#wow: sinvyrin

[sinvyrin]

names

“Tohias,” he said as he kicked his legs against the wall. His bright green eyes watched Chaus as the two of them sat on the high garden walls of the estate’s eastern boundary. From there, they could both see the ocean rolling toward the sand of Eversong while they waited for the signal to leave and join Kael’thas’ coterie away from the scourged lands.

Chaus’ eyes were paler than Sin’s. The younger man thought they looked like emeralds caught in sunshine, but Chaus only laughed when he said so. Still, it was easy for Sin to watch them when the Lord spoke. “Tohias,” he repeated, saying the name with some level of idle surprise, like he expected it to be something else. “Of what house?”

“--ah. Duskvow. But I was never part of it.”

The older elf made a polite noise of understanding as he looked out over the seaside. “A bastard, then. I suppose it's hardly a surprise. House Duskvow is full of sons that don't look like their noble mother.”

Sin laughed shortly, unoffended. “That's what I hear,” he drawled, twisting his position to turn more fully toward Chaus. “Probably doesn't matter much now anyway. I don't even know if he's alive after all this.” He couldn't help but look past Chaus where the wreckage of half the city loomed like jutting bones puncturing the horizon where proud towers and homes once sat.

“Well,” Chaus said. He stepped away from the wall as he saw a streak of Fel cross the sky from the shore, signaling the arrival of the last boat. “I expect you'll live up to Sin easier then any house that remains here. Shall we?”

Chaus didn't have to ask twice. Sin slipped off of the wall, following in the other man’s shadow like a loyal hound.

--

“Tohias!”

The name cut through him like a knife. It was as if a choke chain wrapped around his neck and tightened until the only option was to fix his stare upon Chaus. Sin was covered in blood, standing above a pair of corpses with their throats slit; the humid air made it stick to his skin and thicken, coating his armor and coagulating in his curls. “Don't call me that,” Sin snapped, but his attention never left Chaus while his heart thudded in his chest.

“Then don't make me call you that,” Chaus countered, hurriedly shutting the door before anyone could see the death that the sinner had wrought. They were Kael’thas’ men, both of them -- and judging from their insignia, only a rank higher than Chaus’ himself. “Are you a fool?” He hissed.

“Am I a fool?” Sin looked at him incredulously, his heart sinking in his chest and the fire of his anger growing cold. “Chaus, they came to recruit you to go fight the Lich King. The fucking scourge! These are the only two with your name on the list, the rest I took--”

“Clean up the bodies,” he replied curtly, his tone curt and short, leaving no room for argument. “Go back to my camp and wait for me to return.”

Sin knew that tone and he hated it -- the one that Chaus used to talk to his servants, his vassals. His grip went white-knuckled around his knife and he opened his mouth to speak, but Chaus was already gone again, left in a darkened room with the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears and two dead men at his feet.

--

“Tohias.”

Sin’s eyes snapped up like he was awakened from a dream. His pale, dead eyes locked onto Chaus’ face, tense and ready. Sin didn't know how long he had been leaning against the wall, soaked in shadow while Chaus watched the scouting party breach the Citadel.

He prowled to the man’s side -- his lover, his master, the remains of his cold, empty heart -- and he felt his chest tighten at the barest tilt of Chaus’ head toward him. The barest acknowledgement and attention fed him like a starved dog until he was ready to fall on his knees at Chaus’ word, if he so wished it.

But he knew that is not what Chaus wished. He tracked the other san’layn’s gaze onward the creeping shadows that moved through the Citadel, too close to the Blood Hall for comfort.

“Kill them.”

It was all Sin needed to hear. He left the shadow of Chaus’ side, moving silently away. His dead heart sang in his chest: he would kill then for Chaus. He would leave their corpses at the gates, drained of blood like empty husks, and let it be a warning for anyone else who was foolish enough to tread close to his domain.

There was nothing more dangerous, or so stupid, as a man in love.

[sinvyrin]

song

Sin lay in bed with his arms drawn around Atticus. Morning had long since come and gone and he only got up long enough to bring the Gilnean breakfast in bed and let Maple and Murdock out. Once those tasks were done, Sin wasn't inclined to unwrap himself from Atticus again and the other man could sense there was something keeping him there.

Eventually, Sin rubbed his cheek against Atticus, cat-like in his affection, and murmured. “Can we stay in?” His dead eyes flicked up, seeking out the other man's brighter gaze. “Just-- lay in bed for a while? I’ll get my guitar and we can play..” He asked the question like it was some shameful thing, a terrible secret for them to hide away in Sin’s hedonist den.

Atticus lifted his eyebrows, gently sweeping his hair through the san’layn’s darker locks. He didn't question Sin’s tone, only offering a little twist of a smile in the low light of the bedroom. “Aye -- if y’like..”

“I do like,” Sin replied and lifted his chin to smear a kiss to Atticus’ jaw. The Gilnean’s smile brightened enough that a hint of dimples revealed themselves past the scruff of his jaw as Sin leaned away, reaching for his guitar resting off to one side.

