Lynch had already experienced the eccentric personality of the Great Druid the last time he saw him. Anything unrelated to Heather, this Druid would never listen to. He would quietly stand aside, stroking a staff crafted from a branch burned in the fires of war, his mind filled solely with thoughts of his fellow elves; but the moment anything related to Heather arose, even if it was but a single blade of grass turning yellow, he would perk up and personally go to inspect it. Heather seemed to be his everything, his life and honor, the source of his power to live eternally.
Behind him were some ancient elves, the sages here, who had weathered countless trials. Even an eternal race could not escape the erosion of time. The elves present, except for Her Majesty the Empress, all unwittingly borne wrinkles.
However, in the eyes of outsiders, these wrinkles bore not the slightest hint of age; they more resembled signs of long labor, representing wisdom, imbued with memories.
