He can feel himself growing exhausted.

He's getting older. Joints are tight, his voice grows more raspy, his once vibrant green scales grow dull and dark. He's preened off more than his fair share of cracked and blackened scales.

As of late, he finds himself bored of being someone of such high power. It's his responsibility as the Guardian to defend the forest and maintain balance, after all. So it's not uncommon for faeries or other wimpy critters to drop at his claws in hardly-meant gratitude.

He grumbles quietly and shifts in his spot, his aching legs folded under his belly as he watches the meteor shower. His youth was wasted training to be someone he never wanted to be, and now his life has flown by. Sometimes he wishes he could just make himself disappear. Even with all the magic at his finger -- claw tips, he's never been able to find a way to early retirement.