Mathelio Derlin

[Deleted]

Appearance

Mathelio’s face is like a neatly weathered slice of granite. It is a little obscured by a short grey beard, adorning a firm jaw line, as if only to aid in the judging of recruits. His eyes of a dark hazel speak of the shadows of memory yet remain set to gleam into the long nights of the watch, if not with the same acuity of youth. A grizzled nose with a slight scar sits 'nobly' above slim pale lips and below an eternal furrowed brow. Almost completely grey hair, like a finely powdered dusk, is kept to a neat trim at the ears, befitting his station. Some rustic humanity seems to animate his steps that mixes and measures something of the indomitable, intelligent and persuasive, which yet flows to an outer being that presents no disguise of feature or shape…

History

An Andoran farmer recruited into the ‘Defenders of the Flame’ days before the Battle of the Shining Walls, 978NE, beneath the reign of High Captain Azil Mareed, Mathelio witnessed and was marked by the great ‘Blood Snow’ from the vantage of the wall. He had, since then, carved out a life as a ‘Career Bannerman’, yet also taken possessively and intensely to the collection of notes from Tar Valon's archives on the lessons of past wars. Though he has now gracefully retired from the service of Tar Valon, he leaves behind men he knows could soon replace him in his work.

The open time caused by the absence of duty greets a veteran. Absolute loyalty and service to a single point open to new possibilities that Mathelio might choose. A service to other causes..that he might decide for himself? But before leaving Tar Valon, he remembers an old friend long buried in emotion and pain. Rough hands ponder over the odd shape, found like an emaciated corpse discarded amidst drab clothes, tilting and turning. The fingers ponder and move delicately, slowly unwrapping. Faster now. Rhythmically. Bonds of bleached bone-like cloth fall aside. In view arises a scabbard and a hilt bearing symmetrical Herons on either side.

[Deleted]

Black Tower Infirmary

With the help of Kaira and Nelle, and Montolio’s gate, Math, barely breathing a word, nor paying attention to just where he had been taken, arrived at the Black Tower infirmary. After several days of observation, it became quite clear that Mathelio’s injuries had been attended to. The rest of his flesh wounds had been knitted, the impact trauma diminished, and the blood supply increased to replace what had been lost. But his face remained pale, stretched thin over oddly fragile looking bone. New creases seemed to be evident, his cheeks sunken. Only the presence of his beard really masked what more might have been discerned upon his old visage. Granite, one could say, looked to have become weak sandstone. And he had barely moved in the infirmary bed. At least one was found for him quickly, unlike the stark slab Shan was placed on. It would be noted that occasionally his eyes might flicker open, or he would manage some water and a little food, but they remained deeply sad. Those dark hazel eyes of his had become misty and haunted by something recent, more than simply the old age which for sometime had been taking its toll on his sight. They seemed to see nothing in the room, really, as if looking to something else, toward a “film reel” going round and round without end.

What would such a “film” show? Perhaps it would evidence the pattern of an Andoran farmer travelling to Tar Valon and being so horrified by the carnage of Blood Snow, beneath the Shining Walls, that he had at first fled his post. That would explain why it had taken him so many years to become a Bannerman, and never reached any higher. Perhaps it would simply show too many years of training, and too many years of wielding a sword without a radical change in style. Or maybe it would show the tragedy of a blade arriving always too late, just out of time, a little out of place, a heron that didn’t quite know where to roost. And then, it could also be showing the loss of his wife and the increasing absence of family until only a void remained, as the relative isolation of Tar Valon and the rigors of the Defenders of the Flame fully embraced him.

As is well known, really old age is generally for the rich and powerful in the Westlands. Though a Blademaster, Math could not accurately be called either. Terribly stressed as well as somewhat drained from healing, the process had accelerated. Shan, Joase and Michelle had tried their best with him, of course, but none were healers proper, and he was old. But it was not so much the injuries that told on him, but the vitality which had fled and resigned. His eyes were the true key—those barren eyes—which showed no glimpse of futurity. No doubt this was related to an act of desperation.

