#sophysa

“Honestly,” Val said, with a withering roll of her eyes over the rim of her glass, “You’re not my type. I don’t know what you are; I like pretty, sad-eyed boys in mage robes, not… whatever in hell you two are all about.”

The blonde diviner gave a dismissive wave of her fingers towards the motley pair in front of her - a gangly, violet-haired elf and his grey-bearded dwarven companion - then turned to the side and made as if to converse with one of the other bar patrons.  The Recluse was crowded that warm, late summer evening, but not with anyone terribly interesting - mostly off-duty guards and adventurers returned from the Broken Isles who were eager to share their stories of demons and portals and other things she’d already seen through the eyes of scrying mirrors and orbs.  It was heaps better than the Slaughtered Lamb, though, and less expensive than drinking back home in Dalaran.

Val had almost forgotten about the two men less than half an hour later, and was laughing over the antics of some gnome with a lute when a tap on her shoulder gave her a start.  She turned, only to come face to clavicle with someone blue. Indigo blue, with shoulder-length violet hair. A look upwards presented her with the single most smug expression she’d ever seen on another creature, human or otherwise.

They - the elf and the dwarf - were back.  They… were wearing lacy white dresses, ill-fitted, with dirty hems and petals strewn among their tulle-decorated skirts.  “Eh?” the elf asked, waggling his long eyebrows.

Wedding dresses?  The diviner unsuccessfully stifled a laugh, then set down her mug.  “What the -”

“Y’said y’liked - Malorne, how’d y’put it - ‘pretty, sad boys in dresses’...”

“I did not!” Val bristled, still fighting laughter despite feeling the need to correct him.

“We’re pretty sad, an’ we’re in dresses…”  The elf raised his eyebrows once more in an expression somewhere between ‘gotcha’ and ‘come hither’. “So - who’re you takin’ th’first turn with?”

The diviner stared up at him, at an utter loss for words.  After several long seconds of bordering-on-awkward silence, she picked up her mug, drained the remainder of the apple lambic within in, and said, “Well.  I’ve got just the thing for this, believe it or not.”

Her newfound ‘friend’s” smirk grew.  “Yeah? What’s th-?”

It was the fastest teleport she’d ever cast in her life.  The clay token in the shape of the tall, Dalaran spire hit the floor as the second half of ‘that’ came out of the crass man’s mouth, and she stepped through without a glance back.  With a reminder to never, ever drink in Stormwind again, Val stepped through the public portal in the large, colonnaded room and breathed a sigh of relief. Elves - they were never worth the trouble.

Westel is typically quite forgiving. Sometimes to a fault. 

But boy when he decides to hold a grudge he ain’t letting go. Also sometimes to a fault. 

He’ll never forgive his ex for leaving him–TWICE–for Annexious (just hurting herself, honestly).

Even though she’s dead, he’ll probably never forgive Anais’ mother for keeping him from his daughter for so long. 

Rejection, certainly. 

Westel comes from an incredibly ambitious family among the lower tiers of nobility. His father was a Lord, sure, but he was newer to that title than most. So that the family could maintain their status, a very high bar was set for Westel and his siblings. 

West’s older brothers, Vathal and Caloneth II, reached said bar with apparent ease. Cal was not only a natural at most forms of melee combat, he was also charming and charismatic, a natural-born schmooze. Vathal, meanwhile, was an arcane prodigy. He was believed to be well on his way to a prestigious career either among Silvermoon’s Magisters or within the Kirin Tor. 

Westel was the black sheep the moment his mother gave birth to him. On paper he was Caloneth Sorrelon’s son, but anyone with eyes could see the scandal that surrounded the dark-haired third Sorrelon boy. His father rejected him from the beginning, and West fought an uphill battle from there. Useless in magical arts, and initially inept when it came to sword play and other melee combat, Neither a scholar nor a politician, without talent in the arcane or at the sword, West could do little to win his father’s favor. 

His mother, meanwhile, largely neglected West out of shame. 

West’s childhood wasn’t entirely without affection, though. Close in age, West and his younger sister Mel have always been fond of each other. She always had comforting words and often a slice of pie pilfered from the kitchens for West to eat away his angst. Vathal, the second eldest, was affectionate in his own ways as well. A fair bit older than West and perhaps a bit on the awkward side himself, he showed affection through tutoring and making it so that Cal and his friends couldn’t torment Westel too much or too easily.