The first post is now updated to show the full roster of gender/race/class/player.

This is a superb party composition.

Selen’in’iel Isil’inari

Sylvari, 217 years old (adult). Second daughter of House Isilinari, one of the Great Houses of the northern Alloryen kingdom.

Invoker, Member of Circle of Arcane Enlightenment, Order of the Secret Storm.

Seleniniel grew up in Lindelea Elin in the northern reaches of the Sylvarian Forest, where she lived an idyllic, carefree childhood among the natural beauty of the Melodious Pools. She showed an early penchant for the arcane, and her childhood education built a deep knowledge of nature and the primal forces shaped by Kith-Jora. Her father is a Kith-Joran priest and senior member of the Dancers of the Oak Fellowship. Like most Sylvari children, she was raised to cherish the natural beauty that surrounded her, and most of the older Sylvari believed she would succeed her father to the priesthood. As a young Syl, of course, she cared little for others’ aspirations. She was a mischievous and joyful child, strong willed and self confident in a way that second children often are, and very close to her older sister and a younger cousin, also of House Isilinari. The three were inseparable, often skipping lessons to play in the forest with the reclusive pixies and nixies that also call the forest home. 

Tragically, most of this changed when she was 23 (early adolescence). Like many days, she had convinced her older sister and cousin to wander into the woodlands. That day they were in search of the elusive faerie dragon they could occasionally find and encourage toward mischief to entertain them. That day they found something different. Miles from home, they encountered what they believed to be an unusual treat–a lone Sylvari male strumming a lyre on the shore of a far flung stream. The children were delighted and entranced by his song–Seleniniel did not realize, but her sister and cousin quite literally so. Whether by luck or strength of will, Seleniniel had her full wits about her when their entertainment suddenly transformed into a savage half-wolf creature–something she had never encountered or even dreamed to exist in her short and sheltered life. By instinct, she ran–assuming her companions too. She did not see the wolf savage her cousin as he struggled sluggishly, in a mental stupor induced by the song. But she heard. While his screams propelled her faster to flee, she spared a glance, seeing her sister inexplicably lagging behind. Seleniniel had always been the smaller child, her sister the athletic and adept one. Seleniniel did not understand why she would not keep up. Despite her terror, she fell back, begging her sister onward, pulling her, desperately trying to propel. Sadly, it only meant that Seleniniel bore witness as the creature pounced on her sister, its jaws ripping her from Seleniniel’s grasp with a force of raw violence she could not dream of matching. But Seleniniel did not relent. She leapt on the creature, and even as the life spilled from her sister onto the forest floor, Seleniniel kicked, clawed, bit, tore–like a feral creature herself. The scene that greeted the Sylvari rangers drawn by the commotion must have been surreal–an elven child, to their eyes, covered in blood and locked in combat with a wolfwere three times her size. As the rangers drove the creature back, Seleniniel would not release her sister, who remained locked in the wolf’s jaws. She pounded and ripped at its eyes and snout, screaming in rage and pain.. and loss. As the rangers harried it, Seleniniel finally pried open its maw with her own forearm, buying back her sister’s now-limp body as the creature fled. Even then, as the rangers tried to inspect the living child’s battered body, Seleniniel would not let go of her sister. Only as the adrenaline and blood leaked from Seleniniel, she lost consciousness, slung over the body that once belonged to her sister.. her best friend... her protector from the trivial dangers of a now-lost childhood in their cloistered forest enclave. 

Seleniniel did not have the luxury afforded most adolescents, gradually adjusting as the idealism of youth erodes to the pragmatism of adulthood. Hers was ripped away in a day. She could not understand–would not accept–how Kith-Jora could abide, much less create such savage creatures. The platitudes from well-wishing adults did nothing to salve her pain. Or her anger. She didn’t care that the healers couldn’t save her mangled arm. It was her reminder of the greater loss. She fumed as the priests prattled on about the gods’ supposed will, and she refused to join the ancient rituals to relinquish her sister’s and cousin’s bodies and spirits back to Kith-Jora’s care. Why should she. She now understood. The once-comforting woods and streamlands of her home were only half of her god. Nature is chaotic. Nature is capricious. Nature is uncaring in its cycles, its hierarchy, its blind ambivalence to the well-being of even the most reverent Sylvari priest. We are meat and fertilizer. But nature’s ambivalence is a fairness of sorts–if you know the rules. The strong can survive. The weak are culled. She–therefore–became strong. 

Seleniniel left Lindelea Elin at the age when most Sylvari are enjoying the waning irresponsible years of late adolescence, before they come of age and Sylvari society expects more. Lightheartedness, like friends, rarely came to Seleniniel anymore. She poured herself into her own talents with single minded ferocity. This was something she could shape through force of will; something she could control. And they rewarded her fervor–her penchant for the arcane most of all. In Istalindir’s mage halls she found purpose. It did not take long for her teachers to abandon what hope they may have harbored that she would aspire to the Order of the Evergreen Oak (the most common Order of the Circle of Arcane Enlightenment in Istalindir). She had the talent, to be sure. But though she masked it, her reaction towards others’ reverence of nature–most unusual for a Syl–left little doubt. 

Instead, she gravitated towards the naked power of invocation magic–to her, a school embodying strength of mind over the physical world and the antithesis of the weakness that betrayed her. She relished the raw fortitude, sometimes pain, it took to handle even the early years of invocation study. It took her twice the focus of most mages to master the somatic gestures with only one hand–an old scar few in Istalindir were bold enough to ask after, and none received an answer for–but she used the struggle. It drove her. It forged an ironclad will, not in the blast of the furnace, but in the cold intensity of yearslong repetition and single-minded pursuit. She became cold forged steel. And she idolize the legendary invokers from her books, human and Syl alike, who proved that one mortal with a singular will can trivialize so much of the natural world. It was no surprise to her teachers that she eventually made the journey south to Semon, in Coria, to stand for the Circle’s Test and petition for entry into the Order of the Secret Storm. (That Order does not have sufficient quorum in Istalindir to administer the Test and admit applicants). After her induction, she made a permanent home in Istalindir, where she continues to hone her skills as a invoker and serves as a close advisor to the matriarch of House Galanren. She is fiercely loyal to Lady Galanren for reasons that only she and the Lady know. Beyond her, Seleniniel has few close confidants. 