Atticus easily allowed the sinner to shift and readjust as he dragged the guitar onto the bed. Sin dropped his head onto the Gilnean’s lap and rested the guitar across his bare chest, running his fingers along the frets as easily as Atticus drew his own hand through Sin’s hair, now spilled over his thighs. When he began to pick a low melody, the chords echoed through the bedroom one by one.

It was a song he had played for Calliope not long ago, though he seemed more confident of the notes now. When he finally began to sing, his words were a rumbling tenor that hung in the air with his typical Thalassian lilt.

“The book of love is long and boring -- no one can lift the damn thing. It's full of charts and facts, and figures, and instructions for dancing.”

“But I -- I love it when you read to me. And you -- you can read me anything..”

Sin drew his eyes up to Atticus as he sang, one edge of his sleepy mouth curving up as he watched the Gilnean’s neck begin to flush with warmth.

“The book of love has music in it -- in fact that's where music comes from. Some of it's just transcendental.. some of it's just really dumb.”

“But I -- I love it when you sing to me. And you -- you can sing me anything.”

His fingers stilled on the frets as Atticus bent down, pressing a tender kiss along his mouth -- once, and then again, lingering with adoration. There was a moment where he tried to pick a few more notes before his eyes closed and he let the warmth of the other man lull him gently. He lifted his hand, his fingers cupping the Gilnean’s jaw as the words echoed in his mind, soundless and unspoken.

The book of love is long and boring

And written very long ago

It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes

And things we're all too young to know..

[sinvyrin]

fall to pieces

Thirty years ago…

The Blood Hall was always a place of revelry, politics, and violence, but it was especially so on the evenings of the prince’s parties. Gatherings of san’layn and death knights mingled through the darkened corridors, their faces faintly illuminated by the orbs of blood which they feasted upon. Sinvyrin moved among them with ease -- not as a silver-tongued bastard, but as a shadow that went largely ignored. Everyone knew who Sinvyrin belonged to and everyone knew his purpose.

He pushed his short-shorn hair back away from his eyes as he walked, ears pricked for the conversations that were just loud enough for him to overhear: that is the Beast of the Blood Hall; that is the bloody fang of Lord Chaus Filse. He paid neither their words, nor their eyes staring into his back any mind. The more they thought of him as a means to an end, the easier it was to allow him to do his work.

And his work stood waiting for him: Sin cast his eyes up the staircase where a tall elven man in slim-fighting armor cast his eyes down over the crowds, his pale blue eyes watching nothing and everything. Sin wordlessly moved toward Chaus, stepping into his proper place in the shadow of his commander -- his lover -- without an ounce of acknowledgement. Sinvyrin didn’t require it; he knew his place, his role, and he reveled in being Chaus’ most effective weapon.

It was only when Sin dared to reach out to him that Chaus tipped his head. The sinner’s gloved hand reached to brush the small of Chaus’ back, far from the sight of the rabble below, but one look from his master’s chill blue eyes was enough for Sin to know he’d gone too far in public.

“You were gone shorter than I expected.” Chaus’ voice was low and crisp, soft as silk with steel hidden beneath it. “Are the arrangements settled?”

Sinvyrin pulled his hand back, folding both of his arms behind his back as he looked out over the revelries. This party was more raucous than many before it and the reason why made Sin feel as cold as the wind outside. “Yes,” he replied evenly. “They’re preparing Archerus now. We’ll leave at dawn.”

Chaus looked back over the crowd once more, a few strands of black hair falling past his ear; once Sin would relish setting it back in place and making sure his lover looked picture perfect, but now he didn’t dare to move. “You will ensure that none of ours die. Not a single one, no matter the cost.” Chaus didn’t look at Sinvyrin, but the implication was clear in his whisper-soft voice. “Do you understand, Tohias?”

He felt something pull at him like he always did when Chaus said his name -- undeniable and all-consuming. His gray eyes widened and narrowed again and he felt his chest go tight. “I understand,” he muttered. They were his responsibility, just as Chaus was -- an extension of his will. He would be their protector, their shield; he would not let a single one perish. He would bring them all back to Chaus.

Sinvyrin would not fail.

--

Sin laid in bed awake and staring at the ceiling. Archelaos had done all that he could; his lover reassured him countless ways, fed him, comforted him. They had fucked until Sin was sure he was worn enough to sleep, but instead he listened to the sound of the old stag’s gentle breathing and felt nothing but the rattling anxiety in his brain. 

In a few hours, Archelaos would wake up. They would talk again, maybe fuck; he would feed the dogs while Sin fed the chickens and grabbed fresh eggs; they would shower, Archelaos would dress, Sin would kiss him goodbye at the door. Then there was nothing left to spare Sin from facing the reality of Northrend and what happened there so long ago. 

