#myndilon || thread

[roquenxnar]

@luna-mxth || here

Ever since arriving at Tarasyl'an Te'las— no, 'Skyhold', as the men had taken to calling it— it felt like he'd been underfoot. Giving his opinions on the soldiers' training, attempting to help correct their mages— even demonstrating how to properly practice Dirth'ena Enasalin… only to be chased away by one Imperial Enchanter. So, instead of causing yet more trouble— and more headaches for his kind hosts— the old man found the little shrine to the Evanuris, pitiful as it was in its own corner, and meditated. After all, it's what he'd been doing for so many years before; there was little issue, from what he saw, with doing it just a little longer.

The Inquisitor's presence, of course, was a welcome surprise; she certainly didn't seem particularly interested in worship, or the gods of their shared people and yet, here she was. He gave her a gentle smile, and patted the bench next to him. He gave a soft hum, staring up at the mural before him— Mythal, the All-Mother.

"This place is… certainly different from my home. The cold is eating right through me, but there is warm food— stars, more than I have eaten in years! And the company can be… nice." With a heavy sigh, he returned to staring at the mural. "Though sometimes I admit, I feel out-of-place. Like a great hart in a crystal shop— and I don't believe I am of much use to your people." He stood slowly, joints still stiff, as he approached the mural, brushing a hand over it. "Perhaps I can help the younger folk in giving this shrine a little more care; I am no artist, but I know how to follow directions!" He turned back.

"You have not received complaints about me, have you? I would hate to wear out my welcome so soon."

[roquenxnar]

As they spoke, the Sentinel moved toward one of the many fireplaces, pulling his gauntlets off and setting them aside before holding his hands up to the flames, eyes drifting half-shut as he watched the flames dancing in the hearth. He glanced over his shoulder, idle smile becoming sad as he listened to the other. "You say that as if we are not in the same situation," he said, turning back to Solas— both out of respect, and to warm his backside. "I saw how the other Sentinels looked at me, when they first awoke; and I felt the weight of my years when I climbed this mountain of yours. I am not sure how long it will be, but…" His voice grew quiet, for a moment, lips drawing thin.

"If they do not remember, we will simply have to remind them. Oh, it might be difficult, but I will spend however long the All-Mother is willing to give me to teach. It was Sil who encouraged me to help train young Sentinels, you know— said that someone ought to be willing to be a kind teacher… one who was willing to wait for results. We will have to do the same— though I suspect you have got longer to wait than I."

Myndilon's lips curled into a small frown, though, as he listened to what sounded dangerously close to heresy. But… better to give this Solas the benefit-of-the-doubt. They were each, after all, likely alone in the world. "The service of a Sentinel is not for everyone. I certainly did not take my oaths lightly; better to wait until you know you can fulfill them, or serve her purpose in other ways. Still, it is a shame you were not able to visit sooner." His mind wandered, for just a moment, and he shook his head quickly. "T-to pay your respects, of course!" Not because the old Sentinel had, over his many years, been terribly lonely— certainly not.

He coughed into his shoulder, and looked down. "Even after remaining awake for so long, I find myself overwhelmed by… this." He gestured around the cavernous hall. "I can only imagine what went through your mind when you first arrived."

~ The true direness of their situation had not seem to hit Myndilon -- and Solas was not sure now was the best time to convince him that the world (and their people) as they knew it was long gone. Perhaps the Sentinel was simply in denial after being presented with such shocking news. ~

~ " The other elves among us now are our mortal descendants; they remember next to nothing of our history, twisting fiction into fact. We are the only Elvhen in Skyhold... ". Solas tilts his head slightly as Myndilon mentions his family. " ...How many years ago did they depart? " He supposed it was possible she could still yet live, but...his gut told him otherwise. As the topic quickly shifts to that of the so-called gods, Solas's expression visibly sours. ~

~ " I did not serve the Evanuris, " he answers flatly. " ...But I was loyal to Mythal, long ago. I hope that will allow me to find common ground among her other Sentinels, in time... ". He and the old man had most certainly crossed paths when he served as Mythal's right hand -- but that had been when Solas was much younger. " ...I visited her Temple from time to time. Perhaps we met there, " he added. Without fully understanding the other elf's loyalties, it would be unwise to reveal himself as the Dread Wolf now. " ...After the sundering, I slept in uthenera, weathering the ages. I awoke only a year ago, and have been attempting to gather our remaining people ever since. " ~

[roquenxnar]

Continued from @thegreatstrongbow​ || here

“Nice. It would be, yes.”