Even two centuries from the death of her sister, her once-home of Lindelea Elin and all associated with it bear little but sorrow and bitterness. Seleniniel is estranged from her parents and the rest of House Isilinari. Indeed, she is estranged from most of what binds Sylvari society together, though she keeps her outlier philosophies to herself–less from any sense of propriety and more from the wall of isolation she built around herself and, more recently, the self-possessed confidence of an accomplished mage who has little interest in what others think (or don’t) of her. Age has ossified her outer shell and fermented the bitterness within. She radiates intensity and authority, suffers fools sparingly, and proselytizers none at all. That is not to say that she has lost her belief in the gods. She knows Kith-Jora’s nature better than his priests. It is her faith she cast aside long ago and never stooped to retrieve. If she dwelled on her connection to the gods, she would likely agree that she (like many mages) identifies most closely with the teachings of Jusarin. But she does not waste her time thinking on these things. The gods are distant and disinterested. The only being interested in her preservation is herself, and it is only the strength of her mind that will see it so.

Arathea Ondolithe.

Sylvari, 155 years old (young adult).

Bladesinger.

Arathea was born and raised in Sillarion, the capital and seat of Her Imperial Majesty. Her father was none other than Moreuron Ondolithe, a soldier turned elected official on the Imperial Senate. Her father drilled into her from a young age the ideals of patriotism and loyalty towards the empress, but also the Sylvari Pacifist Movement. She frequently stood by him as he spoke to students and supporters of making peace with the enemies of the nation, preaching that Sylvari must love all creation of Kith-Jora. These moments left a long-lasting impression on Arathea; she learned not only to be an ardent supporter of a certain political faction but also taught her diplomacy, leadership, and the value of hard work.

Spending the days of her youth studying, training, and at times attending meetings with her father, Arathea quickly found her dream in life. She had heard the stories and the legends, and as a little girl, she wanted to serve the nation as best as she possibly could. Arathea decided she would be a keeper of the Yaara'menie; she decided she would become a Bladesinger. 

Day after day from being just a little girl and past her 100th birthday, she trained, learning how to use a longsword, learning how to dodge threats, and learning how to outmanuvear her enemies. But perhaps most importantly, she learned how to sing the legendary Bladesong. For years she would practice it every night to no avail, but with time she began to master it. As she grew older, she seemed to learn more every day, and with excitement, she would sit down and write to her parents about what she had been taught. While there were countless challenges, and many would not be able to make it. But the 'Blue Rose' of the Ondolithe family would not faulter, and she rose to prominence with pride worn on her sleeve.

In rare moments, the young girl would be able to return home to her family and her congregation. Her mother was a priestess of Lleua, which made her have an interesting dynamic with Arathea and Moreuron given how Lleua is far from the rules based ideals they follow. However, Arathea still enjoyed these times at the temple, surrounded by people she loved and who loved her; they provided much-needed breaks in her busy life.

She even had a little brother named Tanonnen; the child would sit and listen with wide eyes to Arathea's stories and experiences and ended up becoming quite clingy to her. The two were separated by about 35 years, and Arathea would take a very nurturing role towards the child. She would try to teach him lessons and force him into studying more, but the child was a free spirit, much like his mother, leaving Arathea and Moreuron to groan and facepalm as Tanonnen was preoccupied staring at the moon or chasing insects.

The day would come when Arathea turned 141 years old that she would arrive at Megilindar Nost for a ceremony she had dreamed of ever since she had been a little girl—the ceremony to be made an official Bladesinger. Her soft blue eyes seemed to shine throughout the entire day; she could not possibly be happier. Her father parroted this sentiment, pride coursing through him as he watched his daughter follow in his footsteps, a smile etched across his face from ear to pointed ear. By the time it was over, Arathea was now something from a legend, from a children's tail. The 'prodigal child' had reached her goal, and now she was dedicated to serving Her Imperial Majesty and all Syvlaria to the best of her ability.

Dak Whisperfoot

Cidal (Shawlin/Loaven), 30-ish years old

Messenger/Courier for House Mithethiel of Alloryen (Rogue/Spy)

The enigmatic little Cid known among the Sylvari as Dak Whisperfoot has served as a trusted messenger and courier for House Mithethiel of Faernae for the past several years. It is unclear precisely how he came into the service of the House – some rumors suggest that he was sold to them as an indentured servant, while others hint that he bungled into the position by sheer luck – and, if Dak himself is asked about the circumstances of his employment, his explanations are likely to be as vague and varied as the gossip surrounding him.

Most often, he claims to have set out on an adventure from his home village of Stone’s Hollow in Coria and, months later, found himself wandering the ruins of Winde’Kua and exploring the banks of the Mirily-Wen Duin. It was along those banks that he first encountered Raina Mithethiel, the eldest daughter of the Lord of her House, who initially mistook him for a faerie. After assuring her that he was, in fact, simply a Shawlin who had found his way into the Kingdom thanks to wanderlust begotten by the Shadelin side of his lineage, he managed to charm his way past the Syl woman’s inherent distrust of outsiders, and convinced her that he was hoping Sheilin would bless him with the chance to see a true elven city before he made his way home, again. Fascinated by the curious creature, Raina offered him the opportunity to travel with her to Faernae and, if he proved useful to her along the way, she would grant him that boon, herself.

