He was no stranger to melancholy. Not to danger, not to joy nor to surprise, as came the aging span of his kind. These feelings – repeated, spinning, and ultimately diluted from the waning experience it left him, none of it ever leaving him, if it wasn’t already taken to his skin. The strain of longevity, both a blessing and a curse – to recall memories so distant, to feel so distant, passing through days without stop nor change, utter boredom, to speak. Or, at least, that was the most he could ever really remember. An unfortunate trip down the local mountain when the branch he sat upon snapped.
And there he laid at the foot of it, a number of memories lost in the tumble as he stared up at the clouds above. His head hurt. No other words that could come to mind to describe it, as he clasped it in his head. Pressing up from dew-glazed grass that stained the fur he wore across his shoulders. Alright – an attempt to recollect whatever he had.
Hundred and fourty years old. Member of the Ithelanen clan. He recalled there being history. All of it, oral, but now resembled a cacophony than anything. He felt a sense of pride, empty, but a hint. To his chest, a form of seed script, or – well, rather, Esalathe’lan, as it scrambles out from the depths of his mind. He attempted to sit forwards, moving to rise ‘till a sharp pain shot through his ankle, as he’d go to slowly take note of it’s wringed, horrid state. His expression soured, just like that, as he’d begin to crawl for a tree, all to proper coordinate himself to stand upwards.
It’s getting late. He could hear the cry of cicadas, ever distant. He should be heading back soon.
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