Legends of Belariath

Conner

The glade was a large expanse of land, decorated with a lush vegetation, thriving wild life, and a bustling community of Sylvan elves. It was big enough that, perhaps, ‘forest’ would be a more…appropriate term. A quick, safely distant glance would lead one to believe the village to be a place of prosperity, tranquility; people simply going about their lives. A deeper look, a more foolishly courageous look would reveal the brutish elves that dwelled in its circle. A tribe known in the outskirts of the jungle infested regions of the world for their guerilla warfare, these people were feared for their brutality and their complete lack of mercy. They made for great warriors, great defenders of their people, but made for horrible people. The females called for blood as well, called for the viscera of their enemies to collapse over their delicately calloused hands. Even the farmers (or at least, what could pass for farmers in a forest) picked up weapons when the time called for it.

In the midst of such violence their dwelled a single elf, an exhausted Sylvan. Though he had the blood of several people stained on his hands, he had grown thoroughly tired of death; the smell of it, the feel of it, the taste of it after another glorious victory. After months of personal deliberation, this elf, Conner, had decided it was time to leave his people for a more…sane life. A few of the elves that had joined his tribe, rather than being born into it, had spoken of Nanthelion like a distant dream; a place of incredible opportunity, a place that made starting one’s life over again much, much simpler. He had prepared himself for the exile when it came, he was prepared for the accusations of cowardice, he was prepared for the total disownment of his entire family, the entire village. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the drop of the figure above him a few miles from his village, the cold slice of the blade as his father dragged it along his throat.

Waking up in the healer’s cot was frightening at first, Conner believing himself well and truly dead. Though the individual had done a wonderful job at getting him back to full health, he had found the elf far too late to prevent the scar across his neck; a permanent reminder of his father’s deed. A number of hours of chit chat and discussing the healer’s profession revealed to Conner that that was the sort of thing he had been searching for. The complete opposite of some maddened brute, it seemed. Though the healer, who simply called herself Ava (a blatantly obvious alias, by the way it was so waywardly spoken), would not take him on as an apprentice, she told him of Nanthelion as well. So there he journeyed and there he lingers now, searching to expand himself, prove himself amongst the ranks of even the greatest healers.

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