A Man of Taste and Breeding

When Astalor Bloodsworn sees Aethas Sunreaver, his first question is: What's it like to be a brown-nosing turncoat? But his second is: Does the carpet match the curtains? Slash.

Warning: For m/m, very saucy talking, groping, sexual nagging (ugh), racy bits, and broken fourth walls. But no lemons. Sorry, chaps.

Transcribing a letter about trolls and idiot Farstriders was well and good, but at the moment what interested Astalor Bloodsworn most was how Aethas Sunreaver managed to squeeze his ass into those pants.

"'Given the tensions caused by the ranger-general's ill-advised military manoeuvring...' If you can call his craven whimpering that," Rommath said, "'the Magisterium requests that it be given full legal-enforcement rights within the borders of Silvermoon, including...' Requests? No, scratch that. It makes it sound like he could refuse. 'The Magisterium insists that...'"

Astalor had a few theories: getting into the bathtub and putting them on, sheer grit and determination, sucking in.

"New paragraph," said Rommath. "'Furthermore, the Magisterium would like to take this opportunity to remind the Regent-Lord of certain outstanding debts that remain to be paid to our organisation.' Period. 'For instance, several apprentices have not yet received compensation for additional hours they served during the reconstruction of the city.' Period."

Melted butter.

"'I myself have not been reimbursed the amounts advanced from my family's personal coffers to fund the repair of our Arcane Guardians.' Period. And a bloody lot of 'funds' they were. Light knows. Lor'themar's got all the financial acumen of a Consortium whore."

Warm oil.

"'Obviously our vital role in the city necessitates more recognition than this, particularly in this divisive political climate.' Period. I think that has a nice breath of threat to it."

Maybe he had a servant to do it. Maybe Astalor could switch careers. It was probably a promotion to go from 'the grand magister's glorified secretary' to 'the archmage of Dalaran's official ass-squeezer'.

Rommath, who had an eye for distracted underlings, loomed over Astalor's desk, the beginnings of a scowl on his brow. "Are you listening to me, Magister Bloodsworn?"

Astalor had not been listening to him; through his window he could see Sunreaver pacing in his office. He had taken off his cloak, and Astalor was following his movements as if his head were stuck on a swivel, his mouth getting drier with each step.

"Magister Bloodsworn."

Magister Bloodsworn snapped his attention back to Rommath. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. Are you going to Zaedana's dinner party tonight?"

Rommath tossed his hair, and though Astalor could not see he was sure his nostrils flared. "No, I'm not going to her Voided dinner party! I'm dictating you a letter and you're dreaming of dinner?"

Actually, Astalor was dreaming of pressing Sunreaver's face into his authentic Taur-ahe rug, probably preceded by a round of grovelling and begging and followed by Astalor taking the rug home as a Thank You For Not Telling gift (he was not above using blackmail to acquire nice houseware), but he kept his mouth shut.

Rommath was looking at him expectantly, and it was only then that Astalor realised he'd been asked a question—a question he hadn't heard. "Oh, sorry?"

Rommath did not want apologies; Rommath wanted an audience for his ranting. "Light, pay attention to your fucking work. I didn't recruit you for your charming conversation."

I hope Sunreaver goes tonight, Astalor thought, faintly registering that Rommath was saying something else in the background. Maybe we can drunkenly grope each other in the powder room.

"In case you haven't noticed, we are at war, magister!" Rommath brought his open palm down flat on the table.

"Well!" Astalor said, finally roused to indignation. "I think someone needs to take his Happy Thoughts Potion!"

Rommath demonstrated what he thought of this suggestion by using Bigby's Hand to heave a stack of papers into the courtyard.

Astalor went to the dinner party. And Lord Firecrotch was there, as he'd hoped. Does he have a uniform or something? Astalor wondered, lingering over the hors d'oeuvres to get a good gawk. Fifteen pairs of body-hugging scarlet suits? Was he some sort of erotic performer before he became a politician?

The problem was that Aethas had showed up with his dumb sister, who was plenty pretty but sadly attired in flowing, conservative robes, and she served more as a distraction than an enticement. She kept Sunreaver talking to her all night, probably about stupid things like taxes and scholarships and civil rights.

They were well into the third course by the time Astalor saw him stand and slip through the double doors at the far end of the room, his cloak flapping behind him. After what Astalor considered a reasonable pause of four seconds, he rose and followed him out onto the balcony.

