Birdsong is here at last and more than welcome. Knox strolls the territory feeling, for a moment, lighter. His burdens are behind him. He hears the birds in the trees and forgets the sorrow of the year he is slowly putting behind him.

Time, though, is as fickle as memory. He patrols uselessly, wanders endlessly, and as soon as it becomes clear to him that he has no real reason to be moving about he becomes restless and his mind begins to wander. Wander to the end of things, to the loss he has suffered, and to the pain, that pain, and the end.

Though perhaps he'll never realize it, Knox is lucky to have a father as good as Roanne. It's only moments after the distraction of the past begins to overtake the hunter that he is relieved, and under the safe cover of his cloak he takes on the Sentinel's silken form.

{Roanne:} Be stull, my chuyuld. The old ruler of the mystic woodlands coos, his inner voice a lullaby to the son he could never hold close. And Knox is too broken, too readily exhausted by the prospect of facing the death and abandonment of his beloveds, to resist. Let Roanne be the strong one and relish the Birdsong day; the hunter will rest in soft silence.

Spurred by the same sense of duty that Knox uses to distract himself, Roanne weaves through the open wood until he finds a path that his descendant recognizes as one traveled by the Mountain that Knows. Perhaps the Sentinel misses his days of glory as a herd lead, and handing out assignments and rewarding the skilled is something he's trying to relive. Perhaps he simply wants to feel that Dragon's cold touch one more time.

Whatever the reason, he finds himself uncloaked and lying in wait for the clever mare. He's not sure what she chose to do with her prize but he's proud of how she earned it, and if he can convince her to use such skills for the good of the herd, well... who is he to shirk such a noble duty?

"Speak"

There is enough light that the sentinel sees well, despite the partial blindness that Knox lends him for the sake of comfort. After all, the Sentinel had spent most of a lifetime learning to see in shadows, it was difficult to be reintroduced to the light.

When Knox isn't being honest with himself, he considers his father's chosen handicap to be foolish and a sign of emotional weakness. You only stay blind because you can't bear to face a world that goes on without you, he hisses in those moments, each word gross and seething.

But then there are times when Knox wakes and cannot bear to be the sun. Those times he understands. Those times, he covers himself in the magic of shadow, too.

Now, though, he isn't anything. Knox disappears, fading into his own memories and taking unhealthy delight in them. He shouldn't dwell, he shouldn't live in the past, but there... well, in the past, she is alive. It's an easier reality for him to face, even if it doesn't truly exist anymore.

Roanne keeps an internal eye on his descendant, but is alert in all other senses. A short lifetime of living hindered has not been forgotten, and he turns his attention to what his ears and nose can pick up. He doesn't miss it, when she arrives. After all, she's hard to miss.

Softly, the Sentinel smiles.

Though he doesn't know the meaning of Hubris' whistle, but he's pleased to hear that the dragon is with her and doesn't hesitate to put forth a greeting. He turns to face the direction of the sound and snorts, flaring the nostrils that Hubris held so gently when they first and last met.

"Hubrus, it is gud tuh see yuh," the Sentinel says as he takes a smooth step forward. His gold eyes blink slowly and he waits a few moments more before addressing the mare that he scents and half-sees in the light.

"I wus hoping yuh would find me hur, Mountunn," Roanne adds after another breath of quiet. He is careful with his words--careful to credit her with finding him, rather than suggest he was finding her. After all, he hoped to highlight her talents rather than his own. He didn't question his own skill, and he was already using it for good.

"Speak"

It's a matter of limitation rather than observation. Roanne the Sentinel is after all always watching, always guarding, and always taking in the scene. But there are some things that he would need sharper eyes to pick up, and the silent growth about Isopia's hooves falls into that category.

Hubris, however, makes himself abundantly clear. The dark one's lips turn up slightly as he hears the dragon galumphing closer, and he takes a step back in play, as if he needs to brace himself for the young dragon's approach. Hubris might be big, but he's still only a child and Roanne will always be bigger. Unlike most others in his ancient line, the Sentinel has no fear of dragons.

