few clouds obstructed the twin moons of Azeroth soured above, casting dual shadows across the landscape of the broken capital. Shadows which, one could swear, danced of their own accord. ducking a weaving from one another. He seemed, expectant... The slight sum of mottled gray flesh peeking from within the hood and scarf was riddled with rotholes over his brow, which itself was prominent, almost cave man like... Or perhaps, it was simply an effect brought on by hunken eye sockets? In either case, it did little more or less then to amplify the expression of a glare in his few visible features. As if imortally annoyed at something or someone.<br/><br/>His mind wondered then, as it often did... But tonight, he recanted of a time not so long ago... A few nights at the most. Within the Scarlet Monastary, he had encountered, and was saved by a novice of the practice. A young lass who was herself in over her head... She had set him free, and so, as payment, he agreed to teach her the arts, the style and tricks and guile of the Rogue... He wondered, in some distant part of his mind, if she had survived after parting ways... He had told her to come in a weeks time from that day. A week for them both to make ready, both she and he...<br/><br/>It would not be easy... Far from it... He had only taken up five students in his time... Only two still lived... Would she make three? Or count herself amoung the dead?<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>