Bircalin

(( As a very brief OOC note; I'd like to add that with Hawk's recent departure, I have been appointed the current leader. This means you can expect me to be reviewing the apps and sending people to find you in-game. Huwel, villain applications aren't a necessity, but one would be nice. You can always take a more casual job such as blacksmith, farmer, cook and what not. ))

Finally, a sound excuse for those damp patches in my robes. The guide was kind of good too..

Bircalin would cry with glee, had he heard this himself. Unfortunately, the isolated walls of the Mali'aheral district reach too far for his well-tuned ears to hear.

Gravel scowled and snarled under a pair of thick leather boots. They trudged almost aimlessly through the streets, ignoring the harsh licking of flames around them as they searched. Bircalin's eyes had not yet found anything worth fixing on for everything burned wildly, a forest fire, fueled by the history and livelihoods of the very homes it consumed mercilessly. Fingers latched onto his hairline, sending themselves through the ash-sprinkled, enigmatic brown hair until they could go no further. Bircalin's eyelids folded shut, collapsing over the soulless white vessels once filled with a life of their own. Sister City, Ravenhold, Serpent Ridge, Laurelin...Eyveror. Another home to add to the list of prey to tyrannical burning... His door hung loosely from it's latches, barely held in place as he ushered it aside. His home had been ransacked, looted, destroyed and beaten. For what purpose? To serve as an example? To serve as a warning? To silence the hatred that bubbled within? Oren teetered upon the edge of Bircalin's patience. This ​was not Oren. This was the product of the delusional, bloodthirsty and self-righteous Emperor 'Godfrey'. Be it by the hand of Eyveror, rag-tag militia or Bircalin alone, Oren's leaders will answer for their crimes. In this land or the next. "I swear it..."

With his arms neatly folded across his chest, a wry smile begins to form on Bircalin's lips as he leans against the worn and torn railings on the dock. The Elf was familiar, there was no doubt about it. But many faces were familiar, after all of these years. However the unmistakable beard clearly rested upon the Elf's face, tempting his smile to grow ever-wider. It had been far too long since he'd heard any tale of Aegis. Far too long since he'd heard that oh-so familiar voice. Far too long, since he'd felt the comforting warmth inside Malinor's walls. He decides to speak up with his usual tone, not wanting to pass-up the opportunity to reminisce. "You believe that there is life yet remaining in Aegis, old one?"

Bircalin notices a slight change in pace as Relgard passes by him in Malinor. He notes that the two should converse soon over recent affairs before making his way out of Malinor and down the steep staircase embedded on the mountain, reaching the quaint streets of Eyveror. Upon entering one of his safehouses, Bircalin takes out an ordinary quill and small roll of parchment from a dusty and ornate cupboard before beginning to write a small letter to his accomplice.

Bircalin stands with his arms folded, giving a disinterested posture as he listens to shield his thoughts like a poker-face. A grumble nestles itself in his throat after he finishes listening to everything Bravepaw has said. His expression still remains unchanged as he's thrown into a deep state of thought, reminiscing the events of Aegis once again. Sighing briefly, he murmurs to himself with an ironic tone"Once more, it seems those that give the most to Malin's children receive the least. Who will be next, I think?"