Aleilsum was born high above the ground in the Yuirwood while the leaves whispered in a faint morning greeting, one of a very small band of Moon Elves within that mostly Green Elf land . He grew well and loved the trees, each turning of the season growing strongly through the high arching summer, the slow falling though autumn into winter and the regrowing again, tiny shoots beginning the year all over again.

His older brother was the pride of the family, for he had great facility with the Weave. Yet Aleilsum was beloved and knew it and did not resent his older brother. He learned the art of sword play, practicing relentlessly to be as good with the sword as his brother was with the Weave.

He grew restless as a young stripling, proud of his skill at arms, wanting to test himself in the deep forest. Kissing his mother and father and brother he left for a few nights alone.

And he met a stranger in these few nights who offered him great and different weopons, not far away at all. Walking by the side of this courteous man he decided in his youthful arrogance that not all black - skinned Elves from the Underdark were as he had been told.

He learned different, for it had of course been a trap for the young proud boy. No spider lets a fly escape, no matter how randomly encountered. Many heavy years later, he knew not how long, he was no longer handsome, no longer proud and he rarely looked up. He was sometimes an entertainment for torment, sometimes a body- servant, often a mildly useful beast of burden stabled with the Duegar or other mine workers or metalworkers. He had always been faithful to the Lord Protector from his smallest steps but it became locked deep within though his commitment never faltered. Kindness to other captives became a matter of not surrendering to viciousness himself, for they punished gentleness ferociously and rewarded darthirii who tormented their own. They pitted captive against captive after the long shifts were over. In these rounds, his early sword training paid off. Talented, he was taken from the mines and kept as a gladiator for a time.

Finally he caught the eye of a vicious and ferocious Priestess of Lolth who took him as her servant. She carved a great black spider into the flesh of his back that never healed. Deadly vicious, impulsive and supremely manipulative, she was on her way to the top of the Priesthood of the Spider Queen. Exhaustion and frequent torment weakened his stamina; scars inscribed his flesh as relentlessly as raindrops fall in an ocean storm. One searing day his lover was slain in front of him slowly and cruelly as he hung in chains. As the city began to fail, the Ilythiiri and the Yathrin in particular became worse. The constant surrounding cruelty between each individual, the unholiness and his own weary soul-grief eroded his very self. Only his commitment to the Protector remained, never openly shown, the thing that perhaps kept him alive.

How he reached the surface again he could barely remember. He knew there had been imminent sacrifice for the worn-out darthiir, then somehow greater events happening. The in-fighting between House and House worsened into civil war. In the falling city streetfighting took place passing him by. Then all became a shattered blur of running and thirst driving him, tunnel darkness and the ragged tattered cloak of a mean death beginning to enfold him.

Somehow then light, painful, strange, disorientating. Dwarven voices, lifting him up from near death to physical healing. They restored his severed shield-hand in a blessed pain. Soul-healing too, as far as they could. Colours again, true colours, green and blue and red, and most of all the stark kiss of the sun. Kindness of strangers. Flashes of different coloured faces and races. Gripping a sword again. Slowly, painfully, relearning lost skills.

Over the decades, healing had happened. He raised his head straight again, smiled, rediscovered humour, even once or twice had lovers. Sometimes he travelled for short months with chance met forest wanderers. But usually he wandered the forests deliberately alone, deliberately lost, smiling at shimmering sunlight dancing on stream surfaces, watching trout in their depths, loving the caress of rain on his face and hair. He watches the moon through dappling leaves, grew comfortable again with the leaf - filtered brightness of the sun. He practiced with his bow and sword.

It became time to venture forth again. He travelled far away this time, to the thriving city of Baldur's Gate. He took service with one of his own kind, a Lord of the City, found a kind of kinship among the other Elves of that land loving them even when they were foolish in his mind. Days and weeks passed well. He even heard the voice of the Lord of the Elves whom in his heart he had served all these uncounted years and received the gift of a sword which became more precious to him than his own sight.

Time passed and he settled a little. He became entranced by two women, one of the People and one of the Humans. In his tribe, love was not exclusive. Yet neither was it light. His heart was engaged and he cherished them both second only to his love for Corellon. The Human spoke of love to him but broke his heart by leaving carelessly, returning and treating him as if love were naught. The woman of the People treated him not lightly, but was on her path to become one of the Honoured of the Defenders of the People, a Bladesinger. With her he travelled to her masters in the Order. He spoke with them, begged the honour of her hand in marriage.

He was rejected.

An ex – captive of the Illythiir was suspect for they were experts at turning a man's soul into their own toy and poisoning all integrity.

In grief, he and she parted. He did not think he would love another. And so he left his service to the Lord on good terms and took service as a caravan guard. He crisscrossed the lands quiet and competent, valued a little higher for his cooking skills. At length he came to a small town in a land shadowed by the Zhents. He liked them not, but he had learned long ago to hold his tongue.

He was content to work a sword for hire or a farm hand, a ratcatcher or a caravan guard. He did not ask much but did such small kindnesses as he felt able. Still he followed the call of the Lord of the Elves. What would come would come.