1866-08-31: Remembrance
Summary: The Cassomir Manse in Sunsreach plays host to an unusual guest, who muses about past, present and future.
Date: 1866-08-31
Related: None

Lon the Elder regarded himself in the body-length mirror that leaned against one wall of the guest quarters he had been ensconced in, and gave a snort at the image looking back. He had worn such clothing before, of course, but that had been in the fashions of centuries past, and even millennia. In a way, he would have felt less awkward in armor, or the hardened combat leathers of rangers or the Huntresses. Still, at least some thought had been given to what might be comfortable and familiar to him, as it was leathers that clad him, albeit the type most often called "riding leathers." He had learned to ride, very long ago, and even once been named a Knight of Castoria by none other than Julian Castor himself. Not that such title meant much to him, nor had he utilized those particular skills in so long that they may as well have been forgotten.

He remembered Julian Castor though…sometimes he wondered if he seemed to better remember the people who had made their marks upon history because they truly were impressive and remarkable or whether it was because he heard so much of them through other people that their memory remained comparatively fresh in his mind while others faded.

Julian Castor had been shorter than people expected. Lon remembered that. But he was strong, and clever, and people loved him. Castor had never questioned why Lon had to depart on the eves of the Twin Moons, and Lon had been grateful for that quiet acceptance. Grateful enough to stay and fight by his side for a time. In turn, he never knew whether Castor had suspected the truth, or perhaps simply assumed it was some ritual of worshipping (to him) heathen Gods that demanded Lon's absence. When Lon had finally said it was time to move on, Castor had already gone grey from age and the pressures of rulership, which did not sit so comfortably upon him as many believed. Castor had smiled sadly, and bequeathed him a great sum of coin and a fine horse and sent him on his way. Lon had long since forgotten the exact words he had spoken.

He remembered that time, and some of the days that followed. He remembered how the air tasted differently then. How hope seemed to quicken in the hearts of men as they strived towards Empire. Of late he had begun to taste that flavor upon the air once more. Creation trembled…whether in eager anticipation or fear he could not say, but it was a time of change. Greater change than most. Of that much, Lon was certain.

Was that then, why he had again taken to interacting with humans? Even living among them? Teaching them? Forming with them bonds of affection not granted since before this land called the Edge had ever seen the footsteps of Imperial Scouts? Did he have some part to play still? He had thought his anonymous place in the history of men fulfilled in making sure Castor lived to see his Kingdom achieved. He hadn't done it for reward…simply for the knowledge that Julian Castor had been a man that strived for something beyond himself, and whose vision, while no doubt beneficial to himself, also brought hope and order to humanity in the wake of the Sundering. For a time, it gave Lon purpose, but perhaps in seeing Castor's own disappointments in the political infighting that came in the wake of Kingship, the old changeling too had lost some faith in the vision.

He had answered the summons of another who would soon be a King, delivered by his brother, who had shown enough respect to deliver the message in person and enough caution to be armed and armored in its' delivery. But that was not amiss…The Huntress-sisters, elder and younger had more trust in him than their brothers, and yet the Eldest brother…the leader of their pack…had sent for him. He had barely met the man but he was summoned. The man who had killed a wife and son had called, and he had answered with little hesitation. He held no malice for the deaths…they had succumbed to the Beast…to the Moon-Madness, and the Silver Blades had done their work, as they had since the days he they called the One God had walked Creation. Lon remembered him too.

He had almost not remembered to feign "Gate Sickness" after the transit. He was not sure how convincing a performance he put on, but the Path-Watchers had not questioned him or seemed suspicious. He had been escorted to the home of the Cassomir Tribe. No…House, that was what they called their tribes now. Houses.

The clothes had been provided to him before his trip, with the young pup explaining that if he were to be an honored guest of the family, he should look the part. "Made Presentable" the young pup had said. Not a noble's finery, exactly, but enough to set him apart from being a simple old woodsman, which of course he had never been to begin with, but the deception was an old and comfortable one. This? This was something else.

For a moment, he relaxed, and allowed his true face to appear. Another grunt of laughter came at the realization that the attire actually was more flattering in that form, but for now he would need to retain the appearance of age, lest more questions be asked. Some he did not mind, but even thousands of years of life could not give one truly endless patience. The lines of his face and the thick beard returned, the flesh taking on the tanned and leathery cast he was so accustomed to now.

She was here. He had caught her scent when he had been escorted in. For a moment he wondered if She might be amused some day to hear of "The Indefatigable Sir Lon." Sometimes he wondered if somewhere in the vast expanse of Empire to the East, there might still be some dusty old parchment that named him and spoke of those days.

No matter, She already knew more than most. Even more than her sister, the one who had uncovered him, who in her own way now doted upon him like a favored pack-elder. Wait…no. "Uncle" was the word they would use. He imagined the Elder Huntress would likely come to him first, if the Eldest Brother did not. But She was there, and for now, that was a surprising comfort. Dangerous that, but he had never shied from danger.

No doubt lessons would entail. Something to look forward to, at least. The comfort of purpose. The relative certainty of direction. Things often painfully elusive for one with the span of eternity to contemplate them. A war-hound whose masters had long ago uncollared him with no care to his fate beyond that freedom.

A knock on the door sounded, and Lon turned. After a moment more, he strode across the room to answer….

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License