"Oh, hello," Sunreaver said, smiling a little nervously at Astalor's approach. He was very young for an archmage, fresh-faced and unversed in the subtleties of magisterial dinners. "Magister Bloodsworn. Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Stunning," Astalor said, giving him a meaningful look which said, Yes, I would love to bed you, thank you for asking, and no, don't worry about moving to a divan, I'm perfectly fine right here, bending you over the railing.

But Sunreaver just gave him a polite nod and went back to smoking and staring out at the gardens.

Well. Very peculiar.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Astalor asked, by which he meant, Don't you think this would be more fun if we undressed and indulged in a few fel crystals? And then maybe I'll do a line of fire lotus off your chest?

"Quite. Zaedana's chef is outstanding. I've tried to get her to give him up, but she says she's killed for less. I don't doubt it, you know. His scallops are worth killing for." And then Sunreaver laughed at his joke, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Astalor was not joining in.

Huh. This wasn't proceeding quite the way he'd imagined it would—namely, where he went outside and Sunreaver threw him against a wall and then one thing followed another, and before you knew it they were on vacation in Orgymar.

However: "Have a nice evening, Magister," Sunreaver said, moving past him towards the doors.

If he was going to be dense and difficult about it, Astalor would make things easier on the both of them. "Oh, a moment of your time, actually," he said. And he placed his hand on the other man's back to stop him.

At least in theory.

Astalor, when pressed, would later claim that this is what he meant to do, only it was a damp spring night and the tile ground on the balcony was slippery and he lost his footing, which was why his gesture wound up as more of a playful swat on the backside. Completely accidently. Sunreaver, however, did not understand this and did not see his total and perfect innocence; he spun around to face Astalor, mouth open, eyebrows knitted, spluttering like a Bilgewater zeppelin.

"I... excuse me, you didn't just... Magister, I—"

"Oh, I did." Astalor fluttered his eyelashes. "We can discuss it in detail if you'd like. Great, great det—"

"Look," Sunreaver said, crossing his arms over his chest, "what the fel is this about?"

Was he dim? "You have to ask?"

"I'm half afraid to."

In response, Astalor seized him by the collar and threw him against the wall, which is not an easy thing to do to a man who is six inches taller than you. "This is about me fucking you until you can't walk."

In fairness, Sunreaver did not get offended. 'Offended' is what the Zandali ambassador gets when you have a dinner party and you seat him at the servants' table. 'Offended' is what your ex-wife gets when you tell her that she cannot, reasonably, relocate to Dalaran because she is too fat to set foot on the airship that will take her there without crashing it. 'Offended' is what Magister Duskwither got when you fell asleep during his Royal Suncrest Appointment Lecture and snored loudly in the front row for all one-hundred-and-eighty minutes.

What Sunreaver got was, at first, 'offended', but then he got 'murderously furious'. He jabbed his finger into Astalor's chest.

"How dare you talk to me as if I'm—? And after you spoke out against me to the senate in front of everyone!" (Astalor winced, having hoped that this episode was forgotten.) "You are out of line, magister, and if you think—"

"Shh." Astalor placed a gentle finger on Sunreaver's lips, silencing him effectively though his face remained a furious red (it looked absurd against his hair). "We don't need to talk about this any longer. I've seen you around—I like your attitude, your, uh, fashion sense." Hah. More like your legs and hair and ass. "Let's get to know each other better. There's probably a bench in the garden. Or we can do it here. Your choice. I'm not picky."

"Bloodsworn, I am not—"

"What did I say about talking?" Astalor stroked his neat red beard, placing his other hand on Sunreaver's chest. "I have a surprise for you. It's long, smooth and hard—and in my pants. Guess what it is. Go on. Guess."

Astalor had heard shocked silences before, but this one seemed to last an inordinate amount of time. Light, the question wasn't even that difficult.

"I'll give you a hint. It's not my wand."

Silence.

"Archmage Aethas."

Silence.

"It isn't."

Silence.

"It's my—"

"Ugh, thank you, but no." Sunreaver pushed him away. "You know, Elynara warned me that you have a filthy mind. I should have listened to her."

Astalor almost gasped. The bitch. This was an outrage. He was perfectly capable of thinking clean thoughts; he made a point of thinking at least four every day. "Excuse me? I am propositioning you for a night of no-strings-attached wild love, and you are refusing like a petulant little boy?"

