Onadre

Character Full Name: Onadre Duskcaller

Character In-Game Name: Onadre

Associations: The Kaldorei, herself

Race: Night Elf

Class: Runemaster

Age: 9366

Sex: Female

Hair: She typically wears her hair in twin plaited tails; naturally snowy white in colour.

Eyes: Silver

Weight: 288lbs

Height: 6'11"

Alignment: Neutral

Appearance

Robes and gowns are Onadre's usual flavour of clothing. To travel, she wears heavy, sleeveless garments, and keeps up her hood in hotter climates. She will forgo these for the purposes of training, favouring light cloth in order to restrict her movements as little as possible. Onadre's features are rigidly austere. Narrow-eyed and slightly pinched, she has a primitively bitter countenance. Her skin lacks vibrance, a gritty grey-blue. The runes engraved within are crisp and clear, the black ink unequivocally clear. In terms of build, she's defined and well-set. She carries herself with practised precision - in no way silent, but with a heavy grace.

Personality

A tempered woman, Onadre's not easily moved to anger. The façade she shows to most people tells very little about the inner workings of her mind. Cracking the shell, however, she's an intensely passionate person at her core, who seldom ever engages in an activity or pledges to a cause without her devoted, unwavering belief in it. Because of that, though, it is difficult for her to imagine being wrong. When confronted with something which shakes her founding doctrines, she can turn defensive and slightly sanctimonious.

Onadre is a loner, by heart. Fearful of responsibility and being let down, she carries her own weight and walks her own road.

With her own people, she likes to maintain good relations. She has a strong sense of pride in who she is, and where she has come from. The things which her kind have suffered, endured and sacrificed, mean a lot to Onadre. She's not ignorant of the aid the recent Alliance has brought, but remains aloof and cautious. She endeavours to consider people for who they put themselves forward to be, rather than riding on her pre-conceived ideas of their race, gender, class, creed or status. Strangely, she holds something of an admiration for the more spiritual races of the Horde. The Tauren, the Orcs, and to a lesser extent, Trolls. Any of them who would be perceived as a threat, she wouldn't hesitate to react to accordingly, but she has a great interest in learning about their culture.

History

Weary but calm, Onadre's mother cradled the newborn Kaldorei in her arms. Her travelling companion bundled heaps of blankets around mother and child. It hadn't been where she'd expected to go into labour, but the proud matron couldn't think of a better place to have brought her first and only child into the world - the heart of Winterspring. Even the chill of the wind seemed to die in the afterglow. The woman pressed her lips lightly to the crown of her babe's head and whispered an earnest pledge, to protect her from all harm, her dear Onadre.

Not that the feisty, young elf needed such protection. As she grew in size, she developed an aptness for combat that grew with her. In a world which never altered, where tradition stunted progression and stagnated unwittingly, the girl revelled in fighting and an ever-changing battleground. Her high was the thrill of the moment, win or lose - and by all rights, she took her fair share of losses. Not all of them were humbly accepted, some bitter and others painfully sore, but she did her best to look forward. Analysing when she'd shimmied the wrong way, ducked a moment too late or simply uttered the wrong choice of words to the wrong person, she built on her failures.

Throughout her years of youth, Onadre stayed a faithful homebird. She and her mother didn't always see eye to eye, and she didn't foster the belief that blood is thicker than water, but she clung to her roots. Leaning against the frame of the door, Onadre's mother watched the girl silently as she plaited her hair. The scrawny terror of a child she'd watched develop over the decades had become a veritable rock of a woman. Even though she stood a bit taller than the average of her peers, she was filled-out and toned from her training. Turning her head following the perk of an ear, Onadre smirked and revealed a black left eye. Her mother held up a basket of flowers, and a needle.

"Let me cover that up."

A frigid wind struck her, and Onadre gave a cursory tug of the hem of her hood to abate her chattering teeth. Elune's watchful gaze, she had to appreciate more for its sense of comfort, than the negligible warmth it shone over the tundra in the dead of night. Though she'd walked for some time already, it was going to be a lot longer before she was able to reach Ashenvale. At the encouragement of her mother, she sought to speak with an emissary to the west with the interest of joining her sisters in the forest's defense. After more than a day's travel, however, she seemed no closer to her destination. To make matters worse, a blizzard was picking up, dusting the arctic desert with armed gales.

