Age: 145 (Birthday: Vult 26)
Weight: 120 lbs.
Hair: black, long
Rogue 3, Fighter 3, Dervish 10, Tempest 5
AC: 41 (45 attacks of opportunity)
Touch AC: 31
Flatfooted AC: 28
Escape Artist 15
Gather Information 20
Perform Dance 23
Sleight of Hand 16
Weapons & Equipment:
+3 Keen Wounding Vampiric Scimitar (Main)
+5 Keen Collision Scimitar (off-Hand)
Masterwork Light Crossbow
Third Eye Gather
Helm of Glorious Recovery
Periapt of Wisdom +6
Cloak of Resistance +5
Celestial Nimbleness Mindarmor of balance and Healing with Least Crystal of Adaptation
Shirt of the Moon and CON +4
Gloves of Dexterity +6
Bracers of Blinding Strike
Belt of Hidden Pouches and Giant Strength +2
Ring of Protection +5
Ring of Communication
Boots of Tracklessness
Equipment (held, main)
Manual of Quickness of Action +2
Rod of Bodily Restoration
Martial Scroll of Dancing Mongoose
I remember a time when the people of Eberron still spoke of Cyre fondly, with glee in their voices and a sparkle in their eyes. But that was long ago, when I was merely a child, long before I had seen what war does to a world, to a people, to a person.
I was born in Lorlaron, on the island of Aerenal, 132 years ago on the eve of Vult 26. It was a small village of only about 150 souls, reclusive from the world as we Elves prefer them. Alaira, my mother, was a Druid, well-respected and loved by everyone who ever met her. I looked up to her, hoping one day to be like her. Her natural grace, her overwhelming beauty, but most of all her pure heart were dazzling to me. I never since saw anyone cast healing spells like her, so natural, so effortless. My father, Rumeron, had been a soldier for many, many years. A Ranger in the service of the kings of Galifar, he had fought countless battles, encountering most of the creatures that roam Eberron. Few of those who stood against him in battle survived, but those who did left him with scars he carried as both a badge of pride and a reminder of his grim past. Together, my parents were among the elders of our village, the most respected of our people that were not nobles.
I was youngest of three children, my brothers 50 and 30 years of age when I was born. For almost three decades, we lived a quiet life. We had heard rumors that a great war had broken out in the world around the time I was 22 years old, but it did not concern us. A mere child, I hardly understood what the words war and battle meant, even though my father had told us many a tale of his past adventures. He, however, had always made sure to keep the gruesome details from his only daughter. Like everyone else, even me, he expected me to become a healer like my mother, even though I had not yet been showing signs of greater magical ability. Those would appear as I grew older and learned to understand nature, just like my mother.
After I had seen my 38th spring, things in our village changed dramatically. We had been summoned by the Undying Court to fight in the war. All healers and fighters were needed to end the war once and for all, and my parents were among the most skilled of our people, although they were not noble. Needless to say, the Undying Court did not foresee how much longer war would truly be waged. My brothers had been taught the skills of battle by my father, and Taral, the oldest, had begun his training as a Rogue not long ago, in the great city of Korth. Serin and I were deemed too young to fight, but did nonetheless begin to train with the old warriors who no longer actively fought, but resorted to strategic planning. Serin was well on his way to become a Battlemage, while I still did not access the magic I knew was inside me. Instead, I became apprentice to Heralar, an elderly Rouge and Fighter nearing his 600th year. I trained for many years with him, never venturing out to the battlefield. Taral was becoming a mighty warrior, fighting alongside my father. Serin, still young and impulsive, could not be stopped from joining them in the fight. I, however, consulted with my mother who could read my soul like no one else. She and I both knew that I was not ready yet.