He startled when he heard Archelaos shift in his sleep, snapping back to the present. Rather than struggle for sleep that would not come, Sin slunk from underneath the pile of blankets and pillows and padded silently across their bedroom. Their hidden house in Surwich was beginning to feel more like a home -- not just a place that belonged to Sin or Archelaos, but something that was theirs. Starlight and moonlight pierced the thin veil of curtains that covered the tall windows, painting patterns across the wooden floor of the repurposed farmhouse. He only paused once to give a soothing pet to Butch and Indiana Bones when they noticed the sinner had roused; it was enough to stop them from following him outside. 

The sound of the ocean that lapped along the tide of the beach was a distant comfort as he sank on the bench, only noticing a pack of cigarettes once he settled in; had Archelaos guessed he would be restless? “Red,” he muttered to himself before he pried a smoke from the pack and set it between his teeth. 

Four days ago he asked Proformu for a favor that terrified him. Three days ago he gave Address a gift that could save or kill him. Two days ago he killed Imon to protect his pack, his family, and lost Ashafael for it. Yesterday a slap to the face from Arthalia drove him over an edge that would have barely phased him a week ago. Today, who knew what hell awaited him.

Only week ago he wasn't so fucking fragile. It never would have phased him before. 

He lit his cigarette, thumping his head against the bench as he looked up toward the night sky. The smoke that spilled from his lips painted shadows against a darkened canvas, making his eyes pick out shapes that were not there. He asked himself the same question he had been asking for days: was it worth it? 

Was any of it worth it?

[sinvyrin]

song, ii

The room smelled strongly of incense, hanging thick in the air like a promise, punctuated by notes of the hearth’s fire and fresh roses blooming on the vine. Sin sat on the chair set off to one corner, shirtless and exposed with all of his scars like a litany of pain across his skin.

His guitar lay across his lap, his fingers moving slowly across the keys, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere; he was watching Archelaos undress. The divinity that rolled off of the old man -- something that would have repulsed or driven him to the dark -- made his focus become as intent as a hunting dog’s, and when his voice spilled from his lips it came as a low, ugly rumble.

“I want to be where all the stupid shit I say sounds so romantic and true-- ‘cause I'd rot in hell with you. If you’d just ask me to..”

Sin’s eyes caught the light like a cat in the dark as the old inquisitor turned around, the brightness of his blue eyes making his dead heart seize in fear. His fingers kept moving across the frets as he watched Archelaos walk closer to him, each step an impending threat.

“I love the shitty things we do together, live with me in this sin forever: hell and you. I know, you want it too--”

Archelaos’ strong fingers, rugged with callouses and scars alike, grasped Sin by the chin and lifted it upward until his eyes had no place to look but the still-healing brand on the old man's chest. How easily the fear in his heart became hunger at the sight of it, and how easy that hunger became lust, and bone-deep affection.

“I hope you take the shot, see this chance -- feel the fire, and let me have this dance with you..”

Sin’s fingers stilled on the strings as Archelaos’ hand curled around his throat, a promise and a threat in equal measure. The san’layn’s eyes narrowed and his lips parted as he felt himself tugged up and up until his mouth crashed against the inquisitor’s with the same ugly hunger he was beginning to understand all too well.

The guitar fell away from his lap, clattering and forgotten on the ground. The violent embrace of the Holy Light, awash with the intent of Archelaos Redright, descended upon him like a white-hot sun. Sinvyrin wished to do nothing but welcome it.

[sinvyrin]

of shame and sin

Sinvyrin’s knees hit the cold floor and the sound of his laughter echoed flatly against the stone walls. He lifted his dead eyes, looking up and up at the venthyr whose feet didn't even dare touch the ground; there in his arms rested the blood elf’s sinstone, almost comically large. It only made Sin’s grin grow cheshire, stretching wide across his cheeks.

“You know,” he said, unable to help the mirthful tone despite how hoarse his voice was. “You'd think there was a better way than stones. I mean, the metaphor is very pretty and all, but then you poor bastards are stuck carrying them around and-- you know, you don't have a lot of muscle tone for someone who carries large rocks all d--”

A strangled cry was caught in Sin’s throat as the venthyr lifted a hand and began draining the anima from his body; the man’s expression was one of pure disgust. “And you would think,” he replied, the Harvester’s tone prim and tight, “that a man in a compromised position would learn to keep his mouth shut.”

The blood elf’s body sagged further onto the floor and left him on his hands and knees. It was painful and it was dizzying, but more than anything else it was so fucking funny and Sin couldn't stop laughing. It was a barely-there wheezing sound that the venthyr at first mistook as pain and seemed satisfied, but when Sinvyrin began to struggle to his feet again his expression rapidly fell to one of contempt and confusion.

“You know,” Sin started again, swaying as he stood up once more. “How long has it been-- months? Longer? Longer. And here's the thing about redemption.” Sin grinned wide as he stepped forward, lifting his chin to peer up at the venthyr. “Redemption requires shame. And, my dear man, I am not ashamed. Of any of this--” He reached with one finger and trailed the tip against the outer edge of the sinstone as the venthyr watched him warily. “--or anything that's to come. Shame is a weakness. So why don't we skip past the preaching and we can get to the real reason why you walk--.. floated all the way over here with that hunk of stone.”