Shelter came in the form of a hollowed, snow cave. Staring out to the howling abyss, Onadre lamented the impediment to her journey. She failed to even notice the figure looming over her, as she huddled for warmth in the dark. A gentle glow at her back alerted her, though the man spoke before she had turned. "It's been a long time since I had a visitor." His voice was pleasant and strangely grateful, and when she turned to him, the light began to fade. An amber glow replaced it, at the knees of the grizzled stranger. The sweeping, green mane around his shoulders and back obfuscated most of his face from view.

"What's your name, stranger?" His tone was soft and inquiring, devoid of demand or force. Onadre turned to look on him in full, regarding the patterns across his form. She had never been given any reason to be cautious of, or fear her own kind. Despite this, she couldn't dislodge the reservations from the back of her mind. With a faint frown, she leant forward and extended a hand. "Onadre," she nodded. "You are?" Though he didn't take her hand, his smile grew warmly as it curled his lips, tugging at the coarse facial hair surrounding them. Glazing over her question, the man bowed his head, and also leant in. "Are you going to tell me you are lost, Onadre?" The furrows of her brow deepened. "I am." Peering out to the white abyss, he gave a single nod. "Let's see if we can't find a way to pass the time until the storm clears, shall we?"

Though he never did confer his name, the man patiently answered all her questions. The purpose of his markings, what they meant, how they worked, where he had come across them, how he applied them in combat, and indeed... whether he would be willing to give her a demonstration of the power he'd accrued from the runes. He complied with her request, and when the storm died, the two of them fought. It was a close loss, but at the same time, Onadre suspected that if she asked for a dozen more rematches, he would always be one step ahead of her. That's exactly what she did; and she was proven right. A swift duck meant nothing to a swifter strike. A fierce uppercut, swerved away from with unnatural speed. A single blow, with the weight of several fists behind it, concluded her investigation.

Bloodied and beaten more badly than she had been in some years, she smirked and looked up at him, "Show me."

He sagged in exasperation upon his perch, leering at the crumpled woman before him. She lay in a graceless heap. Waving her to her feet with a hand, she scrambled to rise as his voice drowned out her murmured, myriad excuses; "Yes, miss Duskcaller, I'm well aware you're late. However, I feel an application of haste might've been more prudently applied over reckless speed." Apologetically bowing her head, Onadre tugged at her hood to pull it over her head. "You might as well leave it down," he smirked viciously.

Her tutor was patient and firm, but thorough in his lessons. He would teach her study through introspection, and how to visualise the iconic patterns he himself wore. As she eventually came to learn of them, he himself would emblazon her. His instruction also extended to the application of her skills, regularly sparring with the woman in order to test her development. Her body slowly became a maze of the markings, and she gradually learnt to use each one both separately and as a whole.

This continued for innumerable years, the woman content to remain where she was to build on her teachings, and delve further into the art she was gradually become adept in. Though she heard of the tribulations outside of her sanctuary, in more recent times especially, she remained secluded and hidden. Onadre felt guilty for abandoning her kin so, especially as the battle at Hyjal went underway. She could not depart from her training, however, now she was so close to completing it...

Stretching out her arms in a broad arc, Onadre stared at the reflection of her body. Lines swept this way and that; some curved, some straight. Meandering and direct, short and long. She was finely and fully illustrated with the ancient hieroglyphs. Each one, she could see clearly in her mind. Its name, its purpose, every small mark, and the exact moment that its image had descended on her in an epiphany. Tipping back her head, she let her eyes close. A steady, sure breath was drawn through her nose, eventually released in a powerful torrent of air.

The cohesion shone collectively, her eyes opening to behold it, and the elf was mesmerised by the shimmering symmetry empowering her from head to the farthest reaches of her toes. Catharsis flowed through her, she stayed this way for what seemed an inordinate length of time, looking back. The vision had her entranced; it was as though everything had finally come together and slotted into place. Her training, her meditation, her dedication... It had all come to a head, but certainly not at an end. Far from it, she knew, she was teetering on the brink of a much greater ascension, and she desired to see where this new path would lead her.