The particulars of the tale, beyond that point, shift and slip depending upon Dak’s mood, level of intoxication, or sometimes by the company in which he finds himself. It does always end with him having proved himself not only useful but nearly invaluable to Raina in their shared journey and, as a result, found himself welcomed into the city and the House itself where, after a time, he managed to fashion a position as a loyal servant to the family. He has remained in this position ever since, he claims, and has no desire to return to Coria any time soon.

The truth of the matter, though, is that Dak’s earliest days were not spent in some Corian Cidal settlement but, rather, on the streets of Bayris as part of a pack of Guttersnipes, gathering information and pickpocket revenue for the Thieves Guild there. Upon working his way through the ranks and being groomed within the Guild at the age of twelve, he became a “Spider” in his own right, managing several crews of younger Guttersnipes who would fill his web with secrets, silver, and snippets of information that helped to bolster the Guilds’ coffers. When word that the Alloryen King’s willingness to pursue trade and relations with humans got caught in his web, he took that information to the guild masters in hopes that, somehow, the unpopular political leanings of the Northern Sylvari kingdom might be exploited for profit. So it was that Dak Whisperfoot was dispatched east with orders to insert himself into the goings on there, subtly manipulating politics, pilfering items of interest, and reporting back to the Thieves Guild with any and all pertinent information he can gather.

Rainminainen Aeradhen

Sylvari Ranger, 573 years old

Hunter/Tracker, Accomplished wanderer.

Born in the village of Cormlond, Rainminainen's wanderlust was noticeable at a young age. Shortly after his family' first journey together to Amban Aluir, he was caught some ways out of the village, sneaking back to see them again. The falls had utterly captivated him, the start of his lifelong love of nature, and the inherit beauty found there. Thus began a childhood (and adolecense) of Rainminaien trying sneak off to this or that fabled natural wonder, much to the mild amusement, and moderate distress of his parents.

Weavers by trade, they soon gave up any hope that this was a passing fancy. Worried for their son's safety, but determined to be supportive, they arranged for Rainminainen to take lessons on hunting and trapping, and other tradecraft required to survive travel across the land. The lessons continued into his early adulthood, and after years of diligent study, he prounounced himself ready and set off across the land, seeking new wonders (after wishing his parents a loving good-bye).

Rainminainen spent the better part of a century traveling the length and breadth of the Empire, fromt Morwen Shee Taure in the south, to Lindelea Elin in the north (the latter one of his favorite places in the empire, topped only by Amban Aluir itself).

Eventually, however, having seen all that sparked his interest in the kingdomes, curiosity led him westward. Having become quite adept at moving through the wilderness unnoticed by this point, Rainminainen slowly made his way through human lands. The Railir Peaks held his attention for a time, the first mountains he'd actually traveled through. The Thunder Rapids in Drannon he found just a bit disappointing, the rushing water not (in his considered opinion) measuring up to the falls he grew up around. The vast fields of the Chindari plains left him unsettled for quite some time, though he grew to enjoy the plains (and all the empty space that came with them) in their own right.

Rainminainen has had more than a few travelling companions, though few close friends. While easy going and sociable himself, deeper friendships tend to be stymied by most people's unreasnably aversion to dropping everything and travelling the continent at a whim. Still, he enjoys traveling with people as much as he enjoys travelling alone. A good companion makes the journey all the better, but the journey itself is the thing.

Rosariel Faenwyn

Sylvari, 171 years old, cleric of Taudor Salka, and hailing from a small settlement outside the borders of any city or town known in the Alloryen kingdom.

Rosariel Faenwyn grew up in the northern forests of Alloryen, between Faernae and Lindornea Nost. Being mostly nomadic in the earliest years of her life, the community of self-reliant hunters had rare interaction with the rest of those denizens within the kingdom. As such she and the other handful of young Syl learned quickly how to hunt and field dress, as well as to barter in the rare occasions that their small troop came across another settlement.

It was a simple life short-lived, as a ten-year-old Rosariel decided to take it upon herself to find the largest stag in the wood and bring it down herself, proof that she was indeed a great hunter and ready to pull her own weight with the others. Rain drizzled down from the canopies high above her, darkness having set in by the bundles of leaves and branches blotting out the thick dark clouds beyond. But she would not be waylaid.

Twice before already today she had tracked down other potential targets, great beasts with antlers begging to adorn her walls, but twice before they were not what she was looking for. Any inexperienced chit with a bow and Heren’salkya on their side could strike down a simple creature. She wanted the greatest. She would be the greatest. And so grinding her teeth, she heard her frustrated instructors again and again in her head, what are seconds, what are minutes and hours, what are days, months and years to Sylvari? Patience, child, there is nothing that can outrun your patience. She took a calming breath and tried not to roll her eyes at the memory, lest she miss her chance.

So she waited, she took her time, she allowed lesser creatures their lives and felt drenched inside her bones when finally it appeared, her quarry, her prey… the largest stag she had ever seen in all her days. Indeed, once she felled the beast she would have to pray to any god who would listen and beg them not to allow any other creature claim her prize while she ran back to their settlement to ask the other hunters to assist her in bringing it back. She stunted the grin that wanted to grow across her face, thinking only of her training now as she slowly, steadily, drew her arrow back. The accuracy she would need would have to be astounding, she knew. He was so large and so strong that he would likely be able to withstand enough ill-placed strikes to lose her without too much effort, especially with the rain washing away tracks and likely any blood he would spill on his hasty retreat. No, her aim must be true.