In the winter I turned 64, I knew that I no longer had a choice. Heralar had passed away at the age of 621, ordering me with his last breath to join my family and prepare to fight the real battles. And so I did. But The Keeper was cruel, and cut the time I was given with my family short. Barely 10 months after I arrived on the battle field, there was an ambush. Creatures like I had never before seen surrounded our encampment with magical barriers. Bezekira, Pit Fiends, Wraith, Wyvern and Humans came in and slaughter everyone. I still see the scene in my nightmares…
Time was passing so very slowly that to me the minutes were hours. My father was hit by a dozen arrows, yet falling to the ground he still used his magnificent longsword to cut off two enemies heads. Taral was surrounded by three Bezekira, desperately fighting them off, but their blades went right through his armor like it had been mere cloth. Serin was burning Wyverns by the dozen with his fire missiles, but was unaware of the Wraith that came up behind him. It was a clear cut, and I will never forget the look in his eyes as his head separated from the rest of him. I was furiously fighting off everything that tried to enter the healers’ tent, where my mother and the rest of them concentrated on healing spells and magic barriers of their own. But my efforts were futile. I was struck by a beam of energy that stunned me, and had to watch a Pit Fiend put a blade right through my mother’s heart. There was nothing I could do, not even cry or scream. I just lay there, unable to move, unable to feel anything, until I finally passed out from the mental pain I was suffering.
I woke up. That fact alone was surprising, as you may well imagine. I must have been laying there at least a day, because there was no more sign anywhere of our attackers. The tents were burned down, but no longer smoldering. There were bodies all around me, and I was too much in shock to fully grasp the situation. I slowly got up and began searching for the corpses of my family. I gathered them and gave them a traditional burial. I took my mother’s silver wedding band, my father’s locket with my mother’s image, Serin’s gemmed headband with the sapphire his teacher had given him, and Taral’s golden earring. My family would still be with me, no matter what happened to me. It was not until days later that I realized I had survived. The only survivor. The only one to tell of the battle.
And I did tell. I began travelling Eberron, trying to get away from the war. Of course, you cannot escape the war, but I still tried. I was 64 years old, lost to the world I had known. I believe today that the death of my family extinguished all magic that I may have possessed, and instead transformed it into a burning desire for vengeance. Vengeance I would never take, because my enemies outnumbered me by the millions. Nonetheless, along with the vengefulness came determination and the will to survive. Seeing what I had seen scarred me forever, but it also prepared me for a life of solitude and danger.
I became a mercenary. I was young on the outside, but my soul had aged faster than was healthy. I learned from my fellow warriors to wield a scimitar, a marvelous weapon. It is the favorite of The Traveler, whom I began worshipping in my restlessness. For almost two decades, I did nothing but follow the money. Anyone who would pay me was welcome. But at 87, I was beginning to long for something more.
In my travels, I came upon the Valenar Elves. At first, I was unwilling to live for some time with some of my own people, having been separated from Elven community for so many years, spent in the company of lowly Orcs and other creatures that sometimes were too ugly to even describe. But they convinced me to stay, and I was quickly drawn back into the rituals of our people. It had been so long since I heard music. To join voices in our oldest hymns was a revelation, but it did not compare to the dance. I had loved to dance when we still lived in Lorlaron, a lifetime ago. Terlor, a young, handsome Cleric pointed out that I was moving with a natural grace, but appeared to be expecting something to happen while I was dancing. We spoke about this many nights, until we finally understood what I was missing. In all my years as a fighter, I had assumed a style of fighting that was not unlike dance. But when I was simply dancing for pleasure, I was missing my scimitar. Terlor then introduced me to Gorbar, a traveling Dervish that was living with them at the time. He offered to take me on as a student.
Gorbar trained me well, well enough for both of us to stay with the Valenar Elves for ten years. During that time, Terlor’s affection for me grew stronger every day until he asked me to become his wife. When I declined he still begged me to stay, but I knew I could not do it. It broke his heart when I eventually decided to leave them, but I knew that staying in one place was no longer my destiny. I left the community a graceful, deadly dancer. On my sides I had the scimitar I had received from a former employer to fulfill a mission, and a brand-new scimitar that Gorbar had made himself as a parting gift. “You now know how to fight with two weapons, yet you only have one,” he had said. “This shall be your companion in your future endeavors.” He handed me the gorgeous blade, a keen scimitar. After receiving and using the blade, I worked hard to improve my second weapon, even though it would never be as powerful.
