Advisor of Sollia

Advisor of Sollia, once hermit of the tower for reasons known to only a few, the figure stood in a dark cloak that hooded his head. Eyes wondered the land he had occupied almost ten years ago and made him curious. There was no staff he held on to, nor was there an object made obvious as he walked the streets to the castle. A bit standoffish, but he removed the hood to reveal long locks tied back into a braid and a pair of bright blue eyes that hopefully proved inviting. The only thing in his hand was a note with the mark of the mages.

Busy in the stables, he didn’t expect to be given company yet as the figure approached, he stood from picking his horse’s hooves and leaned against the stable. “Pass me that brush there if you would be so kind.” He requested, pushing off the stable to pat the painted mare on her neck.

“If their majesties wish for such activities or perhaps pleasantries, they would ask me themselves. My talents are mine to reveal to those I choose. I appreciate your question, but if you wish to know, find more courage to ask me out of the shadows.”

It had been some time since he’d been to the mountains of Bergia yet he could smell the wilderness in Sollia. Appearing not too far from him, the brown hair and white skin of Bergia seemed to shine among the tanner skinned crowd, creating a slight smirk of his lips. “Far from home, Bergian.” He teased, hand on the hilt of his sheath but casually, almost as if it was a part of him.

Much hasn’t changed, so he thought as he stood in the palace in the same spot he had not ten years ago, however as he stared up at the paintings and saw a bit of desolation to some of the artwork he had a hand in gathering at least on one occasion, he turned to the footsteps coming closer and offered a smile. A sheathed sword stayed sheathed at his side but moved with him even under the light robe he wore. “I will admit I didn’t expect this.” Elias motioned the artwork but could only manage a laugh. Solan, though appreciative, would see much stock in paintings after all. “Tell me, who is the rebel?”

Turning in place, his sheathed sword at his hip, he was standing by the window attempting to catch a few more rays of the setting sun when he felt a presence move closer. He didn’t make an attempt to turn his attention towards them, at least not yet for the sun felt comfortable on his skin but when the last of the rays fell back, he turned to give the royal his attention. “Your royal highness?” He asked, giving him room to express his needs.

The sense of power was comforting not only in the ways of familiarity but for the idea that he wasn’t alone no matter how much time he spent alone. Of course the specific weakness of admittance would never be spoken aloud, he did enjoy the feel of magic admitting from other of his kind. As long as he’s lived, he wasn’t immune to the idea that he needed to be nearer to them more and more, but he would fight it as long as he was able because of who he was. After the disaster happened to the islands, he woke form his year of sleep to feel the land of Metia hurting. Not just the people but the land itself. Solan was prayed to when he woke and every night before he went to sleep. Finding himself on the Valtolian border, it didn’t take him too long to arrive in the capital city. He would see the people before questing back to Sollia.