Rosariel took a deep breath, her fingers just about to release, when a doe and her fawn appeared next to the creature. This should not have halted her mission. Rosariel had hunted before, drawn her bow and struck down plenty of creatures for harvest before… but she couldn’t help but watch. The stag her arrow was trained on towered above the other two. He and the doe must be mates, she thought, the fawn their baby.

It was a foreign concept to her, though not unheard of. Some of the younger, newest babies in their settlement still clung to their birth parents, but those in Rosariel’s age group and older were simply the children of their community. The older Syls were all of their parents. Rosariel herself knew who made her and indeed was great friends with them, but they did not simply belong to her, as none of them belonged to any other.

She wondered though, not often, but she did wonder sometimes what that would be like, to just have those two people to look after you, teach you, protect you.

Rosariel let out the long breath she had been holding to take her shot and lowered her bow. She was okay with hunting creatures. She was okay with hunting creatures like these. But she wasn’t ready to take one of that fawn’s only protectors right in front of it. Rosariel had been blessed by the gods to have many. This poor creature had been damned to only two.

She clenched her teeth, irritated with her own weakness. She or one of her home would likely kill that fawn later in life if it were a stag as well… But….

The young Syl slowly swept the bow back across her back so as not to disturb the family and turned her back to them as she began her trek back to the others in defeat. It was fine. None in their group had ever successfully hunted down a creature like that at her age, and she still had time. The elder hunters would be giddy at her acceptance of waiting.

A horrible screech suddenly sounded behind her, and Rosariel turned back in time to watch the giant, majestic stag fall. She felt herself take an instinctive step toward them when a second arrow found itself in the mother doe’s shoulder.

No, Rosariel screamed in her head, you’re not supposed to kill the mom! She heard her instructors once more, lesson after lesson teaching her and the other young Syl how to respect the creatures of the forest, and what that meant when they also hunted them to survive. Balance. Thoughtfulness. The does must raise the fawns. The fawns must grow into does or stags in order to create more or to become food. We take only what we must. And that one stag alone would be enough to feed a village.

Now, the injured doe fled, leaving her fawn with the dying stag at its feet. The fawn turned, scared watching its mother run and as it did, it missed its own deadly arrow.

“NO!” Rosariel finally screamed aloud and raced to the terrified fawn, raising her arms and shouting at it to flee with its mother. Frozen in place it simply stared past her, to the source of its parent’s demise. Her swift legs carried her quickly and she leapt at the creature to try to scare it, to protect it from this cruel onslaught, and felt something hit her shoulder as she did. The fawn finally ran off as she landed in its face, and Rosariel fell to her knees, suddenly dizzy from her sprint. She looked down and saw the tip of an arrowhead poking out from the left side of her chest. The rainwater was already washing her blood away, the way she knew it would, had she missed the stag’s vital parts when she shot and it was able to run away. Normally the trail was easy to follow, but not today. Today it would have been a nightmare.

Rosariel fell forward, the mud softening her fall for her, as she no longer had the strength to do so, and she came face to face with the beast she had meant to fell what seemed like eons ago but must have been mere moments. Its eyes darted from her to all the other sounds the forest was making above the sound of the rain, but Rosariel could only hear its frantic breaths. Its last breaths.

“It’s okay,” Rosariel whispered to the massive creature and its eyes finally settled unwaveringly on hers, “they’re safe.”

She watched its breathing slow as it watched hers, and together they closed their eyes as the sound of the poachers drew nearer.

* * *

Rosariel awoke to the sound of water trickling down into a pool nearby. The patter of rain still sounded above her but she was dry, and the grass she lay on was thick and dry as well. She opened her eyes, anticipating pain, but there was none. She raised her arm and… nothing. Above her thick, massive leaves protected her from the rain, redirecting it to a small pond that accompanied her in the tiny clearing.

She stood up slowly, still expecting pain, but again had somehow been granted relief. She looked down at where, who knew how long ago, she had seen an arrowhead pierce through her skin. While her tunic was torn, there were no scars or marks on her skin.

How?

Something caught the corner of her eye and Rosaria jumped to face the direction it had come from, reaching first for a bow that was no longer on her, and then to the knife she would use for field dressing. A small fawn lay before a large stone. It stared at her in what she at first had anticipated to be fear, before recognizing it as curiosity, the same she felt staring back at it.

She put her knife away and slowly approached the creature. As she did it rose as well to greet her, sticking its nose out far further than the rest of its body at first to smell her, before letting her pat it. In its excitement at the meeting, the fawn began to prance around the small clearing, kicking its legs out and spinning around before returning to the large rock, and turning it’s gaze toward it.

Rosariel did the same. With the fawn no longer blocking her view she could see it appeared to be just a plain, large rock, nothing special save for the antlers placed before it, as though as an offering.

“Taudor Salka?” She did not know much of the gods, but she did of course know the Huntress, the Woodland Dancer, she who simultaneously exalted the hunt, while also demanding her followers respect their place in nature and the wildlife provided them. The hunters would often whisper their prayers to her before leaving. Was it she who had saved her? What had happened to the poachers? What happened to that stag?

The fawn began bouncing around once more and she assumed that unlike her, it no longer had a family to go home to. She wondered how long it would last on its own, but then it also seemed to be urging her to follow it. Like the small clearing, the path here was dry, much more pleasant than her walk into the thick of the forest. It had taken her hours to travel and hunt as she had, and she was not looking forward to her trek back home.

It was actually night time now, darker than it had been before, and impossible to tell how much time had passed. She followed the young fawn diligently as it trotted before her, leaping easily over logs, dodging trees and rogue branches. Rosariel hadn’t even noticed the foliage become damp once again, the ground soft and thick with mud, but in a matter of just a few steps she seemed to have gone straight from the tiny clearing with the nondescript shrine to Taudor Salka, to the outskirts of her settlement.

