Penny

Beneath the mimicry of life
buoyed on silent moth wings
and sensed beneath the hum of bumblees
the shadow of a monster sleeps--
and it knows only anger.

Appearance
Like so many other fellow dead things, Penumbral Moonwinged carries a massive weapon and suits himself in heavy armour. His presence says it all for him: he once counted amongst the Scourge; he's one of the death knights who came from Acherus.

His bloodforged aruval and his armour, though, are... strange. Quite a bit less standard-issue saronite than a rank-and-file knight. Older. Worn and lacking luster.

The 'blade itself has seen quite a lot of use, given its plainness and disreputable state. It lacks any visible runes. He keeps it firmly sheathed at his back in the manner a left-handed person might withdraw.

Ridged quills and thorny spines twisted as vines guard all the joints of limbs and the breadth of wide shoulders. A carapace of overlapping plica braces his body from gorget on down all the way to his split-toed and high-heeled boots. Smaller, equally-chitinous segments even spur his gauntlets, tipping the fingers and knuckles in talons and lining the vambraces in cruel edges.

If one stares at any part of his armour for too long, a seam might split abruptly open, like the fine grain of runic script. Or like the glitter in a mineral vein. Then the lich blue of a lidless eye to match those on his face will wink open to stare back. Otherwise, the whole of it always seems just a shade too aphotic, with no hints of reflection. Scuff marks, pock marks, old claw wounds all score its surface in equal measure.

The ragged hem of a fur-lined, sable cloak shrouds his wide back and shoulders. It's patterned with the image of a deathhead moth's wings, and its frayed edges skitter with seething impatience over the ground, a hissed sigh for every heavy clacking stride.

He himself moves with all the slow, deliberate purpose of a dead man hell-bent on an eternal war-march: martial, dangerous. He is the monster built to outlast. Built to lay relentless siege upon, rather than to merely outfight.

Made poor life decisions. A lot.

Often still does.

Had a short temper.

Often still does.

The two are... probably related.

Background
8+ yrs of RP and background character history can be summed up as:

Formerly from a Shen'dralaran noble house.

Teen rebellion came in the form of budding druidism and breaking away from his mage family. He disliked the schemes and power-driven interests of Eldre'thalas and the nobles housed there at behest of the Queen. His aspirations of being a druid lasted until the Sundering. Grief over the loss of his two brothers and his ever-growing disgust over elf politics led to poor decision-making skills. Rather than continue pursuit of his life's dreams, he sunk into depression. Without his brothers to encourage him, he left everything behind. He chose exile with the rest of the arcane-users if only to simply get away from everything he lost and to find somewhere new.

This would be the start of a very long end. Depression and grief grow during his travels, and the elves' stint in Lordaeron and the madness lurking beneath Tirisfal worsens things. Even though none of the Highborne linger there, he's given over to the feeling he's left pieces of himself there in that cursed forest ever after.

By the time the Highborne settle and found Quel'thalas, he has become bitter and reclusive, and renamed himself. No one knows him as more than a sullen nobody. He's unimportant in their politics, lacking in relatives or contacts, and mucks about in the dirt of Quel'thalas' gardens as a groundskeeper. It suits him.

After the fall of the city, after starvation and ruin hits, after his body has changed and he is changed--after a call to arms by a prince he feels little love for but owes much to, he goes. The outland calls, a prince calls. He picks up a banner, marches off with spells clutched in his big fists and fealty on his lips if not in his heart.

The Sunfury are mighty at first but everything prideful eventually gets toppled.

His research is impeccable. Promising. Hideously capable. Blood magic: take natural life and twist it out of shape only to put it back again. Mana bombs: densely-packed essence twined and threaded and unstable and set to resonances any spell-slinger with the correct codes can set. On and on, and on.

He goes until he can't. Until he doesn't. And then he takes a header off a mana forge.

When he next is aware, he's dead and knows nothing of his former life. He kills the trainer assigned to him in a fit of rage. Then the next. And the next. Time has no meaning for the dead, and nor for him. He labours for a new prince, a new King.

Until he can't. Until he doesn't.

Freed, yet not. There's no Purpose, and no meaning. Only ruin and regret and Hunger. Then he meets a dead troll. Another empty shell like him. The things out of place begin to feel a little less off-kilter.

They circle each other. Orbit like the sun and the moon.

He is merely a simple shadow cast by the sun.

Until he isn't.