After leaving the Elves behind, I started adventuring. I was sick of my life as a mercenary, and striving for something new. But I could not bring myself to adventure with others, for I could never be certain of their loyalty and abilities. Yet not too long after I had begun adventuring, in my 103rd year, I happened upon a Halfling, lost in a cavern I was searching for loot. His name was Carzael, and he had gotten lost five days ago, unable to find his way out of the caves. I was filled with pity for the little guy, and decided to help him out. Carzael’s good nature would not let me part after we exited the caves. Instead, he insisted to take me to his tribe. He was a Talenta Halfling of the Meadow Striders, and his people were known for their dancing. Intrigued by their good nature and their manner of treating their dinosaur mounts, I agreed to stay for a while. Carzael introduced me to his wife Aessa, who was filled with joy and thankfulness for returning him to her. She insisted I stay with them. And I did. I stayed for 2 years.
During those two years, I learned much about dance that Gorbor and the Valenar Elves could never have taught me. And I learned to love my hosts. Aessa and Carzael would not let me live anywhere else, and I repaid them poorly by doing nothing more than being a friend and a babysitter to their little son, Tycobi. When I decided the time to part had come, I had to swear to return before their son was an adolescent. I happily took that oath, for I was deeply saddened to part with them.
I continued adventuring, but was drawn to the cities of Eberron. Their world was a new one, colorful and exciting. I loved the anonymity they offered, but hated the closeness to so many other people. After six years, I could no longer bear it. I was longing for the peace of the Meadow Striders, longing for my dear friends. I had to travel far, in the heat of summer, before I reached the territory of the Meadow Striders. From afar, I could already smell smoke and I hurried my step. But by the time I reached the village, I saw nothing but burned down ruins. In desperation, I headed for Carzael’s home, hoping for a miracle, but I found just another ruin.
I knelt down to speak a prayer for the souls of my dear friends, as I heard a silent sobbing nearby. I got up and followed the sound. Behind the house, I found a Halfling child, visibly shaken and traumatized but with a certain air of familiarity. I carefully approached him, inquiring his name and age. He was indeed, as I had barely dared to hope, my dear friends’ child Tycobi. I took him with me, nurturing him back to health, trying to heal the deep scars his soul had received. While he had not seen his parents die like I had, we had no choice but to assume that they had perished in the fire. We had searched all the places they might go and found not even the slightest trace of them. To honor their memory I decided to take Tycobi in and raise him. I was 111 years old, not even a grown-up myself, but I still believed I was ready and willing to take in a 9-year old Halfling boy. As I said before, my soul was much older than my physical body was, and so I did not doubt for a moment that I could accomplish this task.
I was still adventuring, but now I had become more careful because I had someone to take care of. We travelled all over Khorvaire, and I taught Tycobi all I knew about the places we visited. My travels had already taken me all over Eberron, and I knew this world well. Although I never went back to fight in the war that was still raging on, I fought too many battles. But as he grew older, Tycobi began fighting alongside me, exhibiting a talent for magic like I had never had. I suspected it had something to do with the mark on his back, which he told me appeared the night I found him in the ruins of his parents’ house. He was quite the handful, my little Halfling. He could not sit still for even a moment, and I was beginning to despair because it was disturbing my meditation. Especially when I was dancing in the taverns to earn some money for us, part of me was always looking where he was, making sure he did not get in trouble. I finally decided to bring him to a music shop while we were in Metrol, a small city in Cyre. He had always loved listening to the music while I was dancing, so this would be the best way to keep him occupied while I worked. Tycobi, curious as he was, tried most of the instruments in the shop, but did not take a liking to any of them. Until finally he found something strange in one of the dusty corners, something of gnomish design called a Hurdy Gurdy. Needless to say the only instrument I cared for very little was the one he chose even though it was far too big for him. My little one had never been easy, but he did not rest until he found someone that taught him how to wield objects of such size.
