Shaldwyn was born to the Elves of the Valley. Both her parents were
warriors of their home, defending against the hordes of evil that would pass
through, determined to obliterate them. Often it was only the will of the
gods that allowed their battered bodies to be repaired. Seringale was close
by and priests would pass through, offering the services on a nearly hourly
basis, when it was at its worst.
It was no place for a little girl to grow up.
As soon as she could walk, she was turning a stick around, smoothed to have
both hilt and blade. Still the evil rolled through, and as she showed even
the briefest hint of resistance, they cut her down too.
She would sit for hours, staring at the statue of the elven warrior, not far
west of her home. 'Who are you? ' She would think. 'What did you fight
for? ' No one in her village was so brave, nor so strong. They had been
ousted from their roots, and it was only through Soluminus's mercy that
their lives continued. It was more of a miracle her mother had survived
long enough for her to be born.
One day, as she was taking a turn at patrol, a different sort passed
through. A knight and squire, making the journey to the shrine. She
listened, and heard the knight promise the young man that he would be
trained to battle the greatest of evils.
It was many years later, as she had grown into a competent warrior that she
knew the time had come to leave her home and see what good she could do
elsewhere. But she vowed she would not forget the horror that had been
visited on her home.
She would not forget, and she would not forgive.
There is a tall elven woman standing before you. Pale blonde hair is
cropped mannishly close to her head, but the angles of her face maintain a
fey, feminine air. Long limbs extend from her slender torso, ending in
well-defined and able fingers. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown, the
color of oak at twilight and a floral, earthy scent lingers around her. A
pair of thin lips rest above her pointed chin, seemingly untouched by humor.