In her shock she hadn’t even realized she was no longer following the fawn. She looked around to whisper her thanks but it was already gone. Instead, Rosariel thanked the Huntress, and returned home.

* * *

In the decades that followed, Rosariel consumed all she could of Taudor Salka’s ways. There were far fewer works written of her than perhaps her greater, more widely worshiped counterparts. As such, even when she begged the barterers to request books on her, the selections were far and few between. Even still, her collection grew, not steadily, but extremely slowly.

It wasn’t long before she no longer had to beg to request the books, as life around the settlement had also begun to change after Rosariel’s return from her unsuccessful hunt. Though most of the adults attempted to swarm her, concerned about where she had been all evening, she raced straight to the storytellers, the lorekeepers. As their settlement was small, the majority of adult Syls wore several different hats, the lorekeepers simply being the hunters who knew most about the history of the areas. Her story burst forth from her with hardly any context and nary a breath: the hunt, the stag, the poachers, the pond, the altar, the antlers, the fawn, all of her thoughts sprang forth before she could lose a single one. While they could not say for sure at that moment, they did confirm that it did indeed sound like the Huntress herself had saved her that evening.

Shortly thereafter, hunters reported an abundance of wildlife in the area. Even in the colder, harsher months that followed, there always seemed to be some source of meat granted them. Rosariel’s story spread, as did the rumors, and by the time it was decided that the Woodland Dancer herself had blessed Rosariel and their troop by proxy, she no longer had to beg for books. She was asked to go on more hunts, longer hunts, and when she wasn’t, she was asked to pray to Taudor Salka for successful hunts. While working with the others grew tiresome at times, she had begun to feel the Huntress work through her with each new hunt she took part in. Seeking beasts large and small soon felt like breathing, anticipating a creature’s path and striking it vitally before it could escape was a reflex. Taudor Salka worked through her, her exhilaration in the face of the hunt coursing through Rosariel’s veins, guiding her, teaching her, showing her how to respect her prey, how to honor nature’s body and soul.

As Rosariel and her book collection grew, so did their settlement. With the blessing of Taudor Salka clearly in abundance here, their nomadic clan sank their roots in, eventually forming into a small village they called Dor’ghen Loth, or Stag’s Grove.

By the time Rosariel was ninety, her books lined every bit of wall space she was afforded in her small hut. She could not yet call herself a priestess of Taudor Salka, though the rest of the village treated her as such. The books were mixed with her own journals, things she had learned on her journeys with the Huntress, thoughts she had to honor her, to ensure the wildlife around them was preserved, and notes on conversations she had with others seeking her council regarding the goddess.

She didn’t know if she’d ever be allowed to become a priestess of Taudor Salka, could one deem their own selves worthy of priesthood? At this point she knew that temples to the wild goddess were scarce as it was, even more so than her books, so a proper priesthood might be out of her reach, but she could attempt becoming a Hunter of the Stag. From the writings these were nature’s keepers, hunters’ teachers, prey’s protectors. She had no priests of the Huntress to test her knowledge of nature or identify tracks, but the Woodland Dancer had been testing her on these things for the majority of her life. Rosariel prayed that that would be enough, that she would prove herself in those deeds time and time again if necessary, all that was left was to capture a stag without killing it, at first. They must use all of their resources and ingenuity as a hunter to track down the creature and subdue it without a weapon. Only then could a prayer be said over it before ritually taking its life and preparing it for a feast.

Taudor Salka was determined to test Rosariel that day. It had been nearly 80 years since she had felt such a lack of presence from her goddess. The feeling was sickening in her mouth, but she knew it was necessary. This was her chance to prove herself to her goddess. The only way she knew how to allow herself into her clergy, at least as far as a Hunter of the Stag could be.

Her hunt took all of her daylight, and led her into the evening. She had spent the most exciting parts of her day setting traps and whispering prayers to the silent Huntress. In all the abundance of stags there had been in the last decades, now there appeared to be blastedly none. She lay under the canopy that night, catching glimpses of the stars beyond and reminded herself the same things she had to remind herself when she was 10, impatiently hunting her prey. She was more collected these days, but she wanted that stag.

What are seconds, what are minutes and hours, what are days, months and years to Sylvari? Patience, child, there is nothing that can outrun your patience.

She did roll her eyes this time.

The rain came the next day. Summer’s descent into Fall was rapid this year, or perhaps this was still a part of her test? Tracking in the mud was both a blessing and a bane, and the majority of her day was spent pulling her boots out of the soft, damp soil, but she finally, through the curtain of dripping water, found her prey.

Once again a grand stag stood before her. Massive in frame, rivaling even that which she had seen as a child, the creature stood upon a small hill not too far away. If only she could sneak around it without it hearing her or bounding off, she could trick it into running into one of her traps. She tried not to let her eager smile split her face for too long as she slowly began to make her way around, careful not to get trapped in the mud around her.

She had barely taken five steps before she had to rub her eyes. It wasn’t happening again. It couldn’t be. Another doe? Another fawn?

She shook her head, “Taudor Salka,” she whispered to herself, “why do you toy with m-?” She was cut off by the sound of twigs crunching a few yards away from her and her heart pounded in her chest. Two figures, obscured by the pouring rain, had their bows trained on the stag and his family. An arrow was released and the doe was struck down in an instant.

Without hesitation Rosariel drew her own bow and struck the first poacher in his thigh. She cut the distance between them in a moment, the presence of her goddess now back completely, fueling her movements and her rage. She tackled the injured poacher easily as he hopped on one leg, sitting up she drew another arrow and launched it into the back of his fleeing comrade’s knee, striking him down as he had the doe. She swung the bow back around her shoulder and freed the knife she would use to dress the stag she would eventually claim for her trial, and put it to this disgraced man’s neck.

