Belaar

Even at the edge of his clearing, the air shimmers with golden light. Peering through the thick underbrush and reaching in to part the leaves casts spearlike rays of it into the greenish darkness, beckoning one further in. That, and the laughter that breaks out just beyond, rich and sweet like biting into melon fresh from the vine.

Once in the clearing, Belaar is immediately obvious. That golden light surrounds him, a halo against deep green foliage, setting him apart from the many fey that flock to his side. He lounges on a wooden throne, a massive tree that bends and twists gracefully to form his living bower. Strength and softness in one, his thick muscles are most often relaxed, idle fingers tracing the wildflowers in his honey-blond hair. His sun-speckled eyes gleam, giving the sense he is perpetually halfway to the punch line of a joke.

Even if that joke never lands, his presence demands an infectious good cheer. Inspired by the weave of the winds through the grasses, the slap of waves against the lakeshore, he draws his Court into wild dances. Large and small, weak and strong, all take a turn to be spun ‘round in his hands, always a steady warmth as if he’s lain in the sun all day. And when the dance is done, that’s just what he does, head pillowed on soft sands or springy grasses in lazy enjoyment.