He remembered more than he let on. Painful memories. Bittersweet and full of longing for days long since gone. But he smiled all the same. When Myndilon put it like that, it did sound so very good. Those were all the things he had liked about - the freedom and glory and the adventure, even more than the knowledge he had been protecting his home.

“It was. Dangerous, and sometimes miserable, when the rain gets in your good boots and you have no dry socks left. But I loved it. I wish I could live like that again - more people should. It is how elves are meant to be.”

The younger man stood, sliding the sword he’d been sharpening back into its sheath, and set it aside. He moved to the window, leaning against the windowsill, as he gazed out upon the world. He, unlike his current companion, was doomed to remain here, in Maedhros’s House, until the fighting stopped, and the world was once again safe. He rolled his eyes, absently pulling at a string on his shirt, and shook his head. “Not all of us are lucky enough to be able to see the world.”  Myndilon listened carefully, a rapt audience as Beleg spoke of the past, of the adventures and the worries of the road. “My father sometimes spoke of things like that,” he said quietly, glancing to the door; somewhere in their shared home, his father slept, still recovering from the attack that blinded him. “And I’ve always wanted to experience it for myself. Though...” He frowned. “I imagine it’s rather hard to have a family like that, isn’t it?” 

[roquenxnar]

❝  honestly,  it was a long time ago.  i don’t really remember the details.  ❞

It was strange, watching the older elf as he himself continued to polish his armor. All his life, he'd wondered what it was really like being a Marchwarden, out on the very edges of polite society, always in danger from one thing or another. It surely had to be exhilarating; after all, the Wardens were true warriors. And they got proper recognition, not like the humble knights that served royalty. Myndilon sat up a little, tilting his head, nose wrinkling for just a moment. "Surely there is something you could tell me about being a Captain. A Captain of the Marchwardens! I've never been in charge of anything in my life! Not really." He sat up, folding his arms over his chest. "Unless you count a run-down tower in my brother's House." The knight gave a soft sigh, shaking his head. "They have all the fun, really. The rest of us are stuck where we are, trying to see to everyone's safety... a bit of travel like they get would be nice, don't you think?"

[roquenxnar]

❝ you have your trophy , i have mine . ❞ (for Myndilon)

The elf gave a soft hum as he went about cleaning the hulking tooth in his lap— taken from a drake, slain by himself, his brother, and Beleg. The Noldorian king's brother-in-arms, so Myndilon guessed, though he hadn't yet been able to speak to the man much. He sat back against the wall, and set his trophy aside with a soft hum, stretching his arms over his head. Now that winter was upon them, he could hardly force himself to patrol the grounds, not in the snow and ice.

"Well," he said with a twinkle in his eye, and a boyish smile, "I think a tooth is even better than..." He frowned. "Didn't you take something from that thing? I imagine it will be the only way anyone believes we killed a dragon." He gave a soft hum, lifting the great tooth once more. "You know, I think we could make a knife from this. It'd certainly be intimidating."

[roquenxnar]

Spotify wrapped thing, #8!

-- fxrest-bcrn

Answered || Myndilon || Spotify Wrapped Song #8: The Dawn Will Come

The gardens of Rivendell, in his experience, were a beautiful place to sit and think. After all, he'd seen it when they were first being planted, watch them grow over the years into something truly magnificent… not unlike the Lord of the House, and Myndilon's own family. The old elf closed his eyes with a soft hum, hardly minding the gentle winter snow that fell down onto him. Oh, he might have been a little cold in the robes he'd been given in the healing ward, but he could stand the weather. He always had, and always would.

An ear flicked as he heard a soft pair of footfalls behind him, a small smile spreding over his aged face as he turned to look down a the visitor. "Ah," he said with a gentle hum, his breath escaping as a cloud in the cold air, "little Halanor! Oh, dear, me, you should be in bed, hina." Myndilon looked up at the sky above, taking in the falling snow, the stars, and the sliver of a moon that peered out from the clouds.

"Tell me," he said with a small laugh, and a wry smile, "did you come all the way out here to join me for a walk? It's a rather nice night for it, and I don't believe I could stand to remain in bed for one more moment!" He offered his grandson— his own little grandson, who'd been just a child when he'd been taken captive— his arm, now that the boy was tall enough to reach it. "Tell me then, what's on your mind? You've got that… 'thinking' look. Your father had it, too."