“You’d kill a doe and her fawn?! Have you no respect for… Kael'thar?” Rosariel sat back, staring at Syl who had been her birth father. She glanced up at the image of the other poacher, smaller in frame, and yelping at the pain. It could only be her half-brother Meryndor.

“You?” Taudor Salka’s rage boiled in her once more, “You would take that which is not yours to take?! Has the Huntress not blessed you with enough?”

“Rosa, please, I can--”

“NO!” She struck down and buried her knife in the ground next to his ear, stabbing again and again and again, then sitting up again and pointed the tip of her dirty blade into his chin, “Never shall you take of her offerings again, not even if you poachers beg her forgiveness.” She stood and wiped her blade on her pants, not bothering to waste time with another glance at her reeling half-brother.

Rosariel quickly took what arrows of theirs she could fit into her quiver, broke their bows, and added their hunting knives to her belongings, “Good luck on your trip back. I shall let Dor’ghen Loth know of your transgressions long before you are able to arrive.”

With that she turned and ran up the small hill to where the doe lay. She was still alive somehow, despite the mortal wound. Her breaths were quick and shallow, and she looked terrified back up at Rosariel. The young Syl laid a palm on the dying doe’s beating stomach, and looked her in her frantic eyes, “It’s okay, your family is safe. I am sorry this happened to you. I will dedicate my life to stopping these things from happening in the future, brave mother. Please be at peace, your journey is over now.” And Rosariel lowered her head, placing her free hand over her heart, and prayed to Taudor Salka to help this creature, and guide it to the fields beyond.

Like never before the Huntress’ blessing coursed through Rosariel. No longer the rage of her bounding anger, or the wonder and excitement for the hunt, this was peace, warmth, strength. This was righting what had been wronged. Rosariel opened her eyes and watched as the soft green light of Taudor Salka flowed from her hand and filled the felled doe with life once more. The creature seemed to breathe so deeply the arrow was pushed out of her chest, the wound healing in just a moment, and the doe jumping to her feet just as quickly. She stared Rosariel in the eye for a moment, perhaps with gratitude or recognition of the goddess protecting her from beyond, and bound away.

Rosariel watched for as long as the shadows of the creature remained. She guessed the stag was long gone by now, but perhaps it was for the best. The rain began to slow and she looked down at her pale hands. They still felt warm with the Huntress’ blessing, and she felt rejuvenated by her presence within her. She would continue her pursuit of becoming a hunter soon, but it was important now to get back to Dor’ghen Loth and let them know of the betrayal of one of its oldest members. And anyways, an official ceremony to bring her into the priesthood of Taudor Salka may not yet exist, but this felt closer than anything else she could ever imagine.

She turned and nearly fell back in surprise at the stag standing directly behind her. It had looked massive standing yards away from her, but now it was a tower. It seemed impossible a beast like this should exist, but here it stood, looking down at her. They regarded each other for a long moment. No movement, no words, just an unspoken respect offered from one creature to the next. It then turned and began to walk, stopping once to crane its neck back to look at her and she guessed it must want her to follow. Once she did he seemed appeased and continued the walk. This was not the magical walk back from the pond the fawn had provided her all those years ago. While the rain had stopped, the way was still treacherous, though without having to lay traps along the way, it did provide a quicker way home. Even on the occasions she stopped to capture, kill, and dress the creatures that had found themselves in her traps, she did not feel their journey was slowed by too long. And within hours she was back home, once again standing on the outskirts of her home with the creature that had led her there.

Before entering, she turned to the creature and bowed, offering it a blessing on its travels. Perhaps one day it would find itself on the tables of her fellow villagers, but today she had gathered plenty, and he had helped her find her way home. In return the massive creature lowered its head and shook it violently at her. For a moment she was afraid it had changed her mind and would attack, but then she saw one of its antlers begin to shake, and then the other, and then both fell off before her. It looked at her again then once again shook its free head violently, as though trying to get used to how light it was again. With one last look it bound off into the forest so quickly she lost it in the dense foliage almost immediately.

* * *

In the 80 years that follow, Rosariel has become a proper priestess of Taudor Salka, or at least what officially counts for one in the wilds of the Sylvari forest. With the Huntress’ blessing flowing through her however, it is difficult to deny. Hunters and other would-be priests from other small towns and villages travel to Dor’ghen Loth to seek out Rosariel, learn whatever she can teach them of Taudor Salka, request her blessing for their own hunts, and take that knowledge back to their own homes. She is happy to provide this service. It was something she wished she had had as a child, struggling not only to obtain those books, but also to read and understand them. Now she is able to pass along those teachings to others, heal those injured on the hunt, as well as continue her own hunts and prey in offering to the Huntress, and enjoy the feel of her excitement flowing through her with each quest.

While one of the antlers offered her by that stag adorns their altar to Taudor Salka, the other she wears as her spellcasting focus, a stag’s horn being the symbol of the great Huntress herself. A wishbone shaped piece of the antler now sits upon her chest, the prongs wrapped in leather strips that wrap around her neck as a necklace; two of the cut off tips of the antlers sit as small gauges in her ears, the rest made into different pieces of beadwork that clatter lightly on her wrists, around her neck, on her fingers and sewn into her jewelry.

As those years passed and Dor’ghen Loth grew larger, so too did the incidents of what at first were deemed to be accidental killings of creatures not meant to be killed, or not respecting the land and creatures they had been blessed with. As time went on the intent became clear. Rosariel voiced her anger and frustration with these disgusting practices and still they continued, no one willing to step up and fight for what they had been given. All of them forgetting the nomadic lives they lived before Taudor Salka had given them everything.