Sunreaver flushed. "What did you say?"

"I said you're being a petulant little boy!"

"N-no! The other thing!"

Oh, as if he were going to be fooled by that act. "Charmingly naive. I suppose I'll have to crack your safe then, will I?"

Somewhere in the garden a cricket was chirruping. Sunreaver buried his face in his hands. "Please, please stop talking. For both our sakes."

So Archmage Big Red wasn't interested in his witty repartee, then? That was a little disappointing, but still, it wasn't Sunreaver's conversation he was after, either.

"Then let me spell this out for you." Astalor closed the space between them again in two steps and threw his arms around Sunreaver's neck. "I'm going to bang you like an orcish war drum."

Sunreaver found his voice at about the same time he shoved Astalor unceremoniously away. "Enough!" He inhaled. "Bloodsworn, if I were forced to choose between bedding you and bedding Rhonin, I would commit suicide. Good night."

"But what if death weren't an option?"

Aethas turned to gape at him. "Are you mad?"

"Only with passion. For you."

"You are mad. And by the way," Sunreaver added with a little sniff that did nothing for his nose (which Astalor had previously called 'aquiline' but was now going call 'beaky'), "orcs don't traditionally use war drums. They use horns, made from the hollowed-out bones of their wolves. The Zandali trolls only introduced the war drum after joining with the Horde, as a symbol of their break with—"

Oh, blah blahdy blah. The only thing worse than Sunreaver's 'Dalaran is not racist' lecture was his 'boring historical shit' lecture. Astalor made mental note to rat him out to Rommath again—while completely omitting his own doings that evening, of course.

Manners, Astalor thought as he walked away, because it looked like Sunreaver was going to play hard to get, which meant that he wouldn't be getting any action until at least noon tomorrow.

Aethas's week of leave passed as uneventfully as a politician's week can pass, save for a handful of scribbled letters he received from Astalor Bloodsworn. These started out politely enough ('I just wanted to apologise for the other night, I had too much to drink, I don't know what came over me') but as time passed and he did not respond to any of them, Astalor began to get more desperate and more outlandish.

'You are so hot I'm surprised you didn't melt Frozen Throne when you went to Northrend.'

And: 'I bet all the Alliance morons are secretly in love with you and that there is a giant effigy of you above Vereesa's bed and she goes there to fondle herself and look at you every day. You're just that beautiful.'

And finally: 'There's no way you wear undergarments with pants like that. Don't bother to lie. I know you don't.'

Aethas placed this one in his fireplace and incinerated it himself.

He returned to his family's estate from a day of paperwork in the office to find his sister seated in the parlour, playing cards and smoking.

"A package arrived for you, brother dear." She glanced up from the table and smiled at him. "The High Examiner dropped it off. He said it was a mirror you admired, and to tell you it had no use whatsoever, so he was giving it to you to keep. A friendly gift."

Aethas brightened a little at this and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you. Dinner tonight?"

"Of course."

It was waiting for him upstairs in his dressing room, propped up against the wall. The shape of it was strange: far taller than he was so that it nearly touched the ceiling and narrow enough that he wondered what sort of creature it had belonged to. But what caught his eye originally was the quality of the glass: sharp and clear as mountain water, honest to the point of mercilessness.

He stripped off his official robes and slipped into his dressing gown before going to inspect it further, but his reflection brought him up short. Hm. I look rather a mess in this light. His hair was bleached to straw blond in places, and spider veins stretched across his nose, to say nothing of the crow's feet around his eyes. He leaned forward and pulled the skin by his temple taut. He could still remember when his face had been unlined and youth looked to last an eternity; it seemed he'd grown old in the past quarter-century.

A shadow in the corner caught his eye, a shift in the light that fell across the floor like a rustle of fabric. He leaned in, frowning, and was ready to dismiss it as an illusion before he saw it again—a shadowy movement in the glass, not reflected by it but within. Which was impossible, he told himself. There was no magic to it, or Tae'thelan would have seen it and claimed the thing for the vaults. He was imagining things. Too much work was beginning to rot his mind, no question of it, and all those hours spent squinting in the brilliance of northern sunlight, or bent over musty old tomes at his desk, did nothing for his eyesight.

