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Date Uncertain - best estimate, late Ches or early Tarsakh, Year of the Staff
Ferns and moss floated middair, dangling roots and small clods of earth, arranged in a rough circle around the blue robed figure. He was carefully running his hands over the bole a fat oak tree, delicate fingers probing and caressing the bark as if he were reading braille from it. In a sense perhaps he was.
Ilrune was by far the oldest member of the small community, something even an N'Tel'Quess could have recognised. There were few elves anywhere on Faerun with as many wrinkles as lined his pale face, the bronze skin of his gold elven heritage now just a deep tan. His hair was snow white, though in his youth it had been a rich golden colour - so long ago he could hardly even recall those days - and his eyes had a vague mistiness to them, their golden colour somewhat dim.
Those dim eyes weren't fully focused on the present, the new surroundings still making assosiations his mind was slow to understand. For too many years he had lived in isolation and away from the peace that a community of elves brings. The quiet sylvan morning was stirring memories of years ago and gardening and he was exploring them like a man returning home after a long journey, only to forget he had ever left. His home - his new home, a quiet voice told him - was this tree and it was only fitting that it be honoured according to the best of his talents. He gestured and one of the ferns slid into place in a small crack in the bark and moss quickly followed to back it in. Ilrune turned to consider where the next would be placed, something which he might ponder for an hour or so.
The High Mage of Everlaen, the only one of his kind for thousands of miles, was content. Slowly his dwelling was being perfected. Very slowly. But time was one thing he had in abundance, for Ilrune Irythil had died millennia ago.