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Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Jean Dawnveil had once been a handsome, dashing young man. Vibrant, spiked back red hair, with a winning smile and a face to match it. Now, just a few years later, he barely resembled his old self - burnt, scarred skin showed through, no matter how much he tried to have it healed over. An eyepatch covered a bullet wound he had taken to the worse of his two eyes, and a sharp, yellow glow covered what had once been fel green. He was thin, gaunt, even moreso than before, and that winning smile now housed a mouthful of sharp, often-used fangs. His hair, he had never been able to get quite back to it's old self, now a dull-blonde - he preferred to keep it tucked up, hidden under a hat, nowadays.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Now, at sometime near three in the morning, he sat in his small, cramped - if classy in decor - room at Da Docta's campus in Sun Rock Retreat. A piano was crammed into one corner, a small bed across from it. An armor stand sat near the door, along with a gun rack, and most of the walls seem to have become target practice for throwing knives at one point or another, with the most recent target range being right beside the door, a few daggers still sticking out from the wooden wall.

Tonight, his focus seemed to be upon the piano, though rather than any melody, he simply clunked away at a single key on ocassion, lazily, and without any semblance of rhythm. His tie was long since discarded, strewn across the floor, his suit unbuttoned, and the brim of his fedora was tugged down over his eyes. The piano, perhaps the best kept thing he owned, aside from his suits and hats, was something he resentfully enjoyed, and spent a good deal of time on - he enjoyed playing it, late into the hours of the night, but the fact that he had been forced to learn it in his youth still irked some small part of him.

Most nights, that clunking would eventually turn into a tune, somethin' he heard long ago in the smoke-filled lounges of Silvermoon, maybe with a lovely crooner to go alongside it, or maybe somethin' new, pulled from his own mind. Not tonight, though. Just wasn't feeling it.

Wasn't feeling much at all, anymore. Tired. That was there, sure. But he knew sleep wouldn't come. It never did, to some of the Forsaken. It hadn't come for him for some time, not consistently, anyways. When he first died, sure, he used to sleep. Or at least, close enough to it. Maybe it was just habit. Then that !@#$% of a Knight, the one who'd plagued him with undeath, got off the hook. That kept him up at night, yeah, but wouldn't it for anyone?

'Course the ordeal with that mad Goblin blowin' up the school, on his watch, didn't help any either. Did more damage than just the burn marks on his face, and since then he hadn't caught much in the way of sleep.

For a long time, there was rage, too - he sorta came to understand how that helped some Forsaken, too. Rage was productive, and a reminder you were still alive, at least in some sense of the word. But when rage became the norm, it festered and rotted, like an old, infected wound that heals over wrong - it was always there, boiling under the surface, but it was a dull reminder of what it really felt like. It lacked the passion - most everything did, these days.

Theramore had been a good reminder of that passion, a chance to really let loose - the chaos, the anger. Even after he got his eye taken out by that Human, it had felt good to feel passionate again - even if it was the passion of warfare.

The start of the campaign in Pandaria had been something of a relief, too - time away, more fighting to be done. That was until the Mogu got their grubby mitts on him, and stuck him over a corpsefire. Best not to think too much on that. The smells... yeah. Not a place we're goin' again.

Even after that, there was a small bit of joy to be contrived from setting up sniper nests throughout the Jade Forest - over small Alliance scouting camps, picking off the leftovers of the Mogu warband whereever he could. He could've kept at that for a while, had it not been for his duties at the clinic.

There, earlier tonight, Rea had broken up with him. Fine and good. Probably for the better, anyways. It was gettin' tiresome, trying to keep up the social graces and all the bull!@#$ that came with 'em.

Reaching over from the bench before the piano, he tugged back the curtains for a moment, peering at the nightsky. Still a few hours till sunrise, when he had volunteered for a shift. Still, might as well make use of the cover of night. Sometimes, Kal'dorei or Grimtotem scouting parties got a little too close for school for comfort. Either would do.

Sliding to his feet and carefully running his bony fingers over the piano keys, he shakes his head, reaching down to snag his tie and loop it around his neck, carefully tightening it. Making his way towards his gunrack, he spends a good few minutes looking over his wide variety of weapons - ranging from literal handcannons, to smaller, more compact steam-pistols, to shotguns, to sniper rifles. He opts for an old favorite combo - his steam pistol and a sniper-rifle he had snagged from the battle of Theramore. Tucking the pistol beneath his belt, and throwing the sniper rifle loosely over his back, he makes his way out the door, and out of the campus - time to play Head Protector, and his favorite plan of attack was to do just that.