First the blessings stopped. Hunters constantly leaving Rosariel’s home enraged that she would not ask for the Huntress’ assistance for their hunt. Then, the wildlife that had become so abundant fled. Having been hunted unnecessarily, exploitatively, and without gratitude… the Woodland Dancer could no longer abide, and that is what Rosariel told them. However, instead of changing their ways, instead of admitting their wrong, they came for the priestess. 161 years of her life dedicated to becoming a conduit for theirs to be better, 171 years living and growing with all the others, and they turned on her the moment she was no longer able to let them poison the land.

Rosariel didn’t want to flee, not even because Dor’ghen Loth had been her home her entire life, but because she wanted to end their practices. She wanted instead to be a conduit for Taudor Salka herself to eradicate the world of those poachers, those hateful creatures. She wanted to hunt them down. But alas, she was one and they were many, and so she fled. Rosariel Faenwyn, priestess of the Huntress Taudor Salka, skulked quietly into the dark forest in hopes of finding respite in a world better than the tiny one she left behind.

Mae'rel Elerron, Sylvari, is 203 years old and the cleric of Lissentoria. Despite being full-blood, her heritage is questioned as she hails from Coria.

Mae'rel's eyes are that of a golden summer flower, most beautiful with the sun against them. Her hair runs platinum white, long and smooth beneath her shoulders, adorned with highlights of a sweet blonde, particularly along the edges. She stands at six feet and two inches tall, weighing around a hundred and forty pounds. Her body is unremarkable besides her scars, being defined, but not particularly muscular in any way, and her skin is pale despite her hours in the sun. Her right arm, along her wrist, bears the insignia of a light blue, thornless rose, that of Lady Lissentoria. 

Of course, the most notable feature of Mae'rel is the scars she bears from her punishments as a child, lashings, and burnings. However, these are not the most disfiguring scars, as those would be the remaining effect the boils of the plague she bore had on her body. Her legs, arms, torso, and even her once seemingly perfect face all were affected by these. These days, they are hardly visible, as seemingly no matter the climate, Mae'rel's traveling attire is the same. Her main features? A white robe adorned with light blue, gloves to match, and a tunic to accompany. The standout piece of Mae'rel Elleron's attire is undoubtedly her white cloak and mask, which resembles that of a dove, with a beak as blue as the sky.

------------------------

Valia and Analor Elerron were two Sylvari from the Northern Kingdom. Mae'rel doesn't know much about her parents' lives before they traveled, but in reality, that's because there isn't much to be known. They largely left their past lives behind them when they decided to travel to Coria, where they would reside in Calestra. Being so close to the border, they weren't the only Sylvari to have this idea, however, that didn't necessarily mean they were accepted. They desired for their child, whom Valia was to bear, to have more chance to travel and move beyond the borders of the Empire. Though, life was not easy within the human borders.

The two Sylvari struggled in foreign lands. Though, truthfully the environment around the city was not much different from the wilderness just a bit more North, the city itself was vastly different from the lands they had formerly called home. The city was more clumped, the humans judgemental of them, despite the fact they were hardly the first of their kind to seek shelter within the city. The pair struggled to find work and the work they did find did not pay well. That said, with the two of them working, they slowly pieced together enough for Valia to take off for nearly a year when the pregnancy inhibited her ability to work, and when young Mae'rel was first born.

From her first breath outside of her mother's womb, the young Mae'rel was a rascal. She crawled all across their small house in the slums, and frequently tipped over furniture with what little weight she had. Analor cursed their child silently to the Gods, questioning why despite their hardships and efforts, the Gods had rewarded them with a child who was wrathful to them. Still, he cared for the family as the only worker as long as he could, working hours tirelessly until Valia could return to work. Young Mae'rel often spent time in the backrooms of Inns where Valia was a waitress, or under the care of teenagers of richer folk who were learning the value of 'hard labor' by simply making sure young Mae'rel did not get into trouble.

As she grew up, she was a child curious. Her parents were both knowledgeable in how to read and speak multiple languages, and that affinity continued with young Mae'rel. By the time she was in her teens, she could speak and write in Sylvari, both human tongues, and even was pursuing the Cidal language. However, the troublesome spirit the young child had did not fade with age, at least, not easily, as Mae'rel was known to have light fingers. She often found herself stealing, whether it be money to help her family, food for herself so they wouldn't worry over it, or things she had no use for at all, like a luxurious bathrobe. Indeed, she was still that same rascal as when she had first been brought into the realms.

Unfortunately for young Mae'rel, this habit would come back to haunt her, though not because of the law, but rather, those who lived outside of it. The city of Calestra had its underside, especially in the slums, as all cities did. And in one unlucky encounter, Mae'rel's light fingers finally found the wrong pockets, that of a criminal, one who was far more experienced than she was. And so the young girl was forced to repay what she had tried to steal, in labor for the syndicate she had tried to cross. It was a lighter punishment than death, but that did not mean she enjoyed it, at least at first.

Underneath more organized criminals, Mae'rel was given targets. Her hands found themselves filled with coins that she would return to her superiors, jewelry, or even important documents on occasion. She mostly used her charm, and her raw dexterity to perform these feats, and of course, the art of stealth. With time, she found herself enjoying her work, and once her debt had been re-payed, she was allowed to walk free, but the scoundrel of a Sylvari decided she would stay, now that her earnings were not going to a debt she owed, but rather herself. She was able to assist her family, who questioned where she had the funds from, but Mae'rel always pled that she worked hard as a tutor for rich merchants, who were generous with their payments.

She became willing to get her hands dirtier, and with time, stealing turned to beatings, lashings, or even cuts administered to those she was tasked to punish, particularly those who were under the hands of the organization, like herself not long ago. The Sylvari regretted it only when she saw herself at the other end of those punishments, and otherwise didn't look back, grateful for the opportunity that she was convinced the Gods had provided her.