The two of us kept travelling because even though I wanted to, I could not stay in one place, not even for Tycobi’s sake. When he was 20 years of age, we entered Aruldusk, a large city in the country of Thrane, in pursuit of an item. I no longer remember what item it was because the events that ensued have eclipsed that memory. We were searching for a hidden passage into the catacombs, when a group of men approached us. As they entered the light of my lamp, I recognized them to be fighters of the Emerald Claw. I had been anticipating a battle and started my Dervish Dance at once. But I was no match for their magic and went down when hit by one of their spells. A Wizard towered over me, ready to cast the spell that would end my life. From the corner of my eye I saw Tycobi running at him, trying to save me. At the same time, I saw the sky to the East erupt in eerie gray and silver, and under me the world was shaken as if it were being torn apart by forces I could not identify. Tycobi noticed as well, startled for a brief moment. But it was long enough to be grabbed and knocked unconscious by one man, and carried away by another one. Seeing the only person I felt any responsibility for being dragged away to their certain doom gave me the strength to attack the Wizard and return to my dance in a frenzy. But I was too late to stop the man that had Tycobi, he was no longer in sight. After I had finally managed to kill the rest of the mages, I wanted to pursue Tycobi, but I only fell to the ground, exhausted from the fight.
When I awoke I was in a panic. Where was Tycobi? What man had taken him away from me? Why? I darted up in the air, only to fall back on my knees. I had no idea where Tycobi was, and I had no way of tracking him. I felt desperation overwhelming me, and disappointment in my ability to protect those I loved. But I also remembered the determination I had tried to teach Tycobi, and I knew I had to continue my journey until I knew what had become of him. Years later, I realized that the reason the world had been shaking was the Day of Mourning. Cyre, to the East of us, was destroyed and would never again be the same. But for me, the Day of Mourning was a day of much more personal grief and loss.
I spent the next 10 years accepting any adventure or mercenary job I could find, to train myself and to travel anywhere Tycobi might be. There were few mercenary jobs left though, because the war that had raged through most of my lifetime had finally ended. I learned Tireless Dance and A Thousand Cuts so nothing like the incident that had taken Tycobi from me could ever happen again. I was determined, and I was angry. The vengeance I could never take for my own family now had an outlet for my newfound family. The Emerald Claw and its arcane casters would be my eternal enemies. Not one of the ones I came across ever saw daybreak again.
Travelling Sarlona, I was deep in thought, when suddenly I was attacked by a large group of Formians. Their faceted eyes reflected each other, and I knew I could not win this fight. But instead of killing me, they brought me to their underground caverns, where I was thrown in a cage in order for them to activate their mind control. I know little of the month that followed, only snippets remain. But there was one Formian who returned to bring me nourishment, and who would sometimes take me out of my cage and bring me along on missions. I remember fighting other creatures without being able to control my movement. The Formians must have done that for me, but needless to say, they were not half as good at moving my body than I was. One day, I awoke in my cage and realized that I was in a cage, in a room filled three stories high with other cages and other captive creatures. It took me almost an hour to understand that I was no longer being controlled, but could sit up and move around at my own free will. Despite this newfound internal freedom, I still had to be careful, because there was a large Formian guarding us.
I was awoken from my trance by a loud noise. At the end of the room I could see a group of adventurers who were attacking my guardian. I saw a few Half-Elves, a creature that looked like a dragon and a small, elegant, catlike creature. They indeed managed to bring down my guardian, and I heard them debating what to do. The cat-like creature had spotted me, came over and stared at me intently. After inquiring my loyalties, she freed me and introduced herself as Nirra Silvertail. She was even kind enough to help me find my items. She and her party were on some kind of mission that they did not specify, but they said it involved killing the Formian queen. I offered to join them because of my hatred for the creature that had held me captive for more than a month, and they accepted.
I am a free spirit, bound to one. But in my time, I have loved and lost. And left.
I have left Terlor in Valenar.
Recently, Shen appears to have taken a liking to me. Who knows what could happen…
I shall forever loath the Emerald Claw for taking Tycobi away from me. And in their absence, I shall strive to cleanse the world of arcane magic for it can never lead to good.
And will never cease to hate the Formian Queen for taking what I valued most after loosing Tycobi – my freedom.