Bircalin

The gentle fog of Bircalin's eyes sways unnaturally as he looks to the bald Human leaving through the gate with a wry smile. He briskly sweeps the remaining crumbs from his chest as he finishes his luxurious rations before smacking his lips together to sap the taste contently. "I wonder what Humans think of these debates... So long it has been since I held such a mindset. Nevertheless, a hundred to two hundred years from now, every current living Human, elder or newborn, will be dead. The small-talk should be over by then..." Finally realising his self-directed rant had gone on too long, Bircalin hunkers back into the cushioned leaves of the tree comfortably, flicking up his hood to deflect any light directed to his eyes so he may fall into an idle slumber.

Crums belonging to the fruity bread of a Halfling baker scatter onto Bircalin's lap as he indulges in his mischevious snack. He could hear the bickering from his perch outside of the gates, alongside the horn that echoed with no answer. Swaying his legs in his idle state, he tidily chews on the bread, keeping his ghostly white eyes glued between the gatehouse and the path that leads to it. "A hundred years and they still have learned nothing. Trust it to be my wife to get rebelled against too!" His words are but a personal comfort atop his expansive oak tree, intended for none, heard by none.

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.

The tense skin at the edges of Bircalin's lips tightens further as he stretches his mouth and massages his jaw with a swoop of his hand. Word had spread to Lenfarthing of the Elves' growing tensions. The departure of the Mali'ker had left it almost blindingly obvious that there was a much more eventful scene yet to unfold. The Halfling beside him, hired to bring him news from the goings-on around Malinor had gifted him with what she had remembered the note saying. As the small, plump woman recounted the contents of the letter, Bircalin's mind begins to stray, recalling the rebellion against Indelwehn in Aegis and how he had become a target. His calm, warm voice catches itself in the deep red glow of the nearby fireplace in his underhill. "Too much, does the common Elf find distaste in their surroundings... Too hot, too cold. Too gentle, too abbrasive... Perhaps it is time I spoke with my wisest friend once again? Perhaps..." Retrieving his attention from the flickering embers coating the fresh firewood, Bircalin notes the surprisingly agile Halfling's empty seat and spotless plate. "Such a peaceful people, yet they try so little to be such. A lesson to be learned from the simplest of folk."

On one of his now-infrequent passes through Malinor, Bircalin takes mind of the note, caring to deliver his own response. "When the Noladrim formed, they made it no small secret that they were more than capable of exceeding the Sentinel's standard of operation. Though the Noladrim were promised attention from the High Council, no such thing came and possibly Malinor's best chance at an effective force was driven from the people for reasons still yet unknown."

A sleek figure approaches the board, having been passing it on one of the midnight strolls it routinely began to take in it's time st Lenfarthing. Looking with a wry smirk, Bircalin steps back to marvel at his own addition. After a short minute or so, he lowers his hand to rest upon the hilt of his Elven blade, Indelwehn, setting-off up the mountain towards his solitary abode. "Bircalin - Locksmith, Hunter, One Elf Army"