He smells the offering first and then smells its, well, absence as the young dragon covers it in frost. The earthy scent is hidden beneath cold, but Roanne is not deterred. He noses the weed and the hands that hold it, determining from how they're held that the plant is meant for him, and he accepts it with a slow blink of thanks and quiet grace. He delicately grips it between his teeth, thankful now for their slight softness as he does his best not to crush the stem or the ice-covered blossom. It fits easily in his mane, so tangled and already filled with leaves as it is. Though he doesn't test it with a rough shake, Roanne expects the bloom to stay until his descendant's next shift, at the very least.

He gives Hubris one last nudge before looking up, tilting his head curiously at Isopia as if it is he with the question rather than her. Why?

"Becus yuh are taluntud," he tells her frankly, not seeing a reason to hide the honest truth of her skill when surely a mare as aware as she knows of it. "I had a task fur yuh, if yuh wurr up tuh the challunge," Roanne adds, this next blink even slower.

When he closes his eyes he sees Knox's face, Knox's pain, Know's hurt, and he knows that there's nothing he can do. When he opens them, there are only the shadows of Hubris, the Mountain, and the day once more.

"Speak"

Another smile. Always now, in this blissful afterlife, the Sentinel is smiling. He takes a deep breath in, taking in the scent of the mare once he hears her move closer. She smells of the earth, but then again so does he. Is it the Hidden Falls or the leaf moulding in his mane? Is it the Earth God Knox tells him of in dreams and the night, or is it something else? Roanne has no respect for gods, no love for the arcane powers that cursed him when he lived and tortured him when he was powerless, so perhaps it's for the best that he doesn't know Isopia's origins.

His long tail shifts slightly, brushing dirt softly into his tangled feathers. Perhaps some might see the dusty stallion as a wreck, but he is kingly in the disorder of his body. He doesn't look unkempt so much as regal. He might not have the magic to blend into the earth that the darkraven does, but he still appears as if he is a part of it.

Knox blinks his father's gold eyes slowly as if to try and see through them, but there are still only shadows. Still only shadows, still only hurt, still only the absence of the one he needs the most. When he blinks again, Roanne returns with all the diplomacy of his living days.

"Hiddun Falls ullusors have bun using their skulls tuh gain ruhcruits fur the hurd. Yuh share their wit, their talunts," Roanne explains, pausing for a moment to consider how to proceed. On whose authority does this come from? More importantly, whose word will Isopia respect? Is he vain in thinking that maybe his own is the best to invoke?

"I think yuh culd do good fur the hurd."

I. As if this body knows who that is, anymore.

"Speak"

"What is it you would have me do?"

Roanne smiles, his face lifted by young and gentle corners to reveal the good in his heart: the same good that his son cannot keep a grip on. Together, though, they rejoice in this small victory. The Darkraven on their side will do them good and strengthen their small bandit force of intelligence gatherers.

Her scent is commingled with that of the earth but it is still strong; strong enough for him to move closer to. He extends his lips as carefully as he can, but with his vision so limited it's hard to tell if he'll brush her accidentally as he does. With no one else around to hear but the ghost of a dead companion and the innocence of another, Knox provides her with quiet instruction. If she wishes to aid him still, this secret is how.

The Sentinel and his son step back in unison and nod smoothly, slowly. "Shuld thuh opportunity uhppeal tuh yuh, yuh have your ordurs," he says firmly, his voice now more commanding than before. The moment of near-silent intimacy has passed, for Roanne and his progeny are not one to maintain closeness. He turns to depart but moves slowly, should she wish to stop him. He knows of her wings, the power she has to take flight. In that moment, he envies its grace as he begins to leave.

Suddenly he stops and turns back, remembering something he has forgotten. Hubris, of course. Something like a whistling hum slides out from between his lips: a special noise, one borrowed from Knox and Manhattan's days together. It's a quiet and special goodbye.

Let the dragon and mare know they have a friend in the old Sentinel's ghost.

"Speak"