Char Description: To look at Menno now, it would be difficult to imagine him a dashing young man fifty years earlier. However, seventy-six years on this earth wasn’t usually conductive to keeping one’s beauty though he does still manage to remain relatively lean and avoid appearing frail. His short, wiry beard does a decent enough job covering the loose skin under his chin but not even the constant hats he wears, to hide his mostly bald scalp, can hide the fact that he is old- a fact that he tries to deny to his daughters who attempt to coddle him.
Plagued by severe arthritis in both knees and his left hand, Menno is forced to hobble around with the help of a stout cane. Despite his affliction, he is not hunched by age, though it has shrunken him. Once tall, Menno barely passes for average height anymore and so loves the countryside of Cairhien where he can pretend he isn’t as old as he is. However, age has lent him a great deal of wisdom. Daes Dae’mar is as foreign to him as fashion but between his lifetime of travels and love for plantlife, Menno is as knowledgeable in plants as any scholar and he takes a certain pride in his ability to impersonate the accents of every nationality around the world- he even spent a year perfecting his Seanchan accent.
Music means as much to Menno as plants. He is a master drummer and was an excellent fiddler until his left hand was crushed. The hand is crippled and has lost nearly all of its dexterity from a beating Menno received mid-way through his forties. His knees were also severely damaged in the same incident and since then he had been forced to walk with the cane. Char History: “Here, let me cut that for you.” “I’ve got it.” “Stubborn fool, your hand’s shaking so badly you’re like to cut your neck.” Menno sighed and let his wife finish trimming the left side of his beard. It irked him that he couldn’t even get ready properly in the morning without help and it was only getting harder with time. “Would you like me to comb your hair while I’m at it?” “I’ll get it.” She snorted but kissed his mostly-bald crown and combed the thin hairs that clung to the sides of his head anyway. Menno simply stared at his grey, aging self in the mirror. Light preserve him, when had he gotten so old? When he closed his eyes, he could still remember the perfect, dashing smile of sixty years before. In fact, he could bring the entire memory of when he had first watched Nacoya dancing the tiganza. He had stolen a kiss that night behind the wagons and two months later, they were married.
Eriala lay sleeping soundly in his arms, as he hummed a lullaby. He was twenty-six and there wasn’t a prouder father to be found. They had tried before, but Nacoya had given birth to stillborns three times already and she was still resting from the labour. Tenderly Menno kissed her forehead as the baby squirmed at the feel of his stiff, black whiskers.
He was forty-three and screaming in pain. The lord had his left hand pinned under his boot while a pair of guards crushed his knees, pinning them to the ground. A third guard was kicking him in the ribs. They had left his right hand free. It was entirely possible for him to push at least the lord of his other hand at any time and yet for him it was entirely impossible. He would gain nothing from struggling except a sword through his ribs while by beating him, the lord and his minions would accomplish nothing except steeping themselves in guilt for the rest of their lives. Menno’s punishment would only further convince the lord’s son that the Way of the Life was the right way. Blink. “Menno, are you falling back asleep?” “No, just resting.” “You just woke up!” “An old man isn’t entitled to a moment’s rest?” “Since when have you admitted you’re old?”
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