In times of war, it will seem like a very long time. [ all the losses, piling atop one another, the endless running, following his father with the last of the sinda of doriath who had followed them, his knives and bows constant companions-- he slips near into reverie without realizing it, but comes back to himself smoothly. he pinches the braid between thumb and forefingers, running his hand through his hair and returning with a strand that he uses to bind the first braid up for lack of other options, then takes another lock, starting the braid that means 'hunter'. ] In peace, it will pass in an instant.

[ he realizes, amused, that he's hardly had his age come up. cyril, he may have told, but what's the point? curious, he asks: ] How many years do you think I've lived?

[ he hums, softly, a few notes from the lay, and yes, he'd be able to grasp the concept but the explanation would be... an interesting demonstration of just how embarrassed beleth could get. ]

I cannot help but wish one of my marchwardens might come to Thedas. His help would be immeasurably useful-- and there is one in particular I would have liked for you to meet. When is the next gathering? There ought to be plenty of young men for you to meet then. Or perhaps someone from the city?