[roquenxnar]

@suledein asks: “i can feel lingering magic. powerful magic.” from abelas for myn!

The old elf looked up at the sound of another's voice, lips pulling into a wide, crooked grin. The years since the Witch had consumed the Vir'Abelasan hadn't been kind; he'd joined the so-called 'Inquisition', left it, spent time with their members, and tried to aid his people's mortal descendants as well as he was able— and in all those years, he had heard scant word from his fellow Sentinels. He might have believed meeting his once-leader in the forest to be some cruel trick of his failing mind, if he didn't so clearly hear Abelas's voice, and finally see the other Sentinel's face as he stood and drew closer.

"Abelas— Mythal's mercy, it is good to see you," he said in their shared tongue, stopping just short of throwing his arms around the other elf. He dipped forward in a short bow, only wrenching himself back upright when his back could no longer take the strain. His smile fell for a moment as he looked back to the blurred vision of the ruins of Arlathan, still standing deeper in the woods, a husk of what it once was. "You can feel it too," he repeated, voice soft, head dipping forward, silvery brows furrowing thoughtfully. "I wondered how many of us were left, and how many could feel it. Something has changed, Abelas— it has been different here for… oh, some months now. The spirits are misbehaving— acting out, warping the creatures who live here." And it was true— in the few months he'd been living near their long-conquered capitol, he'd had to defend himself from no less than twenty 'rifts', as the members of the Inquisition had dubbed them.

"I was hesitant to investigate myself— these woods are positively crawling with newcomers— I do not mind the company, I assure you, but I could simply not abide leading them into greater danger. But with you here, and any others that may join us…" He grunted and shook his head. "Oh, never mind that. Where have you been, all these years? You are looking well— from what I can tell."

[roquenxnar]

i owe you a debt. (Beleg for Myndilion) @thegreatstrongbow

Pulling the Marchwarden from his current travels was the last thing Myndilon had wanted— and certainly, not something the former Noldor really should have been doing himself: after all, he hadn't been freed from Sauron's prison long. But the old elf was simply itching to return to something-like-normal— and guarding the roads, close as he had to stay to Rivendell these days, seemed something like that.

He gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head as he slapped Beleg's back, and nodded toward the gates. "Very well, then! You do not have to ask me twice for company. And, should we stumble across any danger, your help will be most appreciated." His smile fell into something more thoughtful as he turned down the path, shrugging his shield back to its place on his back. "You know," he said, turning back to the March-Warden, "you did not have to remember that you owed me a favor— I certainly did not remember. But, perhaps that will return to me, after I've recovered from Morgoth's hospitality."

[roquenxnar]

There was a time when the old elf might have felt right at home in the deep woods of the area; his eldest daughter had, after all, chosen to settle in Mirkwood with her Silvan husband, and had a family in the woodland realm's heart. But as he made his way through the doors of the grand hall, toward the throne at the end of the room, his stomach twisted with worry. It was not just he that had changed, apparently, in the past centuries— even if the changes to Mirkwood was not as visible as his own.

"I apologize," Myndilon began, stopping before Thranduil, and offering a short bow, "for the intrusion—" the old knight looked down at the arrow wound in his arm, then turned back to the Lord— "And for any blood on your floors." His old armor clanked against itself, still ill-fitting after his long imprisonment.

"My name is Myndilon— you will have to forgive me, but I cannot remember if we have met. I was trying to find my grandson— he lived here, in your realm, you see. I had to know that he was safe." He cleared his throat. "I know I may not be particularly welcome—" he gestured down to the Noldorian star, dented and scarred, but still clear on his armor— "but there is a bigger problem wandering your forest than I have seen before. It would be wrong not to warn you."

The ancient warrior turned to the satchel at his side, withdrawing a long, black arrow, and stepped toward the Sindar. "You have got orcs far closer than I would be comfortable with— and they are accompanied by something… different; like an orc, but larger, and smarter. You can thank him for that arrow."