Or his complexion. He studied his eyelashes critically, frowning at their translucent blondeness, but when he looked back he realised that behind his eyes, like an afterimage, the mirror was showing a different fel glow—another pair of eyes, peering through the glass at him. He froze in place, afraid to move. What sort of demonic device was this? What sort of hideous Old God toy had he unwittingly encoun—

"Hellooo," Astalor Bloodsworn called.

Aethas screamed and jumped back, only to land in a tangled heap of chair and blanket and himself.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" Astalor said, stepping through the mirror to stand over him. He was looking even smugger than usual, his mouth pinched into a smile that Aethas did not like. "You should calm down. You'll give yourself wrinkles." He snickered into his hand. "More than you already have, I mean."

"Bloodsworn!"

"Sorry, that was a bit mean, wasn't it?" Astalor sobered. "I mean the comment and the trick. Your friends are fools, I regret. Tae'thelan should never have left this hanging around in the storeroom for me to find."

Aethas could only agree. Damn him. I'm keeping his copy of 'Hard in Hearthglen' for this. "You enchanted the mirror?"

"Yes, a simple two-way portal enchantment, so we could chat without interruption," Astalor said. He gave a smile that he probably considered winning. "And I'm very glad to learn I was right about the pants. I knew you couldn't wear underwear with them."

Victory was sweet, but it was not quite as sweet as having a gorgeous and powerful and much younger man lying prone at your feet.

"Don't even think it, magister." Sunreaver was giving him a glare that made Sylvanas look like a friendly schoolgirl. "Try those tricks elsewhere."

"They're not tricks."

"Oh, no?"

Astalor sighed, which was hard, given how triumphant he felt. "You're no fun anymore. What happened to you, Sunreaver?"

Sunreaver was shaking his head, his expression best described as somewhere on the line between 'confused' and 'disgusted'. "I'm not sure I was ever any 'fun' of the sort you're suggesting."

"That's not what I've heard."

That brought him up short. "And what have you heard, Bloodsworn?"

His cold, guarded tone was not promising. "That you spent your earlier days in philandering and parties. They say you loved nothing better than drinking and gambling. And other pursuits."

"Oh." His shoulders sagged. "Well, I might have done that, at one point. But those days are past, Magister. Long past. Let them go."

"I am not the one who needs to let go. Come on," Astalor said, giving a shimmy. "Loosen up a bit. You don't need to be as taut as the fabric of those delightful britches."

Sunreaver didn't deign to answer this; he was groping around on the floor as if looking for something, but Astalor was willing to bet from his expression that it wasn't a conveniently-located water-based lubricant.

His staff, Astalor realised with some discomfort, and not the good kind of staff, either. If he gets the jump on me I am, as the humans say, burnt breakfast-bread. Better to try a feinting manoeuvre, then; get Sunreaver's guard down.

So he shrugged. "Fine. I'll go. Sorry to disturb you."

Sunreaver was struggling to stand up, rubbing his back with a wince, but he seemed ready to fall over again at this. "You'll leave? Really?"

"Yes, on one condition. I just want you to answer a question first, and then I'll go." He pretended to be scuffing his slippers on the rug. "Why won't you sleep with me?"

"You're one of Rommath's pets." His lip curled into a grimace. "That's more than reason enough."

That was not the response he'd been expecting. Astalor took politics about as seriously as he took everything else: not at all. "Oh, come on, what does that matter? I'm asking you to spend half-an-hour in animal couplings, not run away to fucking Booty Bay together."

"Well, I think that says a lot about your attitude, doesn't it?"

Prudish and self-righteous. I know how to pick them. "I'm young and dashing." Astalor tried to lean casually against the door but realised he was wrinkling his robes and mussing his hair and stopped.

Sunreaver did not even respond to that, just kept shaking his head and looking as though Astalor were some stray tomcat who'd left a dead mouse on his pillow.

"And... and you rail everyone." Astalor made a sweeping gesture, trying to emphasise that this encompassed the totality of railable entities. "So why not me? I think we'd be a fabulous pair."

"Your reputation is well-known." Sunreaver sniffed. "You probably have a disease."

Astalor, for all his cheek and wit and roguish devilry, generally knew better than to exercise those qualities around a mage powerful and grouchy enough to turn him into little flakes of ash carried on the breeze. This, however, was beyond forbearance.

