[color=ccddee][CENTER][h1]The Moonkissed Princeling[/h1][/CENTER]
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[color=2E2C2C][sup]_______________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center][hider=// INFO][indent][sub][b]P E R S O N A L  D E T A I L S[/b][/SUB]

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[b]Full Name[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Rossweine Lupus Grayle[/COLOR]
[b]Age[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - 15[/COLOR]
[b]Gender[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Male[/COLOR]
[b]Heritage[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Second Son of the Third Wife of the King of Grayle, His Righteousness Albus II[/COLOR]
[b]Magical Affinity[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Water[/COLOR][/color][/SUP]

[color=#2e2c2c]-[/color][/indent][/hider]
[hider=// PERSONALITY][indent][SUB][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Air-Headed[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Spoken of charitably, Rossweine lives without a care for material goods, seeing beyond the trappings of greed and pride to get at what truly matters in life. That, however, is perhaps simply the hallmark of a noble, one who from birth was entitled to wealth and material security, for whom no amount of money could sway if only because such wealth would improve little in their life. He floats about in a more transient, fleeting world, taking everything at his own pace with no real inclination towards any particular goal. There is feeling, of course, passions that may shake his heart or draw him towards one experience or another, but emotions are less substantial than desires, and for all his beauty, he fades into the background during social occasions, finding himself more at peace in seclusion or in nature. Unfettered by responsibility, guided only by glimmers of moonlight and the sounds of the fairies’ footsteps, Rossweine is a heartless being, distant from the world his flesh inhabits.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Well-Mannered[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]But certainly, like any noble, Rossweine is a master of manners, using courtesies and niceties to soften and repaint whatever actions his air-headed nature inspires. He stands all, his expressions and gestures as elegant and eloquent as one would expect out of those bearing royal blood. If need be, his eyes could even shine with a confident, stately light, the sort of brilliance that others could point at and use as evidence that there [i]is[/i] a natural difference between those born in the rough and those born on high. Like all customs of high society, however, it is a mask, a blade, a shield, hammered into the psyche of those who may bear rings or crowns with more fervor than the arts of the martial path, the instruction of the arcane craft. An aristocrat without a noble bearing is nothing more than a foot soldier, after all. For nobility itself is artifice, built through wealth and delusion, history and mythology.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Thick-Skinned[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Guided only by gossamer whimsy and cast within a noble mold, it stands that he cares little for what reputation he carries, what mockeries and infamy are leveled against him. One can exist only in their own mind, after all, filtered through perceptions that wax and wane depending on the humors. How meaningless, then, is it to cling to beliefs of normalcy, to speak of traditions and inheritance as if they were certain things, when even the immutable will of the great heroes have been twisted with time? Just as how weightlessly he treats his own words, Rossweine sees the words of others as just as weightless, nothing more than snowflakes melting away in a span of a second. If a smile and an apology could reduce aggressions, then let it be so. If some coin is enough to buy his peace, then let it be so. And if nothing more than blood could solve a conflict, then he will flee rather than fight. Perhaps that too, is the countenance of a noble. Indeed, all have their own sense of what’s normal, a sense that they apply to the world around them. For Rossweine, that normalcy is one where all emotions fade when expended, where long-lasting grudges are merely the stuff of legends. So what does he care for the anger, the envy, the violence of others? It will all fade in time, melting into apatheia.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
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[hider=// SKILLSET][indent][SUB][b]S K I L L S E T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Painting[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]The gift that the Moon granted Rossweine was that of art, of distorting the world that all saw with paint and brush, pencil and easel. It is his one obsession, the one thing that his mother could feel proud about. Upon the canvas, he hollows himself out, for that sliver of a chance that another could feel a sliver of what he felt. But he is first and foremost a Prince of the Grayle lineage, and he is secondly a knight, tasked with sharpening his steel in order to serve as the kingdom's shield. His gift then, lies only in a distant third, and his crafts remain in his private study, covered in cloth.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Deflecting[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]How can one without passion strike down another? How can one accustomed to retreat and concession protect others? Rossweine's shield is as fragile as stained glass. Rossweine's sword is as light as a feather. He will not win with a singular strike like a hero of yore, nor will he face his enemies shield-first like a guardian of the people. Rather, in absence of any true commitment to victory or loss, offense or defense, he simply parries. Meeting strikes on slants, guiding blades off their path, measuring distances and maintaining space with steps as gentle as fairies upon dew-touched fields. A defensive style focused on footwork, one that turns a fight into a dance until the aggressor...what? Runs out of strength and gives up? Trips and impales themselves on their own sword? Gets stabbed from behind by one of Rossweine's allies? The noble prince is skillful indeed. He will deflect even the burden of violence from his shoulders.