❛ i'm sorry, i didn't know where else to go. ❜ (from Myndilon, @roquenxnar!)

myndilon — @roquenxnar

For a moment, at the edge of his grand hall, where dancing shadows were cast against limestone by the unruly flicker of torch lights, Thranduil remained silent. His spirit had been stirred by the rustling of Mirkwood and her discomfort. The stranger before him, though of an Elven aura, was neither Sindar nor Silvan, with weary features and an intensity foreign to the Elven kingdoms of Eriador and Rhovanion. But Thranduil's realm would always be a sanctuary for those in need, even if his mind remained wary of the few who made it to his doorstep without aid. Rarely did the elves of other lands seek refuge here. And rarely did they endure his forest unscathed. His voice was measured. Regal. With a touch of curiosity, but gently laced in suspicion. "From whence do you come, wanderer? Your burdens are certainly great if they have brought you to Mirkwood."

[roquenxnar]

@rangers-are-cool || continued from here!

The old elf watched as Aragorn hopped back upon his horse, shaking his head with a soft huff, before pulling himself onto his own— with quite a bit less gace than he would have liked. He rocked to the side as he tried to adjust his seat, before glancing back over to the other rider. "Well, I'm certainly glad he's gone but— oh, come now, won't you indulge a nosy old man?" He removed his helm, setting it on the pommel of his saddle, and letting the reins fall where they would; his horse was far too old to make sudden movements, let alone throw him. "Besides, you and I both know I will forget by morning."

Myndilon similarly glanced up, silver bows flicking as he noticed the waning light. Even for one as experienced as he was— or, as he once was— nothing good happened in the night. It was the time of trolls, goblins, and wargs. Probably even the orcs that had taken him captive.

"Oh, fine, fine," he said with a scoff, "you keep quiet about it. But if something has happened, and you are hurt because of it, Lord Elen will never forgive me! Neither will little Undómiel, I suspect. I advise against making a habit of hiding your worries. You will live far longer if you confide in others— be it me, Lord Elen, or this mysterious Second of yours."

The knight frowned, looking around, a certain worry flashing in his eyes. He had, of course, planned to return to Rivendell that very night, the ranger in tow; but now, the route he'd planned was forgotten. He was lost, in a place he'd once known so well no less. Myndilon cleared his throat, and turned his horse to follow after Aragorn. "Well, then, I will join you! If you do not mind, of course. Fresh air is good for the lungs, and it's been an age since I slept under the stars. And I promise—" he winked at the younger man— "that I will not make a peep while you speak with your friend."

[roquenxnar]

The old Paladin simply grunted at her meek response, as if she were a granddaughter that had stayed out too late, or found herself in some minor, (if predictably foolish) youthful trouble. He lowered himself onto the fallen log, glaring up at the sun as if he could force it to set faster, before turning a more gentle gaze to the younger Drow. "I am sure," he said, voice soft, "that you could have said something. The average wizard, or warrior, or—" He stared at their resident vampire for a long time, "whatever his profession is— does not understand the dangers of that sort of book. It is up to the likes of you and I to tell them."

His gaze drifted around the camp, before landing on his great-granddaughter, chasing the dog their little party had taken to keeping around… and wincing as she stumbled over a stone, popping back up as if it'd never happened. He hummed thoughtfully as he listened to Fely'ene, patting the log next to him— an offer to sit. "Your judgement was not wrong," he said, nodding to her, before returning to the work of cleaning his sword, and sharpening it for the next battle. "You should listen to it, and trust others to do the same."

Belthan looked up at the younger elf, studying her for a moment, before turning back to the silver rapier in his lap. "Where magic is concerned? Have no expectations, and treat it as the threat it is," he said, a corner of his mouth pulling up into a small half-smile. "I like to think that knowing how to stay alive is one of the few benefits of my age."

@roquenxnar from here.

"...a necromancer's basement." a pause, wincing as she said it out loud.

"i didn't want to bring it back." fely'ene insisted, her voice small and clearly chastised. she admired beltan. in some ways she felt a small pang of jealousy for his granddaughter -- how lucky she was to have someone like him. yet, she also knew she had her brother. even if he was somewhere off the coast. which, given how things were currently was for the best, even if her heart ached with missing him. she hoped he was safe. perhaps next time they made it to a city of any size, she would see if she could get a message up to luskan.

she forces herself out of her own head, prestidigitation the remaining blood off of herself. "it felt wrong. like something in the back of my head was shouting it was bad. but astarion insisted." fely'ene looked down, clearly leaving the 'and i didn't want to push for my own thoughts' unspoken.

she looks up, "so we did. yet, something wouldn't stop nagging at me about how off it was. and it felt...dark, so i thought if i hit it with radiance, maybe it would fix it. i didn't think it was going to do what it did."

