General Faelor Milam

General Faelor Milam was going to lose his godsdamned mind if one more soft advisor opened his mouth on matters of war. What did a scholar know of battle? Nothing. His calloused fingers tightened on the wooden arm of his chair, his face set in an annoyed grimace. His chair creaked under his strength, his knuckles turning white as he grit his teeth. Only for his King would he hold his tongue. When the Aerandir pup, Crown Prince Loranil, opened his mouth to say his peace, he nearly groaned with the increase in throbbing from his headache.

He closed his eye, drawing in an impatient breath. It seemed ages before the council was finally concluded, and as usual nothing had been decided. What did it matter that the orcs had raided another elven village on the outskirts of Elaris? They would do nothing, the prince had decided, in the name of peace. Gods, Faelor was tired of peace. He longed for the days of combat, where he could leave behind the annoyances of court and put his sword to use… Put himself to use. At this rate he’d die in that uncomfortable wooden chair, reminded of his aches and longing for days of glory and… and something warm… Someone warm. But, no, those days were gone, and now he had only himself and his duty to his king.

Faelor shoved open the heavy oaken doors, carved with elven intricacies, and made his way promptly to the training field. He shoved out of his armor, long denied a polish and dented with use, and he strung up his long hair into a messy bun. Squaring off with his wooden opponent, his scarred muscles rippled with each familiar movement, each strike flowing like water into the next - a dance of experience and habit as he lost himself in the thunk, thunk of sharpened steel against wood, grunting with the shooting pains that shot through his joints - reminders from wounds and abuse that had never been given the proper time and rest to heal.