Sin did what he did best: he played a bet. His hand lifted from the sinstone, up and up to dark gray skin that felt cool to the touch under his palm as he traced the venthyr’s jaw. The touch was slow but his smile was sly at the edges as his thumb eased across the Harvester’s thin lips.

It was of no surprise to Sin when he felt the barest tilt of the other man’s face toward his palm. Sin never lost a bet.

Sin stood by the crumbling cliffside, watching the trio of dogs tear through the snow and mud as they snapped at each other's heels. The stick he'd thrown out there an hour ago was long since forgotten, replaced by the manic energy of animals in their element: playing, hunting, howling. It brought Sin some pleasure to watch as he smoked his cigarette and carefully placed a knife against the center of his palm.

He'd only done the ritual a handful of times since leaving Revendreth, but there was nothing that would make him forget it. He pricked his own pale skin, inscribing the rune in his hand as a thick layer of blood began to pool in his palm. He reached into his belt pouch, trading the knife for a tarnished piece of silver; his cigarette hanging perilously low off of his lips as curls of smoke ascended up to the air. Down below in the field, Sable paused at the smell of blood, but the other two still ran through the snow.

He smeared his blood against the old shard of the mirror as he held it aloft, wrinkling his nose. "Come on now," he muttered. "Hasn't been that long for you to forget about me."

Only a moment passed before the shard lifted from his hand, drawing his blood away as it did: a payment for the price of the spell. Sin shook out of palm, only glancing aside once as Sable loped through the snow and towards him, her white ears pricked forward and her yellow eyes all too watchful.

The face that appeared in the mirror looked identical to the one he saw years ago: gray-skinned and narrow, his hair quaffed with gold and silver that did nothing to hide the ugly slits of his red eyes. Sin smiled at him, but the venthyr only met the expression with disgust -- and, perhaps, a touch of curiosity. "I was hoping you had died and fell to the Maw," he drawled. "How unfortunate."

Sin laughed, lowering his hand as Sable licked the blood away with concern. "Don't talk like you don't miss me," the sinner crooned, delighting in the way the harvester visibly recoiled on the other side of the blood-stained silver. "I've come to collect on my half of the deal -- and then you can be done with me. Won't that be nice?"

The venthyr's disgust tempered into something more critical, mingled with suspicion. "It will be a delight," he replied. "As much as I am loathe to do it. What do you require, sinner?"

"Nothing much. Just one spirit." In the half-light of the wilderness, surrounded by snow and dogs and little else, Sin's smile stretched cheshire.

[sinvyrin]

dreams

As was often the case when his bed was no longer solitary, Sinvyrin's sleep ceased to be dreamless.

The first night he dreamt of a forest that he did not remember the name of. Shards of light cracked through the crown of foliage high above; moss, soft and cool, gave way against his bare feet. He was aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his chest, unnatural and uncanny. He could taste the still, crisp air of the morning.

There was a hand in his, each finger fit perfectly between his own, and the voice of its owner was melodic and low. Familiar enough to make his pulse thrum even brighter in his chest until he was sure his heart would leap from out from his throat. "You haven't been here in a long time."

Sin did not look, afraid he might break the spell if he dared to perceive who walked beside him. "No, I haven't," he admitted. "It's easier to not think about it. To just.. pretend."

The other man hummed a soft noise of amusement and derision that Sin knew well. "I know."

They walked in silence until the leaves of the trees around them turned from green to orange and began to to fall, each looking like slivers of living flame until they touched the earth and shriveled into husks. The trees turned to ash and bone, jutting like a ribcage into the horizon. Just past them, he could see it: the iron-wrought doors of Deadwood. Its sigil was ever prominent -- the same he still wore on his arcane focus, for as infrequently as he used it. Sin slowed, and stilled. The man beside him did too.

"Tohias."

Sin turned his head, but Chaus was not looking back at him. Where his face should have been was shadow; where his sharp, clever eyes sat, always looking at him with equal parts contempt and fondness, there was an empty void. Sin felt his heart seize in his chest.

"Come home."

Sin's eyes snapped open in the dark. His chest rose and fell with unnecessary breath and the blankets were tangled around his body like a hangman's noose. The bedroom was passingly familiar -- enough that he could settle himself again before rousing his lover. His flat, dead eyes looked up at the ceiling while the ghost of a touch lingered in his hand.

[sinvyrin]

scars

The last thing he remembered was Archelaos bathed in unforgiving, golden Light. He remembered the old man’s face set in a way that made his stomach feel like lead, all his softer edges becoming cold, hardened steel. Gone was the man who he kissed in the rain by the pond, tired, but still brimming with life in a strange, new way. This was someone else. Someone who made all of Sin’s mind sound in alarm. 

In that moment Sinvyrin’s presence was meaningless, but he felt Archelaos’ words dig into his mind like a knife prying open a lock. He sketched a cross in the air above his patient, letting it radiate down the power of his faith upon her shadow-ridden soul; his voice dropped with confidence, with power. 