[roquenxnar]

orcristwielder​:

x. While Thorin did not have quite the liking to elves, this one had surely been different to those like King Thranduil. But the dwarf had still held his guard up no matter how nice the elder had been, there had been no chances that he would be taking when it comes to elves. When the other had patted the spot beside him Thorin had given in, simply giving a nod of acknowledgement and moved to sit beside the elder elf.

It seemed they all had that affect of angering others. Not that he was surprised to hear someone else offending another, but what had surprised him was that an elf ( from what he understood; elves could do no wrong, ) but here was this one who just stood out from the others. Strange, in his mind, that such a thing could occur and yet here he was.

Halanor.

The way the elf had spoken it was as if his younger brother, Frerin, had been reborn in a sense. Frerin was a warrior, a guard in the eyes of the dwarves, and he lost his life in the Battle of Moria not that long ago. To see Myndolin break off as he had and the expression that appeared briefly upon his features had Thorin furrowing his brows slightly in confusion. Scenery. A change of scenery had been at least one of the reasons why they’d wanted to settle there, the other had been resources of course. But they needed a home, as all of the Ereborean dwarrow had no place to call their own, now.

A nod had been given in agreement and then when the elder elf spoke up one last time, the word that caught the young dwarf’s attention was ’onya.’ Thorin’s head tilted a bit thick brows furrowing slightly, the thought to ask what the old one had meant by that word was at the very tip of his tongue. But instead he’d pushed the question back further in his mind, “Any son would leap at the chance to see their father again.” That was the case with the dwarves, though Thorin had not been quite certain about other races.

Indeed, he was certainly different from other elves— silver and white streaked hair, with the scratchy beginnings of a beard, he often found himself the subject of whispers even among his own kind; though the old knight hardly seemed bothered himself. As the dwarf sat beside him, Myndilon gave a good-natured laugh, and rocked back in his seat. "There's a good lad! Your poor legs likely need a good rest. You seem more than a bit road-weary. Oh! And where are my manners—" The elf dipped forward in a bow. "Myndilon, at your service."

He turned, and dug into his traveling pack to withdraw a small pipe-weed sack, and a short pipe, carved from bone and ancient wood.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, though he didn't much seem to care what the dwarf would have to say on the matter; a small spell of flame, and the pipe began to smoke. "You know," he said, turning to the younger man, "I find this stuff relaxing. Better than what I ever had in Himring, or even in Valinor!" He tapped the mouth of the pipe to his lip, his gaze falling on the space ahead, looking nowhere in particular. "Someone ought to take it west, when they go."

He fell silent as he listened to his young companion, puffing away at his pipe, and giving a nod of approval. "You sound like a good son," he said with a warm smile, but it fell to worry as he looked over Thorin's belongings. "I'm curious, though, how did you become separated from him?"

@roquenxnar // continued from here.

BRIGHT BLUES HAD WATCHED AS THE ELDER HAD MOVED, DENTED ARMOR clinking together. Thorin's head tilted catching the grimace the elder had given at the clinking, the brunette having kept his chuckle down. That was a sound he had been quite used to so it hasn't bothered him in the slightest, but it must have been a bit on the annoying side. "No offense taken." The dwarf replied, a nod being given in thanks.

His gaze followed the other, head tilting as he spoke. His grandson? Oh, oh. That had Thorin wondering though he would not ask his question outloud. Another nod had been given at the approval of staying, along with a small 'thank you' having been said by the royal in thanks for being allowed to stay and rest his head for the night.

The brunette moved to take a seat, glancing at the elder a moment before doing so. His gaze would shift back when Myndilon asked his question. A deep breath had been taken, his immediate response was always 'it's none of your business' to those who often asked. But this man was nothing more than generous and allowing a stranger to stay in his space - let alone a dwarf to do so, showed Thorin that he could let his walls down a tiny bit. "I am traveling to the Blue Mountains - Ered Luin, as some know it as." The Blue Mountains had been his home for sixty years, traveling back and forth between there and other places to work once more or meet with members of court.

"I had also heard word of my father being in the area." Thorin spoke, his tone soft at the mere mention of Thrain, whom he had not seen since Moria.

