" Malinor's Guardian "

[Bircalin 332]

With a practiced flick of the hand, the thin rope was tied into a firm knot clasping the worn leather sack's opening shut. A rustic concoction of numerous spices and herbed goods filled the baggage's interior with a thick smell those who take a liking to tavern-hopping and smoking pipeweed could never resist. The welcoming amber glow of the fireplace seeped out from the surrounding stone and cast a light over the underhill's oaken furniture.

With a final glance and a theatrical sigh, Bircalin hoisted his inventory over his shoulder and fastened it to fit amongst his other belongings. The sack's leather hide blended well with the deep forest green of his draping cloak. It had been nigh-on a century since his Rangers' uniform had been worn, he'd only just managed to keep the cloak intact, the rest simply being far too battered to keep. Small holes, pinpricks, dotted themselves all across the cloak.

A merciless gust of wind swept over the abode's grassy knoll of an exterior, forcing the chimney to exert a haunting whistle.

"Time to go to work..." His scarred cheeks creasing somewhat as he smirked to his remark, a short-lived comfort before the torrential downpour awaiting him blasted into his home as he opened the ornate door leading outside.

The sodden dirt squelched beneath his thick tailored boots as they trudged down the eastern mountain of Lenfarthing and through the wailing trees that littered the surrounding hillside. Malinor was but an hour's walk away, though the time was vague due to the smokey clouds above giving a lingering grey veil to the moon. With his hand rested firmly upon the hilt of his beloved blade, Indelwehn, the relentless winds tortured his knuckles into a sheer white state before he arrived a few hundred metres outside of Malinor's empowering gatehouse. From his position, Bircalin clambered upon a nearby oak tree, careful not to allow the elegant bow and quiver on his back to catch on stray branches and twigs.

Upon reaching a firm branch extending far from the grand tree and out towards Malinor, Bircalin sets to hanging his blade, quiver and rucksack upon seperate nearby branches and splaying his bow and a single arrow across his lap.

With his dark hood cast over his chest-length chocolate brown hair, an overpowering sense of nostalgia overwhelms Bircalin as he looks out from the mountainside and down towards Malinor's gate. His vantage point allows him to see the majority of the path outside of the gatehouse whereas the area between there and the Anthos highway remains obscured to him.

Though quickly whisked away by the wind, the faint smog of a warm breath upon the cold air slithers from his lips as he murmurs softly. "Outside of Malinor, not a Sentinel in sight, though... One might assume I'm a sentinel in my own right, a guardian, perhaps... Hmm, I like that... 'Malinor's Guardian'..."

From a distance, only the sharp perk of the forest's silouhette could hint others to Bircalin's presence. Though few are mad enough to be out at such a time alongside such ghastly weather.

[Moot 1719]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.