“Good. Give me all of it.” 

( cw: torture, ptsd. ft: @archelaos-redright )

--

“Good.” 

The san’layn was practically made deaf by his own screams of pain, but the inquisitor's voice still rattled through his mind like a one-ton bell every time the man spoke. Sin could no longer count the time he had been trapped within the halls of the Scarlet Enclave. It might have been hours, days, or years. It was enough that whatever humanity he had left was practically dead and gone, burned away by the warmth of the Holy Light and its endless song into the very core of him: repent, repent, repent. 

His body sagged so heavily against the shackles on his wrist that his shoulders were almost out of the sockets; balanced on the tips of his toes as he was, he would inevitably end up slipping on his own blood and nearly falling, only to catch himself on the chains. Sin’s body was a wreckage at that point -- an ugly sack of flesh, his hair shorn off, sallow and gaunt. Whenever he was sure that he would receive the sweet relief of death, some confessor would come with a live rat or a hare and they would watch him chase it like a rabid dog and suck the blood out while its heart still beat. 

But it was different whenever the inquisitor came to see him. For the others, he was a training tool; for this man, he was a project. A thing that would only be freed into death once it was cleansed. 

And he would cleanse it. 

“Very good,” whispered the inquisitor. The man circled around him once. “You are almost ready, aren't you? To release this wretchedness from your soul.” 

Sin’s eyes were caked shut with blood; he flinched when the inquisitor took his face by the temple. It might have been a loving touch for any other, but he could feel his skin burning from the Radiance of the priest's face as he peeled open the san’layn’s eyes. 

His gaze was bleary and fogged, and seconds passed until the sight came into focus: the heat of a black smithing fire which today heated a different sort of weapon. The iron brand shaped in the sigil of the Holy Light took two men to lift, stretching out as tall and wide as a man’s chest -- as Sin’s chest. He watched the men bestow their blessings on it until it sang with the Light as much as it did with the fury of the flames that forged it. 

The inquisitor held the san’layn still as they brought the brand closer. He could feel the heat of it, blistering his skin, burning like a sun before it even pressed against his flesh. 

The inquisitor gently ran his hand against Sin’s brow as the san’layn screamed, tilting his head to make sure he watched the brand sear through his ruined body. 

“Good.” 

--

The night passed in flashes, blurred moments of coherency that painted an incomplete picture. A shattered fragment of a soul; Imon’s face, her brow wrought with concern. Smiling. Just keep smiling, until he could run. A dark, familiar den. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol. The night, and cold wet earth. He left Stormwind behind, passing through the streets like an unseen ghost and into Elwynn. Wolves eyes flashed in the dark, his presence silencing their baying at the moon.

Good. Good. 

There was no such thing as safety in the prison of the mind. It chased at his heels, haunted him with things that he swore were real -- the sights, the sounds. The smell of his own burning flesh. That voice, eerie and calm. Archelaos? No. Not him. 

Good. 

The forests of Elwynn were the cold, broken ruins of Northrend. The gentle rolling hills were the caves and cliff sides he once hid himself away in like a rat in the crevices of a ship, praying not to be found. Wishing he could simply die instead of what would happen next. 

Past the borders of Duskwood, in the thick fog that always seemed to linger in those ugly places, he crawled around gravestones and mausoleums. The memories of Icecrown nipped at his heels: digging up corpses in the frozen snow to bury himself underneath them, hiding from the soldiers passing nearby. Don't breathe. Pretend to be dead long enough, and maybe you will be dead. What a pretty thought. 

Still, the voice rang in his ears -- relentless as it ever was, and yet different now. 

Good. Give me all of it.

[sinvyrin]

ghosts, ii

The image of the face in the window stayed in his mind long after they returned to Stormwind. Sin was attentive toward Archelaos on their return, if not doting; he drew the old inquisitor a bath to soak his aching legs, let him rest while he tended to the dogs and the few odd house chores that remained.

He tried not to think about the face in the window (who was he? how did they die? why was there so much pain?) and he tried not to think about the bright golden glow of Archelaos’ eyes (was it bad? was he leading him down a path too far? did it matter as long as he was happy?). It was only after Archelaos settled into bed that he allowed himself the space to focus on anything other than the present.

Sin quietly slipped out of the bedroom, leaving the door open only a crack. Off to one corner there was a guitar stand now, and on it the red-stained instrument that beckoned to him even now. He picked it up by the neck and carried it to the little chair by the window where he sat down, his fingers instinctively sliding gently across the strings.

He began to softly play without any song in mind, his hair sprawled out over one shoulder; he thought about the hatred and fear he felt in the house, enough that it made the hair on the back of his neck rise even now. He thought about the golden light in Archelaos’ eyes, snuffed out in one swift act. The questions rattled through his mind a million miles an hour.

Is this wrong? Would I change him if I could?

No, came his immediate answer to both questions, and that provided him some relief as his fingers eased across the strings. Archelaos was a monster as much as he was a man; Sin had no desire to change him, only to walk the careful knife’s edge alongside him.