[roquenxnar]

The old elf wandered quite a lot these days, since returning from his capture— not far, certainly, and not for long enough to cause those of his family who remained to worry; much longer, and a search party would likely be sent out to find him. Myndilon drew a deep breath, taking in  the scent of the forest, and the peculiar smell of river water on the air. A lop-sided smile pulled at his lips when he noticed the Dunedain Chieftan, and he raised a hand, calling out to the man from a few meters away. "Ah! There you are!" he called. "I was beginning to believe the twins had finally frightened you away, Arador!"

He stopped, freezing for a moment like a deer in the sight of a hunter. Arador— that couldn't be right. Worry creased the elf's brow, and he looked lost, for a time, before shaking his head, and coughing into his arm. Myndilon folded his hands behind his back as he approached Arathron, drawing in a other breath of the crisp air.

"They're not bad, the twins. But you know how they love their mischief." He laughed, shaking his head slowly. He tilted his head, looking down at the man, ears flicking back in slight worry. "You're not leaving so soon, are you? It feels as though you just arrived for a visit! Though, I suppose I could be forgetting quite a lot. It happens more than I would like, these days."

For: Myndilon :: @roquenxnar Unspecified Muse: Arathorn

   There was a point at which his level of patience had a tendency to just... evaporate. And when that happened, it didn't bode well. Not many people actually managed to push him to that point though and those who did, preferred not to repeat the experience. Provided that they weren't dead that was; this was usually reserved for Orcs and anything or anyone in that category of evil.

Elladan and Elrohir on the other hand?

  They were in a category all of their own. Simply because they liked to try and test his patience more than once. Not that Arathorn had ever lost his temper with them yet. ...Although it wasn't from lack of trying. As much he appreciated the twins for getting him back to Rivendell in time to save his life, he also had a limit.

  A lone slate grey eye gazed out across the Bruinen Ford, hidden from sight. The Dunedain Chieftain wasn't in the slightest bit bothered about making himself known to folk. Elrond knew where to find if he was needed as did some of his kin. But no one else did and he was grateful for that.

  As the last of the sunlight started to fade away, Arathorn was thinking about moving to visit Tornhad. At least, until he heard footsteps nearing and stood up to see who it was. Not at all surprised to see the old elf.

"Myndilon."

[roquenxnar]

The old elf felt as if he were wading through a river, moving through the throngs of people in the little Tavern; he'd followed his grandson here, on a whim, and without the lad's knowledge, though it was hardly his fault. If Urnarseldo had told him he was going for a secret tryst, far from both the mountains of the Dwarves and the forests of the Elves, the ancient knight would have stayed behind, truly! But as it was, he'd been ordered to stay away from his grandson for the night, and keep from embarrassing the poor lad in front of his partner, short as their relationship would likely last.

Myndilon had only managed to knock a few things over this time— certainly better than his last visit to this little village! He settled with a groan at a table near the fire, pulling his cloak close, and huddling over his warm ale; how cold he managed to get these days. An ear flicked as he heard the little voice from the fire, and turned to face it— face her. A positively tiny dwarven girl, at least by his measure, with an ale of her own. He met her eyes, beaming down at her with a lop-sided smile. "Good evening, dear one!" he said, standing— and promptly knocking his armored knees on the table, before hitting his head on the low-hanging chandelier. He sat back with a grunt, rubbing his head, and brushing ash and dust from his silver hair.

He frowned at her question, ears flicking as he tilted his head. "I— I don't believe so," he said. "Where are we, little one? And more importantly, where are your parents?" He folded his arms over his chest. "How do I know you are not just as lost as I am?"

🔥 For Ragha, from Myndi! (@roquenxnar)

Ragha sat in front of the fire at the Prancing Pony... or, well, on a table in front of the fire at the Prancing Pony. She'd been dragged along by her brother... though he'd promptly abandoned the young dwarf as he hit it off with a handsome red-headed elf. But she didn't mind... she'd abandon him right back when it got late enough. But for now... there was weak ale and good food.

... and an old elf. A really old elf.

She didn't even know elves could get old. Ragha watched him stumble through the tavern... knock over a few things... then finally settle down on the table nearest her. Her head tilted, and she pulled at her braids thoughtfully... then inched closer.

"Hey... you lost?"

[roquenxnar]

If the old Sentinel caught Solas's displeasure, he certainly didn't show it— his smile remained as he looked up again, studying the statues that lined the grand keep's main hall, and the tapestries that hung from the rafters. "It does not match the splendor of Arlathan," he said, giving the other elf a gentle nudge with his elbow, "but it is far better than I expected! When I heard I would have to climb to some… gods-forsaken spot in the mountains, I expected a hovel, at best!" He gave a soft, rasping chuckle, and turned back to his apparent guide. "And to know that I will not be alone here is a comfort." His smile fell, though, as he listened, and began processing all Solas said, silvery brows furrowing.

