The mirror was tilted back just so. Jodiah Ayreg was standing, shirtless, in front of that mirror and staring at himself.

He had been like this for nearly half-an-hour now, pressing and pulling at the skin of his face. The thick wrinkles marring his brow. The severe lines over his cheekbones. The slightly "loose" skin on the underside of his jaw.

That was, perhaps, the worst. It made him feel out of shape.

The death knight, it could be said, had almost never been out of shape in his life. He was born and bred for battle, after all, and men such as he tended to take on either one of two appearances: monstrously well-muscled, or lean and hungry.

It could be said, by some, that the death knight himself took the lean and hungry approach. That was fine by his reckoning -- warriors were better lean than they were otherwise, and a fattened warrior was a lazy warrior.

Still. Things had started to weigh heavily on his mind.

His recent trip to the Shadowlands, for one. How far had he run, feeling ready for his heart to simply explode out of his chest and end his misery? How long ago had it been that he had to run like that? On a battlefield, a man could move for long distances, hours at a time, and just plainly not notice it. He used to do this quite frequently in his younger days.

Back when there were battles to be fought...

But now? It seemed like a fifteen minute sprint nearly sucked what's left of his life out of his body.

What were the options? The horse? Jodiah Ayreg had spent nearly a week strait in the saddle, ferreting out information all over Rhilshen of the disposition the provinces, their leaders, and their citizenry had for their Emperess, Alysia Skye. Now, granted, it may have just been the weather or the utterly dispicable terrain of the western and southern provinces, but he had felt every gray hair on his head then, too. Not from his heart wanting to break out of his chest, maybe, but most certainly from the knots in his back, the ache in his legs (and, oh, how that arthritis in his knee ached) and the sore feel of the saddle between his legs, and on his bottom.

It was a most disagreeable experience, and the journey itself seemed to create more rust in him, on him, and around him.

How along ago was it that he rode for nearly a month, touring Rhy'Din as he learned the terrain, and didn't even begin to feel a twinge until the trip was nearly over? Now, it had not even been a full week!

Jodiah Ayreg grumbled. He was falling apart.

It had culminated into a thrown glass of wine against the wall of the Red Dragon. It was a metaphor, of sorts, though those in the common room seemed to think of it as more of a blind, seething urge of rage and hatred. They couldn't understand the profound meaning that it seemed to have. The glass was his body, after all; the wine his life. The glass held the wine, little by little being sipped away by his physical body -- time -- until the glass was nearly empty.


And then? Then the glass (the body) was shattered, and what was left of the wine (the life) spilled forth, and oozed down the wall. A most profound meaning.

Chris had attempted to challenge him on his attitude by speaking ill of his mother (for which Chris had nearly gotten himself throttled), and Obsidian blinked at him like a strange cat.

Obsidian... that had been another sore point, for him.

Not her, specifically, just what she represented. Women. As he stood there, staring in the mirror at the myriad of scars criss-crossing his body, he had begun to take a keen awareness of his own mortality, and the effects of age. Maria Copperfield was far faster than he ever could have been, but in their duels? He was bloodied something terrible the first spar because he couldn't get out of the way in time. Where had that come from?

Renna may have nearly thrown herself at him out of blind and twisted love, but did she truly desire him?

And Am'thyst? No... no, he suspected that she truly did desire him. Most likely because her nature had not tainted her view of the world into what should have been, could have been, what ought to have been. His time with her was well-spent, and he cherished every memory -- idly, his fingers toyed with the purple ribbon around his bicep -- but she was gone now. There was to be no happy ending; no walking hand-in-hand into the sunset.

As for the rest?

He was quite dashing in his younger days, he remembered fondly. Rugged, instead of rough, he made many females (girls and woman alike, in his time) sigh and shiver and mewl for more. And now? Now he gets called "Dad" by many of these women around him, and a (rare) genuine compliment from the death knight makes them look positively scandalized that this "old man" would pay them a compliment on how nice their ankles look, or their legs, or their hips.

Bah!

He was old, not dead! Even he could appreciate the fine shape of a woman's hips from time to time.

Walking away from the mirror, Jodiah Ayreg crawled into his bed, groaning at a twinge of pain that hit in his arthritic left knee, and in his right hamstring at the same time. There was a dull ache somewhere in his back, and if somebody had offered to cut off his head.. well, he'd have likely thanked them for their time and trouble.

Alysia had granted him leave to return to Rhy'Din to rest and recouperate from his exertions in Rhilshen.

Like an old man needing his blanket as he sat in his rocking chair beside the fire.

Suddenly, it occured to him that Alysia had been wanting to reward his service to her for some time now. He turned her down, politely, every time but... is it possible? She is quite skilled in the art of sorcery. Far, far more than Jodiah Ayreg himself would ever be.

What could she do? Turn back time? Green eyes closed, brow furrowed, deep in thought.

Is it even possible to reclaim one's youth?

He would have to ask, when next he saw the Emperess.