Still. The bead of hatred in the old man's heart might be growing. Sin’s music became briefly discordant.

Am I bad for him? Should I go?

NO. No. Sin picked out a few notes and let them warm the air around him, surprised by how quickly he was able to silence his own guilt. He was more certain about Archelaos than he was about anything else in his life: the rest was all details and navigation about what it would look like as they went. His fingers stilled on the strings as he sat back, considering what he and Angie had both said.

He exhaled a breath that he didn't need, setting the guitar back on the stand again. As he did, his eyes caught on a vase filled with roses on the table. Despite attentive care to keep the water fresh and give it a little bit of sun, the blooms were losing petals and fading away.

Beautiful things were never meant to live long, after all. Not when they’re broken. Broken things can only die.

Sin scrubbed his face with one hand, exhaling into his palm as he neatly packaged and tucked his thoughts away for another time as he retreated to the sanctuary of the bedroom and his lover within it.

[sinvyrin]

▶ : My muse and level of education.

Sinvyrin was not gifted or talented; each spell and incantation came to him in pieces, fought for scrap by scrap. Sometimes he managed to watch the Magisters train, hidden away in the shadows of the tall columns of their hall. He recited their words, sketched the motions with his hands for hours to gain the knowledge of a single spell that took them only minutes.

More often then that, he tried to borrow texts from the vast libraries; when it became clear they didn't trust a street rat from the Phoenix Quarters in their midst, he stole them instead. A momentary act of theft resulted in weeks of pouring over texts, reading the same lines over and over again to try and understand the subtle nuances of spellwork that evaded his untrained mind.

Maybe he was stupid. Maybe it was true and only the noble houses and their bloodlines were meant to bend magic to their touch. The more Sin thought of it, the angrier and more bitter he became; the angrier he became, the more his spite drove him into sleepless nights of study. It never got easier; he only became more stubborn.

Sin would always remember the first spell and the moment that he felt the will of raw arcane bend to his will. It was a stupid, simple trick: a snap of his calloused fingers that caused a flicker of igniting flame between them, no larger then a match strike. It was something any noble-born child with magic running in their veins could do -- but for Sin, it was lifechanging.

He stared at the little flame in his hand and all of his suffering disappeared.

[sinvyrin]

ghosts

Sinvyrin sat with his back against one headstone and a bottle of wine propped against another one. They were only two in a myriad of crumbling granite and marble that were tucked along the shore of Eversong, worn so thin by the sea air they were hardly legible. “Do you suppose we would have been better people at all,” he asked the grave beside him. “If we had lived, I mean.” 

Nothing answered him. He plucked up the bottle of wine and brought it to his lips until a few red drops leaked from the corner of his mouth; he pulled it away, brushing the stray dribble with the back of his sleeve. “I don't know if I would be any better alive then dead anyway,” Sin admitted, kicking at the sand with his heel. Some distance away, he could hear the tide rolling in as the sun began to droop toward the horizon. 

“At least.. not without you.” 

--

It all happened too quickly; the man screamed and Sin swore loudly, stumbling back and spitting blood from his mouth like it was poison. It might as well be poison, for all his body knew. It wasn't often that Sin made such an ugly miscalculation as to choose a man of the cloth as his target, and now he was paying the price. 

And the priest was still screaming. The man’s blood was still burning Sin’s cheek, but the noises of abject terror coming from were like a lamb’s bleating after seeing a wolf. “Fuck,” Sin hissed, breaking the distance between them in the dimly lit alley to smear his hand on the man’s mouth. It hurt like fuck, but it was better than alerting the guards. “Will you fucking shut up so I don't have to--” 

--kill you? No sooner did the sentence stall from his lips than he heard the tell-tale clunking of Stormwind knights drawn in by the sound of panic. Sin’s flat gray eyes shot down to the priest crumpled on the grime-covered cobblestone. He’d barely sunk his teeth into him before they both panicked; the priest was calmer now, staring up at Sin, his eyes wide with alarm and fear. 

It wasn't that Sin felt guilty for killing people. He could not name or count all the people whose death he caused, after all. But killing was messy; killing was ugly. He could never know the priest’s life before this moment, but what it would look like after this one was entirely in Sin’s hands. 

His eyes darted when he saw the shadows of the approaching guard and his decision was made. He leaned down and jerked the priest's neck, snapping it without another second of thought. By the time the guards rounded the corner, he was gone.

Tomorrow morning he would read the newspaper, like he always did when this happened. He would flip to the obituaries and learn about the life he took and what was left behind, like he always did. And there would be a single moment -- just one -- where he considered breaking the last promise he ever made. Like he always did. 

And then Sin would shut the newspaper and slap the cheshire smile on his face like none of it ever happened at all. 

-- 

He did not remember falling in love. Whatever beauty grew in that moment died like a rose on the vine when the northern gate fell. 

He remembered how small Chaus felt in his arms and how impossibly light. 

