Ohtatyaro; simply, 'warrior'.
I know not why or what has breathed life back into me, aroused a stirring in my breast for the world again, but it is renewed. And 'twas not my time away from this place that has done it, nay! Rivondir and Lamaenon came to me and said to me thus; my coloring was indeed fine, but I had naught that was worthy of the Halatirrhim. My reaction was predictably reluctant, for I was half unwilling to change. I am an oldsome creature, habitual and set. But when the mirk-elf left and returned in what was 'uniform' by Lamaenon's telling, I was less concerned.
By the time I was outfitted and the armor cut to my body, I looked a different creature. I find myself unduly fond of this change, this .. newness. To think a cosmetic and superficial thing could induce a sense of wholeness is comical, but true it is whether I do not like it or do. Unknown to them, alone I stood vainly in front of the reflective sheen of my shield in admiration; I have not been so consciously aware of my appearance in many years, many years in the past when I was less concerned with the world and more with women.
My trunk with my old armor is still and unused, though my blade shines upon the top of it, near; caun Rivondir has started to try and convince me to travel with them again, and I have conceded enough to do at least small patrols around nearer lands. The Great River and all that lies associated with it in my mind-- my brother, chiefly-- still leaves a clenching in my chest at times.
... I should oil my bladed harp. There is a telling in the back of my thoughts that says it will be needed, soon.