"I know I have not ventured into the wider world for some time, but it simply is not possible— there were so many… and I believe I saw some of our own among your people—" He snapped his fingers, eyes brightening once more. "My wife! I will have to try to find my Silandawen." His smile returned, looking (at least for a moment) like a love-struck boy again. "You— and our Inquisitor, of course— will simply love her. She was a priestess of Mythal; she… she took our children North years ago, to try to find her family." His smile became strained, though he tried his hardest to maintain it. "The message of her safe arrival, surely, was simply waylaid."

The old man turned back to his newest companion, and offered a more gentle, genuine nod. "I certainly do not despair— in spite of it all, we still live! We can still help, and serve Mythal's purpose, or…" He frowned, eyes shifting up to look over where Solas's vallaslin should have been. "Or, whoever you decide to serve, one day. In the meantime… where have you been? I do not recognize you, but you do look familiar. Did your father, perhaps, serve the All-Mother?"

~ Solas's mouth twists slightly in displeasure as Myndilon claps him on the back and addresses him as da'len. He wasn't quite sure how old the Sentinel was, but Solas was certainly millennia older (not that it particularly mattered). Along with his wizened appearance, something told the elf that Myndilon wasn't quite all there -- perhaps that was why the other Sentinels had released him. Still, he was one of handful of his kinsman that still lived. ~

~ " Yes, " he confirms, his expressions falling a bit. " ...We are the last of the living Elvhen people. I survived the sundering by falling into uthenera, as your fellow Sentinels did. I suspect that others may yet still slumber, but... ". He shakes his head, letting out a short sigh. " ...I apologize that you must discover this so abruptly. But rediscovering the Temple has given me hope that more of our people may yet still live, sequestered away in hidden places. Despair has not won yet, lethallin. " ~

[roquenxnar]

The ancient paladin rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms over his head… and trying to follow his grandson's gaze over the water. He leaned over— how small the lad still was!— and tapped him on the shoulder, before pointing across the water, into the darkness. "You see that? I took your mother's father there to fish, several times; oh, those little creatures would go mad for the bread from this inn! You could hardly pull your line in fast enough!" He laughed, rocking back— very nearly too far.

"As for the magic, it will help, when I join you. I may not have seen these particular shades before, but no darkness can stand against the Light." Myndilon hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, eyes closing for just a moment. "I will teach you; you may be hesitant, but you've nothing to fear— nothing at all! You have got your grandmother's heart, and my blood in your veins; it will be easy for you to learn."

The young ranger's insistence, though, that he stay behind, made him stumble backward, nearly stumbling over his own shield he'd so carelessly left at his side. His ears flushed a deep red, and he righted himself slowly. "You have not 'brought' me anywhere, my boy; I followed you here of my own volition— I swore a solemn oath to protect these lands, and you. I will not allow myself to fail either." He cleared his throat. "Besides, it is rather too late for me to be 'getting' older— that ship has long sailed, I am afraid! Several centuries ago!"

Hal couldn't help but smile as he felt the divine magic wash over him; it felt warm, cleansing. He gave a nod, looking perhaps just a bit less tired than before, and followed his grandfather to the railing. His gaze fell to the murky and viscous surface of the water surrounding the inn. How anything could live there, he couldn't say. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the railing as the old elf did, and rested his bow against it. (He had no need for weapons in their sanctuary.)

"Right as rain, indeed. I wish that magic could do something for the shades," he said, his voice trailing off in a soft chuckle... though it lacked any humor. There was little humor to be found in this cursed land, and the promise he'd made to protect the ancient paladin proved more difficult to keep by the day. At his grandfather's statement, he looked up, brows knitting as he turned to face the old elf.

"Grandfather," he murmured, "That... that is not a good idea. I know you want to help but... this place—" He trailed off, eyes scanning the other shoreline. He could just barely catch the lurching gait of a shadow-cursed githyanki through the fog. He looked back up to Myndi. "You're getting older, Grandfather. I shouldn't have even brought you out here." Hal shook his head. "There's no shame in resting at your age. And if any of my companions say differently, you can tell them I said to 'stuff it.'"