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Eiran grew up without much expectation of responsibility: a child of privilege and wealth, a child of parents who were also children of privilege and wealth. He never found much interest in duty, for all the workhorse reputation of his family and the long line of duty-bound Oathlanders that surrounded them. As a boy, he liked to play. As a young man, he still liked to play. He was only middling in most areas of his education because he was irresolute and lacked focus, and no one really forced him to be attentive to any of his lessons. The only area of his real focus was one of his tutors, who instructed him in language and the arts, and he primarily was interested there because the said tutor was _incredibly attractive_. He became fascinated with love as game and machination and source of artistry, and the courtly ballad, sonnet, and the kind of magic that comes in the right word in the right place became his study. That was how he ended up becoming a Devotion of Limerance. It was another infatuation that encouraged him to apply himself to the art of the sword -- really, the art of the mace and shield, a satisfying and pounding combination with a heavy crack of one on the other -- and really that has been the entire pattern of Eiran's life: ridiculous crush on someone, throw himself whole-heartedly into a new life path. Who knows what will come next? Maybe one day he'll fall in love in a direction that encourages him to make the most of himself. You never know, right?

Here is a portrait of Eiran Laurent: sprawled long-limbed and flung out in an attitude of perfect despair, dark hair unkempt and limpid eyes full of deepest wist. No; here he is, lean and strong in a forward charge, a shield on one muscular arm and a mace swung up in the other, his even features written with battle-mad delight. Try again; swaying forward on his toes, mesmerized by an enchanting beauty in one face or another, his lush lips pouty with earnest need. All of these are Eiran. His dynamism is what makes him striking, rather than any perfection of his looks, which are pleasant but unremarkable -- except for the languid depths of those clear and velvet eyes.

Charming but flighty, reckless but irresolute, dramatic and sensationalist and sensualist and a little careless: the devil-may-care smile that Eiran can summon to his features is every bit as real as the soulful look in his puppydog eyes. As a social chameleon, he might be more successful if his transformations were more complete. He makes a great friend because he's ready to throw himself whole-heartedly into the interests and foci of others without really holding tight to any of his own. He suffers from a kind of serial monogamy of the passion: he can't decide what he wants to do with himself in the long term. Maybe he'll be a knight. Maybe he'll be a playwright. Maybe he'll give it all up and become a florist! Fuck everything, where's his horse? Let's go hunting.