Old Man Gray

[StrongBear 1239]

[!] A rather worn piece of parchment with faded golden streaks lining the edges.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I sit upon this ledge, my gaze set upon the horizon.

Bouncing back and forth between the stars, constantly pondering what's next to come.

What is next for me? 

 

A lonely Paladin who constantly wonders what is to come the following day.

What battles lie in front of not only myself but the communities I live within?

What comes next for the Vale? What comes next for the Paladins of Xan? Even what comes next for Haense or even that of Oren?

 

I sit here ‘pon my ledge, the years are slowly catching up with me.

My reflexes slow, I grow with more wisdom than strength these days but am not afraid to put a young one in their place. 

Perhaps the following day will be my last, perhaps yet another thirty years to go.

Either way, all I take is one step at a time, take a little bit through my day to watch the sky touch the ocean, watch the stars rise then fall, the moon taking the place of the shining sun then vice versa. Day in and day out, always the same and different.

 

I am just an aging man, forever cursed by Horen with a shortened life span. 

I’ve lived a rather decent life, some I wish I could go back and change, alter how my actions and decisions affected the outcome of certain circumstances. There is nothing I can do to change the past, all I can do is take it, and use it as a mold for the future. For now, all I do is be thankful to wake up each and every day, perhaps even live it like it’s my last day. As I grow old, the gray overtakes the blonde more and more, my eyes grow heavy, and my face shows my age and battle-scarred visage. But that is only the surface and well, that is all some need to know. Their father, lover, son and grandson, friend, he is one who only shows what needs to be shown, for what lies deeper shall remain hidden until the time is right. When that time may be, is still unknown.

 

Alas, here I sit ‘pon my ledge, my gaze dancing along with the stars to the unknown. Is it truly unknown or must we wait until our forever slumber arrives to fully know and understand what our lives truly meant to those around us?

 

Upon the ledge, a graying man sits alone with a quill held tightly between his thumb and pointer, a journal resting atop his lap. Days in and day out, the old can be spotted, lost in his thoughts and the world around, drowning out the conversations, the sounds of nature ringing through his ears.

 

Word after word, page after page, until the book was full then a subtle SNAP, the quill lay in two, falling to the pond below. For that old man dare not move from his ledge, for he would rather not be seen nor heard at times, merely listening from a distance.

 

 

 

 

Oddly enough, this has been left unsigned, it could be that of just an old man's rambles...

 

 

 

Spoiler

He is not dead, don't worry. I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A PK!

 

[Jenkins0311 389]

that's deep...