Ok.. I didn't expect much from this character, but at level 49 I figured it might be time for a role, seeing as how I had a philosophy.


My name is Eclinsan, and I don't like to write, though I was told keeping a journal keeps the
mind sharp.

Where should I start. I suppose my first memories.

Instinct drove me to food. Scavenging and picking my meals is hard on the body and spirit. But
what must be done, must be done. One can not pick his food in the winter months, they must
eat what comes along. So, I ate food hard on the stomach, nose, and eyes. It made me strong.

I don't remember how I learned to survive. I don't think I did. Many things come natural to me,
but that is for the better. I learned much from the wilds. I saw how the bears would eat large
amounts of food before the snow. I saw how the sheep would sit on the calm side of the
mountains.

Food is but one thing up in the foothills. Shelter is quite another. I suppose I would have
been welcome to winter in Darsylon, but my blood makes me anxious around elves. I've been
told I'm a feral elf, but I don't think I am. My ears may be pointed, yes, but elves are loud
and arrogant. They also know nothing of balance. I suppose my point is, wintering in the
foothills is tough.

One day I found a small grove of trees, with a few fallen over. A few branches and leaves, and oddly
the snow didn't come through the leaves, and it didn't melt. It actually made my little den cozier.
Shelter was a tough thing to come by. Nothing taught me to make it, nothing but the thoughts in
my head. But alas, food and warmth came to me. Now, for the long months of boredom.

It's not so bad, being alone. I learned swiftly that humming a little tune is a great way to make the
time pass. And it seems to keep me warm, or at least take my mind off the cold. So with that
knowledge, I've learned to live for.. what must be about four hundred and fifty winters. But
it's not so bad. It's rough living in the north in the snow, yes, but it has balance. The fall gave me
great reserves of food. The spring brought lush edible foilage.

But then I decided to leave for the winter. I don't know why, something told me the coming snow
would be bad. I went away from the mountains. And after a confusing search for home, I found
some trees. Sadly, they were near a city, and not just any city. This wretched place makes
Darsylon look like home. Odd creatures roamed the paths, the stone and wood stolen from the
earth were everywhere. There was even walls, to keep the wretched folk inside it. I suppose
that's for the better, though.

A few paces around the weald revealed an odd thing. I'm not naive, I know some trees are culled
for lumber, but I saw many stumps. They were most everywhere, some stumps burned and
others cut. I didn't know what to think, there was plentiful food but it seemed some were intent
on moving it's life into the city.

Then, I saw a halfbreed. Why, I'll never know, but he decided to chop at a tree, while I was
right in front of him. Such anger overcame me.. I lost myself. I screamed, and the next
thing I knew, I held a mutilated, eyeless head in my hands, with the sharp taste of blood
on my tounge. A few twitches, and a half-hearted scream later, he seemed to collapse.

With that, I fled. I don't know why, but taking his blood was making me think an awful lot. It
wasn't like the hunt of the bear. It was for victory. It was for.. purpose, purpose other than
food. I retreated to the foothills, and wintered in the same grove. The winds were especially
fierce that year.

In time, I learned of the fight. The battle to protect my home. I still don't understand the
reasoning of the wretched. I don't know why the farmers must rape the earth, or why the
dwarves must chip at it's soul. But I do know, it disrupts the balance. And once the
balance of the wilds is gone, neither predator nor prey prevail. All is lost.

It's been many years. I've grown older, and wiser. But the truth is yet the same, and I still
allow my instinct to drive me. Many words.. many foolish words and treaties and rules
and wars. I do consider the grove home, but they seem to be losing sight in what we
fight for. They seem to be preoccupied with personal battles, while the very weald we
travel through many times is being lost. They have lost sight of what we fight for. Their
apathy for the wilds they live in is growing. They make many enemies, they make many
allies who will soon be enemies. I don't know what they fight for. But I do what I think is
right, and I don't take orders from anyone who's not seen a true winter, bitter cold, and
gnawing to the bone.

But I suppose, with the songs I've learned in my days, I'll continue. As long as I can hum
something when the winter comes, I should do well enough. Afterall, life is all I have,
and it is all I can fight for. I do want little else.