Metaphorically, a feeling of ease and enthusiasm, perhaps such as one might feel upon entering Rivendell. Literally, it might mean your blood does not flow with enough force. Start with that which always travels at the same speed in a vacuum, then something Christiaan Barnard was the first to exchange. Follow with a TV mister who was not human, then conclude with an untouchable Eliot.

When light is phased to its phonetic opposition, a crew takes their turn to continue the mission. The clock ticks on the same but there’s a difference. The calendar jumps ahead and home brings sunlights rising visage.

I weigh upon your brow at night, Nibble and gnaw and tug and bite, Things that won't but maybe might, Certainty nowhere in sight, Perchance, perhaps, maybe or not, In-between the either caught, Wonder, worry, fretful thought, Stuck halfway from ought to naught Branching bools depend on me, You call my name to say we'll see, Notions flying fancy free, Won't decide which way to be Kipling called on me in verse, I concern the risk averse, Just two letters, simple, terse, I balance options, better, worse Patience worn thin? Go on, punch me in.

I’m a count of Latin descent, a number I merely rent. This riddle is one of near quincentennial sum, so please don’t downvote in hate. Use basic Roman skills, count upward with care, Read the number in my hint to find me there. One more than ninety five, with four to the left side, Written in Latin, not West Germanic guise.

Followed yourself, did the math, connected dots, of your own path