Finally, on a dry summer night, Mae'rel was to accompany a companion, a large human male by the name of Bulren for collection. This wasn't the first time she had done such it wasn't even the first life she had taken, though this one was different. A young man and his young wife with their twin sons, their home was the pair's destination, and so in the middle of the night, Mae'rel gently picked the door open, and her partner pulled the family into the living room. To make an example of the man, Bulren bludgeoned the innocent wife until she could not breathe but through her blood, which slowly filled her lungs until she could draw no more breath. Then, the man and his two sons were dragged into the dirt alleys, where Bulren threw the two boys into deep holes, and allowed Mae'rel to finish the job.

The Sylvari's stomach twisted. The woman had done nothing wrong and yet she had watched the mother be murdered. And the children hardly even understood what was unfolding. Yet, she wasn't to touch the children, just the father on the ground in front of them. And so, she drove two knives into him, one into each of his palms, pinning him onto the heated dirt so that he may not move without help. With that, the pair ransacked their home for all valuables and left the scene.

And just a week later, the home was sold after its owners had seemed to disappear 'to another city'.

------------------------

As if the Gods themselves had grown sick of Mae'rel's willingness to harm others for her benefit, a horrible plague was allowed to find its way to the city of Calestra. Boils full of disgusting puss and soon, blood, formed all across the infected. A fever that scalded the hands, a cough that did not relent and caused sleepless nights and bleeding throats. These were a few of the many agonizing symptoms of the plague that claimed life after life. Inevitably, of course, the plague found its way into the Elerron home, and infected Mae'rel, and her parents as well.

The city was in full quarantine, no one was allowed in, and no one was allowed out, without express permission and purpose. The number of priests, doctors, and clerics that traveled to the city was large, but the journey took many a long while to make. The few that did arrive in haste turned away from those less fortunate, the poor, the needy, who died alone in the slums, instead focusing on the wealthy who could reward them, or their church, generously for their help. Mae'rel and her family were among those ignored, left to rot in their sick as plague ravaged the city.

Sylvari society often teaches that years, months, and days especially are nothing in the grand plan of things, but those few days that the young Sylvari's parents withered away slowed, and she could feel every hour in agonizing sloth as she prayed and begged to the Gods and Goddesses alike to save her parents, that she would repent and do anything, she vowed in most holy words. She gathered water every day despite the fact the boils on her feet busted and grew infected to the point each step was like being stabbed, and the blade twisted so that perhaps she could nurse her parents until help came.

However, her prayers were not answered, and help did not come.

----------------

At least, not for her parents. Though a human by the name of Ignacio Vugehin, a faceless, traveling Cleric of the Blue Lady, did find a sickly Mae'rel in the allies, where she had collapsed finally, too exhausted, the pain overbearing, the grieving a sharp agony, and had given up. Channeling the blessing of Lady Lysora, he restored the young girl and brought her back to her home, where he visited her every day. The man learned of Mae'rel's wrongdoings, of all she had hurt, those whose lives she had ended early, and he only listened at first, sometimes going days without a word, and yet, Mae'rel seemed to feel he always asked more.

First, the monk taught her persistence. For even though life had drenched all of Mae'rel's dreams in sorrow, all she planned to pursue, there was still away. And so she joined him every day for prayers, and once she had recovered enough, she assisted him around the city. Mae'rel finally felt the immeasurable guilt of all she'd done catch up to her, and bare down on her like an unstoppable bear, robbed of its cubs. Like a fierce plague that knew no borders, no wealth, only sickness.

Slowly Mae'rel sought forgiveness for her actions, though her scars, both from the plague and otherwise, burdened her immeasurably. So when it came time for Ignacio to leave the city as the plague died, and to travel elsewhere he may be needed, the Sylvari joined him on the road, as they traveled from city to city. However, one thing always stuck out to Mae'rel, and that was that no one's eyes ever stayed on Ignacio, instead, they drifted to her unmasked face, her exposed and deformed skin. So with time, Mae'rel too dawned the robes of her master, and she too dawned a similar mask. The mask of a dove, a symbol of freedom and peace, is adorned with the sky blue of Lady Lysora. With this, she had considered herself reborn, and she finally had earned the favor of The Blue Lady, who granted her miracles so that she could assist Master Vugehin further. 

With time, though, Master Vugehin withered, as he was merely a human. A decade wore him down, and while he learned so much, and helped so many during that period, it showed on his body, even despite the miracles he channeled prolonging his life. For, each decade that strained his body was nothing but a breeze from the wind in Mae'rel's lifespan. By the time he had reached eighty, he was unable to even travel across the small town he had settled in without the help of his apprentice, and while he could still channel powerful magic to help the sickly who traveled to see him from the whispers they'd heard from the League of Wayfarers, he was but a shell of himself.

One night, before bed, after Mae'rel had helped Master Vugehin settle in, he called her to his bedside and told her stories. Stories of a traveling monk of a beautiful Goddess who helped all that needed it, who could heal all wounds and cure all sicknesses. Stories of a lost girl who followed him and learned so much from that monk. Stories of people undiscovered who still needed aid. And then, Master Vugehin passed a ring to his apprentice before he laid his head against his pillow, and Lady Lysora took him to a land where all were to be in eternal health.

The Sylvari spent the night praying for Master Vugehin, and the day grieving for him. The second night she slept, and the second day she set off to travel back to the Empire. Before she left the town that she had called home for years now, though, she took up a vow and swore it on Master Vugehin. Mae'rel Elerron would not harm any, no matter their sins, no matter their crimes, unless she absolutely must to survive. And then, she left for the road. She took up this journey alone, and traveled light and fast, to return to the land that her parents had fled, to try to offer aide in whatever manner she could to the kingdoms, and the Empire.