But for some reason, such a method of fighting makes Rossweine appear as if he's effortlessly toying with his opponent instead, and now everyone expects that's he's a plain and simple Swordmaster, rather than someone escaping responsibility.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Blessing[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Pray that it does not come to it.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

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[/cell][cell][b]Physical Description[/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]What could be said other than how Rossweine Lupus Grayle, Second Son of the Third Wife of the King of Grayle, His Righteousness Albus II, is without question a youth who looks like a prince? Standing tall at 5'10, with perhaps room to grow even taller, he casts an elegant, slender silhouette, the very picture of a hero-knight. His eyes are possessed by a gentle, turquoise sheen, akin to a forest spring, while his hair, an ashy brown, comes down in soft, silky tufts that beg to be caressed. A perpetual state of peacefulness has kept his skin and mien unmarred, and his face strikes that balance of androgynous handsomeness achievable only by an adolescent.

A well-defined jawline and a slim nose. Soft cheeks and long eyelashes. Hands warm and firm, but slender and well-manicured. Even dressed in simple clothing that befits his disposition more than his station, he looks like a portrait, even what few, subjective flaws upon his person only serving to further accentuate such beauty. In his wake, there is no doubt that he's left a trail of broken hearts, even at his tender age.

But that's simply par for course if one was a royal prince, the object of fantasy and gossip.
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[b]Character Conceptualization[/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]They say that he was born on a blue moon, when the clock struck midnight.

They say that he was a stubborn birth, clawing and rioting to stay within his mother’s womb.

They say that he was born fragile, lighter than his brothers and sisters, lungs heaving with only a miserly whimper once exposed to the outside world.

And over the years, they’ve continued to say many things of the Moonkissed Princeling, birthed by the union of Lady Terrenza Welrimelle and King Albus II, yet possessing neither the Lady’s acumen nor the King’s power. He must have been a child birthed only when the bounty of the fair Lady’s womb had dried up, a child of middling intelligence and meager magical talent, an unfanged cub to the wolves who were his older siblings. The firstborn son, the valorous Manegold of the Eclipsing Strike, is the Knight-Commander of the Western House. The secondborn daughter, the honorable Sieglinde, stands as one of the few advisors of the Grand Duke. The thirdborn daughter, the perceptive Walpurga of the Deep Sea, will succeed in the role of Royal Librarian of the Arcane Path once the current one’s tenure is up. All this was obtained through talent and the expenditure of political capital and wealth.

All this is simply to be expected if the [i]third[/i] wife of His Righteousness is to expect House Welrimelle, mere Earls, to be grafted into the Grayle family as [i]rulers[/i].

And all this left Rossweine as…what? A second son, a prince with no great talents in warfare or leadership. He was only as beautiful as what ought to be expected of royalty, there was not much left in the family coffers to expend upon a fourth child, especially one without great prospects. So what did that make of his childhood?

One full of love, one bereft of great expectations. One that he did not appear to mind.

Time passed. The child grew up in body, yet did not change in mind. His mother worried as mothers would. His father hardly registered his existence, as any king would. The blood of heroes did not give rise to anything spectacular, and still, his magic only aligned with a single, pitiful element. Perhaps this was what allowed his delinquency to go unpunished? Or perhaps the battle for the crown was simply so consuming that his elder siblings and his dearest mother wanted for him something different?

Or perhaps it was the fate ascribed to him by the Wise God, He Who Dwells Within the Lunar Sea?

If a Prince had no place in the world, let him be a Knight, so that he may at least stand guard in a solitary keep, overlooking a seldom-touched plains.

So Prince Rossweine Lupus Grayle joined the many prospective candidates who sought to earn the glory of becoming a Royal Knight. And for all his listless apathy, the results of his first duel had some…undesirable consequences.

[b]“The Knight King’s blood must truly run in his veins! Look at how he forced his foe to kneel without once striking back!”[/b]
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[b]Other Information[/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]He fights in the equipment of a standard knight, with a shield in one hand and a longsword in the other.

He smells of spring and snowmelt, and does not sweat easy. Prefers quick, cold ablutions over warm baths.

He is soft-spoken and restrained, with a preference towards ambiguous, noncommittal phrasing.

He received a noble's education, which includes hunting, pensmanship, and the sixty-four standard ballroom dances that emerge in noble society. In the absence of servants to aid him in doing so, he cannot actually put on any of his clothes, so subsequently prefers buttonless, laceless attire.
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