He's tired. So very, very tired, and it reflects in the way he walks across the field; his hooves drag slightly on the grounds while his head hangs low. The way Mannon carries himself one could easily pinpoint the constant emptiness that lives inside his body. The man's head is empty as each step pushes him closer to his goal: Finding Ithilien. His brother, the last ties he has to a true home, the last of his family. He trudges through the snow in such a way that it easily announces his presence, the sound of his body pushing through it like a plow with crunching fills the air.

He knows she's not actually there, he knows that she's gone. Wholly, utterly, completely gone from the mortal realm and that Roheryn will never come back. He knows it, his heart knows it, his soul, and every inch of him is terribly aware of this. And yet he can't let go of her; Mannon clings to the memories of his late wife like a child clings to the shirt of their parent. The painted man knows that nursing his heartbreak is anything but healthy for him, oh God he's been reminded of that one too many times in his life, but she was his everything. No. No she is his everything, even now when so many years have passed by. Yet Mannon has never forgotten the softness of her voice, the caring lavender of her eyes, the ever gentle face that had tended to his wounds while she scolded him, and the soul that captured him like one would capture a firefly in the summer nights.

His mind was devoid of thought when he had first entered the fields but in this moment she fills every groove in his brain. He can hear her, smell her pushing him forward with the gentle touch of a breeze. Roheryn's memory tells Mannon that he can find Ithilien, he can make it another day, he can still find a life worth living. With a heavy sigh he pauses in his steps to look up at the night sky, to stare into the cold gleam of the moon as a pain strikes his chest. "Ten' lle Amin caela auta no' melamin." The words are whispered softly into the wind, his pale eyes close with a deep intake of the cold winter air.

"Talk."
NATIVE LANGUAGE, HOVER OVER ME
Thoughts
Amarië

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Was it his age that had made him less attentive to the world around him? Perhaps it was simply that Mannon was too lost in his own grief; too consumed by the ache in his chest to notice the sound of another. He didn't hear the crunch of snow, he barely registered the feeling of someone else's presence until they spoke.

An ear swivels back, a puff of breath visible, pale eyes open, lowering his head he cranes his neck slightly to look over his shoulder. For a second one could suspect the painted man of being blind from the paleness of his eyes; it's only the way his eyes roam over the other that shows he can indeed see. Confusion shows on his face for a moment while he registers the words, ears tipping back with his brow furrowing until it clicks. He was speaking in common tongue and the realization wipes the confusion off with his ears snapping forward. "Forgive me, it's been a year or two since I've heard the common tongue." Mannon offers a smile with a nod of his head to confirm he's ''Okay.'' "Yes. Yes I... I suppose you could say I'm okay." He makes a note that Jarek is taller than him, tall enough to tower over the former warrior. There's a brief thought that if he's wandered into an aggressive land full of giants then he's most likely going to be accumulating more scars.

The tattooed man turns to fully face Jarek, bowing his head just enough to be polite. After all Mannon is not familiar with the cultures of this world but he'll take a guess that, just like in Isilme, it is also considered polite here. "A pleasure Jarek. I am Mannon." A soft hum comes from deep in his chest with a twitch of his ears, he's thinking of something. But he's not lost in his own world again, he's now well aware of the other being despite his eyes traveling away from Jarek and into the shadows. Mannon's humming comes to a sudden stop and his eyes snap back to the taller stallion. "You wouldn't happen to know this land would you nessa er?" It's clear that the older one means no offense with the term, he's not entirely sure if the other one will understand him but nevertheless Mannon has now dubbed him ''Young one.'' "Young one, a term of ''endearment'' I suppose you could say. Though I'm unsure if those are given out freely in this land? Forgive me if I am mistaken."

"Talk."
NATIVE LANGUAGE, HOVER OVER ME
Thoughts
Amarië

Tags » @Jarek
Voice »
OOC » Thought I might add for reference: His native language is Elvish!