"My reputation is well known? Pot, kettle, Archmage. Really."

A bright streak of colour appeared in Sunreaver's cheeks. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play coy. You've gotten more rides than the bloody Orgrimmar zeppelin. I might have a disease?" He shook his head. "Whatever."

"You're being an ass, Astalor."

Well, this was true, but he was beyond caring. "Do you know what they call you in Dalaran?"

"No." 'Sullen' did not begin to cover his tone.

"'Around-the-Clock Cock.' Pretty flattering, eh?"

(Actually, Astalor was sick with jealousy over this nickname, and desperately coveted it for himself, but when he'd tried to put it into use it hadn't caught on.)

Aethas did not seem to agree. He stared at Astalor, somewhere in the neighbourhood of 'horrified' and 'outraged.'

"Do you get it?" Astalor said. "The joke is that, no matter the time of day, you're always down to fu—"

"Yes, yes, I bloody get it!" He looked away, visibly distraught. "I wonder who came up with that," he said, almost to himself. "It has the meanness I'd attribute to Ansirem Runeweaver, though the childish rhyme reminds me of Rhonin Redhair. That vile, loose-lipped bastard. I will never again let him—"

Astalor interrupted this, eager to bring the attention back to where it truly belonged: himself. "Come on, be a sport. I want to take a tour on your love rocket, Around-the-Clock."

This comment was evidently so upsetting that Sunreaver could only express himself by blowing up a vase near Astalor's head. They were entering prime explosion territory, no question, and Astalor wondered vaguely whether Sunreaver had the power to blast the entire Spire off its foundations and into the sea. He decided this was best not known.

"Don't call me that." His voice was low, dangerous, and his gaze was dark. Astalor returned it, seductively picking a piece of shattered crockery out of his scalp.

No question about it. They were both definitely Down To Fuck, and now.

"I tire of these games." Astalor sauntered towards him (this was sexier, but he also wanted to be ready to run if Sunreaver tried to explode him again). "We're friends who desire each other. What could be more natural?"

"I am not your friend. Go away."

"Don't be sulky." Astalor paused in front of him, pausing before he ran a finger across Sunreaver's chin. "This doesn't need to be complicated."

"I am going to give you to the count of three." There was a recognisable flame in his eyes. Astalor did not need any more encouragement than this.

"We are perfect for each other, at least for the afternoon!" he said, and seized Sunreaver by the arms, pulling him into an embrace.

"Unhand me!"

Astalor responded by moving to kiss his neck, nuzzling into the curve of his jaw. The shadow of his stubble dug into Astalor's lips, but this was only further attraction.

"I am going to kill you! I'm not joking!"

But his struggles became very half-hearted indeed as Astalor continued to trace a line down Sunreaver's neck with his lips, and when Astalor paused to nibble at the hollow of his throat he made a sound not unlike a whimper.

I am so skilled, Astalor thought, I should write a book about it.

"I am... going... oh, yes, Astalor, please, don't stop..."

Astalor might have done so just for the sake of gloating, but Sunreaver's hands were in his hair and it was very difficult to move, and furthermore he was just not very inclined to do so. Sunreaver's robe was beginning to slip open and his chest hair was fine and as copper as the hair on his head. Seized by impulse Astalor lifted his mouth to Sunreaver's, pressing his lips apart with his tongue. Sunreaver kissed him back, his arms stretching to curve around Astalor's neck, a rough, unkind kiss that set Astalor's heart pounding and his blood throbbing.

Game, set, match. Gives an entirely new meaning to the human term 'check mate'. Heh.

And still inwardly laughing at his own cutting wit, Astalor reached around and laid a gentle hand on Sunreaver's ass cheek and gave it a squeeze. "Are you still uninterested in getting better acquainted?"

He went slack in Astalor's arms, his hands tightening in his hair, and his eyes flickered closed. "I am interested. Light help me, there's a divan in my sitting room," he whispered, lips brushing Astalor's face as he spoke. "We could go there."

Victory. It was Astalor's. He would toast to this moment with Magistrix Lambriesse tonight (after rubbing it in her face, of course), but first—to enjoy the spoils of war.

"As you wish... Around-the-Clock."

Poorly played, that bit of gloating. Sunreaver jerked his head back by the hair, snarling. "Idiot, I told you—"

"Very well, Archmage." Astalor shook his head as well as he was able. "Is this better? Do you like that?"

