Kaelrin Darethar
Backstory
Kaelrin was born on the edge of Mistledale, where the wild green of Cormanthor Forest meets the open fields of men. His mother, an elf of the deep woods, and his father, a ranger of the Dalelands, raised him in the quiet balance between the two — the patience of the forest and the resolve of the frontier.
When the drow rose from the depths, it was no border skirmish. It was war. Villages burned, rangers fell, and shadows claimed the forest paths. Kaelrin’s mother went to face them, hoping her voice and lineage might stay their blades. Instead, she was struck down beneath the trees — her body pierced by black-fletched bolts as the drow jeered and spat the word “Darthiir.”
Traitor.
His father never recovered from the loss. He fought until his body gave out, dying years later defending a caravan from another drow raid. When Kaelrin buried him beside the ruined oak where his mother fell, he carved a new name for himself into the bark: Darethar — a bastardized echo of Darthiir — taken to remember the price his family paid for standing between light and shadow.
Now, Kaelrin Darethar walks the roads beyond the Dalelands, a young ranger with grief-hardened resolve and a name the drow meant as an insult, now worn as armor. The world is wide and wounded, but he means to see it healed — or, if it cannot be, avenged.
Description
The young half-elf stands with the poise of one shaped by both hardship and the wild. Lithe and lean, his frame favors agility over strength — the build of a hunter who moves with the wind rather than against it. Sun-touched skin and angular features hint at his elven blood: high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and subtly pointed ears visible beneath tousled light-brown hair. His green eyes hold both vigilance and a trace of lingering innocence, the look of someone who’s seen too much for his years but still believes in what’s worth protecting.
Clad in muted greens and browns, his garb is practical and worn — fur-trimmed for warmth, leather-bound for silence. A bow rests easily in his hands, an extension of his will rather than mere weapon. There’s grace in his movements, though still raw and unpolished — instinct guiding him where training has yet to catch up.
Backstory
Kaelrin was born on the edge of Mistledale, where the wild green of Cormanthor Forest meets the open fields of men. His mother, an elf of the deep woods, and his father, a ranger of the Dalelands, raised him in the quiet balance between the two — the patience of the forest and the resolve of the frontier.
When the drow rose from the depths, it was no border skirmish. It was war. Villages burned, rangers fell, and shadows claimed the forest paths. Kaelrin’s mother went to face them, hoping her voice and lineage might stay their blades. Instead, she was struck down beneath the trees — her body pierced by black-fletched bolts as the drow jeered and spat the word “Darthiir.”
Traitor.
His father never recovered from the loss. He fought until his body gave out, dying years later defending a caravan from another drow raid. When Kaelrin buried him beside the ruined oak where his mother fell, he carved a new name for himself into the bark: Darethar — a bastardized echo of Darthiir — taken to remember the price his family paid for standing between light and shadow.
Now, Kaelrin Darethar walks the roads beyond the Dalelands, a young ranger with grief-hardened resolve and a name the drow meant as an insult, now worn as armor. The world is wide and wounded, but he means to see it healed — or, if it cannot be, avenged.
Description
The young half-elf stands with the poise of one shaped by both hardship and the wild. Lithe and lean, his frame favors agility over strength — the build of a hunter who moves with the wind rather than against it. Sun-touched skin and angular features hint at his elven blood: high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and subtly pointed ears visible beneath tousled light-brown hair. His green eyes hold both vigilance and a trace of lingering innocence, the look of someone who’s seen too much for his years but still believes in what’s worth protecting.
Clad in muted greens and browns, his garb is practical and worn — fur-trimmed for warmth, leather-bound for silence. A bow rests easily in his hands, an extension of his will rather than mere weapon. There’s grace in his movements, though still raw and unpolished — instinct guiding him where training has yet to catch up.
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