He remembered falling asleep near the dead man's body and remaining there for days after, praying that death would come for him too, that the frost would eat him alive. He dug the hole for the grave with his hands until his fingers were raw and his nails had fallen off. Survive, Chaus told him. You must survive. 

He would survive, but he left his heart buried in the frigid ice of Northrend.

[sinvyrin]

death is a kindness

i.

The rain came in sheets, but it did not wash away the stink of the dead nor the blood which stained the cobble roads that once shone like marble. There was no one to bury them. Too many were dying now, either gone mad from withdrawal or killing each other for a taste of arcane magic to sustain themselves. 

The corpses had all been picked clean of magic and coin alike, but Sinvyrin clawed through them as desperately as a vulture. His shaking hands fingered through squelching pockets; tears streaked down his face from the stench and he retched every time he dared to pull a breath. He found no coin, no mana, not even arcane dust. As he pulled away, his fingers snatched at the feeling of something cold and narrow, hidden away in a torn breast pocket: a key. 

It was stupid to feel hope. He did not know what the key went to, or even who the corpse was, but it did not matter. To a dying man, hope could look like anything. Yesterday hope looked like a dry bed; tomorrow it might look like a knife. 

Today it looked like an old silver key on a leather thread. 

ii.

He practiced smiling in the mirror over and over again. He leaned in close, touching the curves of his mouth, his jaw; he looked at it from different angles and distances. He practiced for so long that his face ached, but he still persisted. His clothing was clean and his hair was washed and brushed, but none of it would matter if he couldn't play the part.

The man in the mirror could not look like he was starved or poor. He could not look like he would kill. The man in the mirror had to act like a prince, with a confidence that bore no question. He must look like a man who belonged to a silver key. 

Sinvyrin only stopped looking when he could no longer recognize himself in the silvered glass any longer. He touched the center of his chest where he felt the weight of the key swinging from around his neck and allowed himself to hesitate no further. 

He took to the east end of Silvermoon where the tall gilded gates ensured the mana-starved citizenry would be out of sight from the estates of the noble houses. His heart beat like a drum when he approached it, but there was no hesitation: the gates parted. The way opened for him. Behind him, the shadows of the dead faded into nothing. 

Sinvyrin smiled and smiled.

 

iii.

Lord Chaus Fai opened the doors to the Deadwood Estate. He was expecting news of his missing courier, gone some two weeks past after he sent him for their monthly rations of mana crystals before they began their journey to join Kael'thas like the rest of his house. What he found was a tall elf with olive-colored skin who stepped inside before Chaus could protest, offering a deep flourish of a bow. 

Chaus was not the sort of man to fear anything within the boundaries of his own home, but he took a step back and raised his eyebrows. “And you are?” He asked.

Sin drew himself up to his full height again. His heart screamed with terror; his smile was charming and calm, cool as the ocean tide. “I am Sinvyrin, my lord,” he said, his voice sounding saccharine. “And I have come to offer you a proposition.” 

Chaus watched him with all the interest of a mouse who had scampered into the den of a lynx. Trapped in his estate as he was -- as they all were to shelter themselves from the claws of the mana-addled commoners -- this man with his cheshire grin was the most fascinating thing to enter his parlour in months. “And what proposition is that?” He asked, his voice as quiet as a sword sheathed in silk. 

Sin wanted to scream and run. He was going to die. This man would kill him. He would turn him in to the guards, they would throw him into the stockades, rend the mana from his body like blood-- 

He lifted from his bow, the dark curls of his hair casting about his shoulders as he stepped closer to the sin’dorei. “Why, my lord,” he said, with the guileless charm of a desperate man. “I will give you a chance at what everyone in these gilded gates wants now.

“I will give you freedom.” 

Lord Chaus Fai was not a foolish man. 

He had not been a fool when the Sunwell fell and the servants of Kael’thas came to him, seeking loyalty. He knew when to bend a knee and when to hold a dagger behind his back. Indeed, he had been taught his whole life the value of knowing when to bet and when to fold. He knew that soon -- very soon -- Silvermoon would no longer be safe for him. 

He knew what was coming. 

So when a man with a cheshire smile and a heart beating as hard as a bird in flight came to his door, it was not so hard for him to see a younger version of himself. How charming, Chaus thought, to think that he is clever. 

And yet -- it was working. The stranger had placed his bet, raised the stakes, and the Lord stood there and wondered just what he was holding in his cards. Chaus could not help his smile. 

iv. 

“You're nervous.”

Chaus did not look away from the courtyard where the armies of Kael’thas were preparing. The air was thick with the acrid scent of fel and the tension of the coming battle. Sinvyrin stepped alongside him, but he did not look at the soldiers; his green eyes followed the ill-fitting lines of Chaus’ uniform. When Chaus did not respond, Sin pressed his hand to the small of the other elf’s back -- a brief, fleeting ghost of a touch. “They don't let commanders die, Chaus.”

When Chaus looked back at him, Sin was startled to find an expression he did not expect: a strange and morose distance that sat heavy in his eyes. “Isn't that what should concern you?” He asked Sinvyrin. “That these men should fall while we remain.” 

