Role

Chapter 1

Aelarion Thal'adriel was born and raised in the secluded village of Sylvindor,
nestled in an isolated valley far to the west of the Calandaryl Mountains.
Life within this haven was one of abundance and peace, leaving little reason
for an Elf to venture beyond its bounds. Outsiders, apart from the rare trade
envoy from Darsylon, would not even know of the village let alone ever be
allowed to step foot within it's walls.

In those early days of Aelarion's life, he dedicated himself to the study of
religion, aspiring to become the village's priest. He poured over sacred texts
and prayers,hoping one day provide comfort and safety to those in need. For
reasons he never really considered or questioned, he felt it was his duty to
look after others and see them cared for. And in his youth, becoming a healer
was the only way he saw of accomplishing that.

However, fate had other plans.

The idyllic tranquility of Sylvindor was shattered one sunny afternoon, their
peace forever ending with a shrill cry piercing the air. The alarming echo of
a second, then a third cry ushered in chaos. A band of monstrous orcs, reeking
of filth and hungering for Elven blood, descended upon the once peaceful
village. With the thunderous clamor of the timber gates exploding inward, the
village descended into a nightmare..

Aelarion's heart raced as he witnessed the blood-curdling scene. Fearsome
creatures withr matted fur and snarling teeth clashed with the poorly-armed
villagers. The air was filled screams of terror, the clashing of weapons and
the sounds of ripping flesh. Chaos reigned as villagers desperately swung
their few weapons against the onslaught, their terrified faces a blend of
determination and abject fear.

Driven by instinct and desperation, Aelarion lunged into action, focused
solely on an overwhelming sense of duty and protectiveness for his home and
his people. He snatched the first weapon he could find - a giant rough-hewn
club discarded by an orc now sating its vile appetite. As he gripped the
weapon, its weight tested his strength, each swing an unrefined yet fervent
attempt to defend his kin. With a determined yet unsteady stance, Aelarion's
knuckles whitened, his heart racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins,
and fear driving his every erratic movement. His raw, untrained strikes,
fueled by the weight of responsibility for those dying around him, clashed
against the twisted creatures, his own battle lost amongst a myriad of others
in the mayhem of his village home.

Amidst that pandemonium, a searing pain sliced through Aelarion's neck from a
source he never saw. Darkness encroached as he slumped to the ground,
consciousness slipping away. Aelarion's last thoughts as his vision narrowed
to blackness were of his own failure to do more.