"Anything but 'Around-the-Clock.'" He ground his teeth. "Light, do I ever hate those miserable little fuckers."

They did eventually stumble their way into the sitting room, but walking was difficult with the triple-challenge of kissing, groping, and disrobing. The afternoon light was slanting across the carpet and it caught the red in Aethas's hair and turned it to deep bronze.

For the sake of politeness we ought to withdraw at this point and let our nasty boys get up to their nasty business ('nasty', of course, in the absolute best sense of the word), but before we do, a few notes:

A.) Astalor realised that Aethas's body really was as nice as he'd imagined and made a mental note to brag about it in exquisite (or excruciating, depending on your perspective) detail.

B.) Aethas realised that Astalor's personality improved at least 400% when he couldn't speak for having a cock down his throat.

C.) Each later realised that he would be embarrassed if it ever got around that he had bedded the other, and each considered himself the party that had been most debased by the encounter.

D.) Aethas made Astalor read aloud to him from a book of erotic poetry in Nazja, but Astalor did not speak Nazja and butchered the pronunciation so completely the text was rendered unintelligible.

E.) Astalor did shove Aethas's face into a rug of sorts, but it was not the kind you find in tauren establishments.

No matter how arrogant a man is, Astalor Bloodsworn thought, there's something about being on his hands and knees, ass in the air, that does wonders for his behaviour.

Aloud, he said, "My adorable friend, there has never been your peer for beauty in the history Quel'Thalas."

Sunreaver looked over his shoulder. "Continue."

"With what? The flattery? Or the thrusting?"

He considered this. "I suggest... both."

They were still in this extremely compromising position thirty-four minutes later when Magistrix Elynara came strolling in, head buried in a threadbare and well-loved book.

"Dearest, I was wondering if you'd be so kind as to tell me if 'magic lamps' could conceivably exist now or—"

And then she looked up and her voice trailed away. Astalor would have liked Sunreaver to show some good breeding in this situation and make her leave, perhaps by transforming her into a sheep or frog, but he was disappointingly speechless. It was one of those moments in which time seems to stand still, and it was clear that if Astalor didn't speak, no one would.

"Oh... hello," Astalor said, as if they'd met on an afternoon walk and as if he were not moderately naked and moderately buried in her brother's ass.

Elynara covered her face with her hand.

"And how are you?" Astalor continued. "We were just rehearsing for a play about, er, vrykul battle rituals."

Sunreaver made a strangled noise.

"Right. Excellent. Well. I'll come back later." Elynara backed out, still shielding her eyes, and shut the door, leaving them in silence.

They stayed like that for a few moments until Astalor determined that the mood had been ruined and pulled out of Sunreaver abruptly.

"Well, it's getting late, old boy," Astalor said, pretending to stretch. "Lovely to chat, but it's time I head home. I'm sure you agree."

Apparently he did. Sunreaver turned back to him. His hands were clenched into fists around the pillow he was holding, and there was a strange light in his eyes. The last time he'd looked like that they'd sent an army of Silver Covenant representatives through a portal that 'accidentally' opened onto an airless pocket of the Great Dark.

"Mercy," Astalor whimpered as Sunreaver advanced on him, magic crackling at his fingers.

But alas! there was none to be had.

An Epilogue on the dual nature of munificence and philosophy of the gift...

"Generosity has always been your strong point, my heart," Elynara said at dinner that night, "so I would have thought you were more of a, uh, giver than a taker." She waggled her eyebrows, and Aethas looked away, scowling. "The things one learns in this life." She leaned back, stroking the stem of her wine glass and gazing at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought. "I suppose this offers me a good chance to think more about the ineffable nature of the Gift-giving and its aporia. I have another book in the works, you know, and I think this anecdote might make a good digression."

"Sister or no," Aethas said, feeling very red-faced, "if you ever mention this to anyone, you can kiss your gem-allowance goodbye."

The End

Author's Note: I never tire of writing about Astalor Bloodsworn and his complete disregard for other people's feelings. I can just picture him running out into the street, struggling to tie up his robes, and pausing to admire how charmingly tousled his golden curls are in the hall mirror.

Also, if you see poor old Elynara at the Reliquary headquarters in Silvermoon, blow her a kiss. But you know—serves her right for not knocking.