Chaus turned away and looked back over the courtyard as Sin’s hand slipped away from his spine. 

v.

He did not understand, and by the time he did, it would be too late: when Arthas spilled their blood across the cold earth of Northrend. He knew then there would be no victory. 

Sin was clever. It's what he told himself as he ran from battle with Chaus in his shadow and left the armies to die. He repeated it as they hid in narrow cliffside caves, or slept in abandoned barrows with those few who escaped. Sin was clever. He survived the death of the Sunwell. He stole and killed and bartered and begged. He fought through hell. They would live. They would live.

Their numbers dwindled, one by one. Arthas was the wolf that did not tire. 

It was two weeks later when the scourge found them for the last time that Sinvyrin truly understood. Soldiers were allowed to die. Soldiers were not dragged in shackles to the Lich King’s throne. Soldiers were not given the gift of suffering.

Sin understood now: death was a kindness. 

vi.

Chaus stood on the balcony of the Blood Quarters. The sounds of revelry and combat mixed in equal parts, mingling in the air until it all sounded sickly. The Ebon Knights had breached the Citadel, but blood still flowed in the halls of the San'layn. 

Sinvyrin said nothing. The players were new, but the dance was the same. Perhaps it would end differently, but it mattered little now; the look in Chaus’ eyes was hollow and empty. He stood beside him and looked down upon his kindred and knew that none of them would live. 

“We could run,” Sin whispered, though he knew the answer. 

Chaus did not speak it. He turned his dead gaze upon the other man, devoid of anything Sin recognized. He lingered there too long, like a shadow cast by a fading candle, until he turned away -- from Sinvyrin, from the balcony and the battle that would surely come. 

Sin stayed, pretending that he saw something in Chaus’ eyes that was never there. 

vii.

The snow was stained with rotten blood. Sin held Chaus against his chest, but there was so little remaining that he felt weightless. How foolish it was, Sin thought, to give one’s heart to anything that could ever be destroyed so easily. To love something that could be reduced to blood-stained snow. 

He clutched the corpse against him until he felt the last breath leave Chaus' body, until the ribs fractured and crushed in his arms. Until there was nothing left but a miserable pile of flesh. 

In the distance behind him, the Citadel began to fall.

[sinvyrin]

Full Name: REDACTED

Also known as: Sinvyrin

Biographical Information:

(OOC) Class: Rogue / Mage

(IC) Occupation or Trade: Black Market Trader, Drug Dealer, Problematic Bastard 

Race: Sin’dorei (San’layn)

Pronouns: He/him

Age: Dead

Physical appearance: 

On first glance, Sin has long, curly hair that's often messily tied back, olive-colored skin, and a charming smile.

Skilled mages will find that underneath those illusions is a pallid, heavily scarred dead man, but the smile is still disturbingly accurate. 

The most poignant feature visible in both forms is the sigil of the Holy Order of the Light branded on his chest from sternum to belly button. 

Notable Accessories or Armaments: Almost always unarmed and dressed like a garbage person. Often carrying narcotics. 

Place of Residence: Dalaran / Stormwind

Place of Birth: Quel'thelas

Known Relatives: None

Known Allies: None

Known Enemies: [ Insert Your Character’s Name Here ]

History:

Much of Sin's history is wrapped in a deliberately crafted maze of deception, but the beginning is clear. Born as a bastard child to a elven courtesan and a soldier in the Thalassian Army, he grew up a guttersnipe and a street rat. At some point after the Scourge Invasion, he disappeared, only reappearing some time after the Cataclysm. He quickly became a well-established drug dealer with connections into many of the underground organizations within the Eastern Kingdoms, splitting his time between Stormwind, Silvermoon, and Dalaran.

Personality:

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Motivations: Self-serving to a fault. Little motivation beyond what is humorous to him at any given moment. 

Sexuality: Homoflexible. Primarily homoromantic, but sometimes you can't really stop yourself from getting crushed between a nice pair of thick thighs. 

Relationship Status: Confusing & non-monogamous

Positive Personality Traits: Supporter of the underdogs. Selfish, but not self-obsessed. If you're his friend, he'll stick with you to the end. Helpful, sort of???? 

Negative Personality Traits: Likes to see what happens when people break. Violent. Unpredictable. Lazy. Sleezy. Whore. The list goes on.

Other Quirks: Never what he seems to be. Always pinpoints the heart of what harms people, for better or worse. 

Miscellaneous Information:

Likes: Hedonism, drugs, sleeping, chaos, corruption of power structures, ACAB, alcohol, sex, convincing people to make bad choices

Dislikes: Prudes, the deliberately obtuse, the church, Northrend, playing by the rules.

Hobbies: Manufacturing addictive drugs, finding ways to make people have uncomfortable realizations about themselves, knitting.

OOC:

Potential Character Hooks: Need drugs? Got ‘em. Need to make bad choices? GOT ‘EM.

[sinvyrin]