#felsight

Send ❮ ❮  for a drabble of my muse’s past | Accepting

          “So you won’t become a priest, and you won’t become a mage under your mother’s guidance.” Aro’len spoke sternly as he sat across from his son, arms folded crossly.  Alamor glanced away, avoiding eye contact as he replied, “You act as if those are my only two options–”

“Given your bloodline and family history, it’d be foolish not to take up one of the two.” The blonde interrupted.  Alamor bit the inside of his lip, his fist clenching in aggravation.  They didn’t listen, they never listened– he was getting so fed up with his family, including his sisters.  “Father,” he muttered, “I’ve tried so many times to correct my mistakes and cast successful spells.  I…” he looked up, and the scowl on his father’s face made his stomach churn, “I can’t.  No matter what I do, I can’t.”

“Then you need proper teaching.  Clearly the lessons written down in the books I gave you aren’t cutting it.” The older elf rose from his seat, walking past his son and toward the door, “I’ll speak with your mother about this.  Alamor,” he turned, “this is important.  You know we care about you and your future, but we also want what’s best for you; you must have motivation, you need to try harder, my boy.” Aro’len opened the door, seeing himself out and shutting it with a soft click.

A strained sigh escaped Alamor’s throat as he leaned down, burying his face in his palms.  What more could he possibly do?  Like a teacher could help him– they’d grow frustrated with him just as his parents did.  They’d toss him aside, saying they couldn’t work with him and that it was impossible to teach magic to a youngling who simply couldn’t grasp the concepts.  At only eighteen years old, one would think that by then he’d have something down.  But no– he couldn’t even manage a little spark.

Aelvenya was a spitting image of her mother, appearance-wise and with her skills as well.  They expected him to be just like her.  And Zaralyna, at merely eight years old, showed great promise already as a priest.  She would go with him into the woods, looking near and far for injured animals to try to heal.  The brat got all the praise, all the attention that he’d never get.  He just supposed then that once his father saw no potential for magic in him, he was brushed to the side as he tried to instead make his younger sister into what he wanted.  And oh, how that made him angry.

“Ala?” A familiar voice called from behind him.  His ears twitched as he stood up straight, turning his head toward the door.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, Zara,” the redhead smiled weakly, waving her over, “I thought you were with Aelvenya and mama?”

The small girl approached, brushing some of her blonde hair from her eyes, “They said I had to go home.  They wanna go to the city.”

Ah.  That’s why.  Alamor understood why taking her with them wouldn’t be a good idea-- she was always more shy and introverted than the rest of their family.  Taking her into a bustling, busy city probably wasn’t in their best interest, as it could possibly frighten her at a young age.  “Well, that was mean of them.  They told you they would spend time with you today, didn’t they?”

She nodded, reaching up at the table and taking one of Aro’len’s feather quills into her small, delicate hand.  “They said they wouldn’t be very long, but Aelvenya always gets sidetracked.”

Send me “✒︎” for a random, dumb, pointless fact about my muse. | Not accepting

Alamor avoided Silvermoon City whenever he could in his youth, before the Scourge invaded his homeland.  The large crowds of people made him nervous; already being distrusting of others and borderline paranoid of a lot of things, he would only go in for one thing at a time, and he had to know exactly what that thing was, where it was, and who he had to speak to.

While his standards for beauty aren’t quite as high as most sin’dorei’s, he’s seen some rather attractive orcs with his time in the Horde.  They most certainly aren’t his first preference, but he’s an absolute sucker for toned and muscular builds.