He had spent his last breath. In those delicate hazy moments, still wounded, only partly healed, drained, tired, and barely able to stand, he had unfolded the fan one last time. His blade had whistled free of its sheathe, the precise length of steel parting the air. The walls of that insane room, and one could truly have gone mad in there, filled with so many powerful people, had wavered like a dream, the others disappearing. A variation on unfolding the fan, a reflexive blocking motion, he had adjusted his wrists and propelled the flat of the blade into the man before him. It didn’t work. Dulled strength in practiced hands ended with a pathetic shunt. On that, the spark vanished like the fleeting glimpse of a rare firefly, before it became lost again from view, beginning with the slump of his shoulders. Math’s core emptied as he witnessed the younger man about to die, from his point of view, uselessly. It was too much for the tired and injured man to bear. All of his hope had been pinned on that moment, on a final stroke that would have hit his mark and knocked the man to one side, so that Mathelio might return to the pattern in his place. He had lain injured, replaying those moments in his private ‘reel’. If only I had not been quite so tired. Or, perhaps, what if I had sought to cut the man’s foot, in hope of distraction. Maybe I should have cut off his hand, at least then he would be alive. Perhaps deception would have worked. What if I had shook his hand and then reached past? Or what if I could have been somehow more persuasive? What would have unlocked the other man’s desire to spend his years more wisely, doing good things? Maybe I should have head-butted him. Or given him a dirty knee, for the first time in my life. Or perhaps smashed his nose with the hilt of my blade. But what if it had gone wrong? Maybe a bear-hug would have worked. Sheathing the sword would have been no help either. Or, could I have shouted for an Aes Sedai or Asha’man to hold him in air quickly enough?…

It just was not to be. One might describe the body in the Black Tower infirmary bed with an appropriate Blademaster form. It was as if an image of ‘The Creeper Embraces the Oak’ had become the body or consumed it whole, voraciously, but with a deadly stillness and lack, such that it appeared devoid of anything but a reference to the strangling fingers of the creeper. On some day, a shaking hand would force its way through a few of the crusty vines, and reach down by the bed to painfully rest upon a small golden Heron mark seated on the guard of a fine blade. Math would rest limp fingers there, lined with age and use of flexing and movement, being unable to bear its weight to his body or chest. His eyes would follow in closing, displaying a last flicker of failure, resignation, and a life stretched out too long.

It was said, once, at a great siege, long ago, that where the Heron sang people found hope. One less voice participates in that fell chorus, if indeed that is what it was.

//Thanks to all present at the event, including Zachari, Michelle, Luke, Nelle, Shan, Montolio, Kaira and Joase (char names) for help making it great.

Thanks especially to Kaito for the formulation of an event that was so epically long. It takes a lot of energy, skill and concentration to put such together and deal with intricacies coming from a host of PCs in a swift and timely manner. It also featured deep NPC depth, which both Cap and I commented on. This resulted, for me, in a very organic moment of decision making, where my character felt compelled to act, and although surrounding circumstances led to the above (main text), a relatively 'peaceful' passing in such a manner seemed definitely the right way to go given Math's background, history (all on this server version) and other surrounding circumstances.

[Deleted]

//Thanks to patrickbob for the tomb inscription on the WT forum: srweaves.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=inthelibrarysrtwt&thread=229&page=1#1030

Jan 9, 2014 3:20:57 GMT -5 Necro-367 said:

Gabriel would be seen posted by the bedside of Mathelio Derlin as he lay deceased. He would stand unmoved, for easily over 20 hours, movingly only once to seek insurance that the Blademaster's burial preparations were being made. He quickly returned to his post in the Infirmary shortly after. Gabriel would grow incredibly tired looking due to the lengthiness of the preparations, but he would stand straight and true, waiting none the less. He is more than likely incredibly hungry, also.

If there was one thing in death that the man could have looked back on in the present, it was this. Something he had felt proud of in life was the relationship between him and Gabriel. Mathelio had trained with him closely and discussed many aspects of life, duty and tactics. He had seen him almost as the son he'd never had, although would never admit to such. Though retirement had left their relationship a little distant, it was perhaps the knowledge that he had trained a capable replacement that both allowed him to retire in the first place and that had helped sustain him this long. May they meet again in a new weaving of the pattern.