By Mielikki's tears, it has been so long, too long, in fact. It has been far too long since I have set foot within the soothing trees of my home, the Misty Forest. It has to have been well over eighty years ago, a long time for a young elf like me. I was not even forty, little more than a child, when I was so cruelly ripped from the arms of my parents. I can still remember my mother's screams, and they leave me feeling hollow inside. We were just on our way to a trade fair at the Way Inn, my parents and I, when a lone troll came upon us. We were out in the open with nowhere to hide, so my parents decided that we had to defend ourselves. Pushing me behind them, my parents (both competent archers) began firing a barrage of arrows at the troll, hoping to make it flee. Unfortunately, they just succeeded in making it more determined. My mother screamed at me to run even as the grotesque creature bowled into her and my father. My parents stood no chance; the troll man-handled them, seeming to take great pleasure in literally ripping them limb from limb. I was frozen solid with fright, some of my father's blood staining my clothes. After several minutes of playing with my helpless parents (including beating my father's unconscious body with his own severed arm), the troll began to advance slowly on my cowering form. Suddenly, a shower of arrows struck the thing in the back. Roaring, it turned around, ready to charge its new adversaries. I then heard chanting, and felt an incredible heat. I saw a globe of fire expanding towards me. It incinerated the troll, but stopped inches short of my face. I looked for my saviors, certain that they were fellow elves or perhaps even a human band from the Way Inn. Unfortunately, I was not that fortunate. I gazed upon a group of twelve people, dressed in strange flowing robes and with swarthy complexions. Several of them were carrying strange curved blades (at this time I had never seen a scimitar before), and most of them were wearing long pieces of cloth wrapped around their heads. One of them pointed at me and spoke in a strange language, which I know know to be the Alzhedo trade language. Even as I attempted to politely thank the men for saving me (for we elves must be polite to humans, even if they are lesser beings), they rushed forward and grasped my arms tightly. Before I knew it, I was bound in chains and being carried by a huge man who smelled of blood and misery. It then truly sunk into my mind what these men were. They were slavers out of Calimshan (incredibly far to the north from their normal hunting grounds), and I was now a slave.

I will spare you the details of my journey from the fields west of the Misty Forest to the slavers' ship anchored in a small cove on the northern Sword Coast. Suffice to say, it was a very humiliating and painful journey; I still bear today the whip marks on my back from their cruel torture. When we reached the ship, I was put in a dark hold along with approximately forty other wretched creatures, all humans. I did not speak to them, and they did not speak to me; conversation was unwanted and unnecessary. I spent two months in that hold, never seeing the sun. By the time we reached the slave markets of Calimport, our final destination, I was greatly weakened. However, my innate resiliency and strength kept me going when many of my fellow slaves were long dead. After docking, we were herded directly to the slave markets and placed in a holding pen. I will not bore you with the processes that some potential buyers used to ensure our health; suffice to say that I now understand what horses must feel like when they are sold. Since I was an elf, and relatively strong, my owners thought to fetch a great price for me. I was cleaned up, fed well, and overall pampered for six days while they spread the word of my forthcoming auction. When the day came, there were several hundred people in the market wanting to purchase me. I was stood on the block alone and billed as a "wild rarity from the barbaric north". The bidding was fast and furious, with several fights almost breaking out in the crowd. Eventually, though, it came down to two opposed bidders: a heavily cloaked man whose features I could not make out and a very fat Calimshite heavily adorned with gold and jewels. The bidding reached astronomical prices (well over one thousand gold pieces) before the cloaked man finally dropped out, though I could feel him staring at me even as I was brought to my new owner, the merchant Al'Adir Sukh. Sukh put a chain leash around my neck and led me away from the markets towards the richer area of Calimport. As we were walking, I couldn't shake off the sensation that we were being followed, but Sukh seemed oblivious. As we were walking past an alley, a figure lept out and dragged us into the dimly lit back street. Before Sukh could even cry out, the figure rapped him on the head with the pommel of a longsword. It was the cloaked man from the market; with one gloved hand he motioned me to be quiet, then he released the chain that bound me and motioned for me to follow him, which I gratefully did.

We wove in and out of back streets, moving towards the slums of Calimshan. My savior never said a word to me on the trip. When we were deep within the slums (and I was hopelessly lost), the cloaked figure led me into a run-down boarding house. We walked past the dilapidated desk and the dilapidated desk clerk with no acknoledgement taking place on either side. We went to the last room on the right on the first floor; the cloaked figure motioned me in. I went in, and he followed, closing the door behind him. He motioned for me to sit down in the lone chair gracing the room, which I did. When I had gotten comfortable (or as comfortable as one can get in a half-broken chair full of splinters), the figure turned towards me and lowered his hood, revealing the face of a middle-aged moon elf. To say that I was ecstatic would have been an understatement; I immediately began babbling my story to my savior in elven and, to his credit, he patiently listened to my half-incoherent ramblings, a small smile tugging at the side of his face. After I was done with telling my story and with thanking him profusely, he introduced himself as Jantryl Moonfinger, a native of Evereska. He also let it be known that he was a semi-retired adventurer who spent much of his time (and some of his considerable resources) trying to buy any elven slave that hits the Calishite markets; if he cannot buy him, as in my case, he steals them. Jantryl further told me that while he could not return me to the Misty Forest (smuggling me that far north would strain even his resources), he could pull some strings and get me inducted to an adventuring party (composed primarily of elves) that he was sponsoring covertly. I readily agreed, for I wanted nothing to do with the city of Calimport (or humans, at the time) ever again. Jantryl let me sleep on the small bed in the room as he kept watch; he promised me before I went to sleep that he would take me to meet my new companions soon. For the first time in months, I slept in relative calm, though the screams of my mother still troubled my dreams somewhat.

I was awakened several hours later by Jantryl, who tossed a small meal of bread and cheese to me. After I had finished wolfing down my meal, Jantryl gave me a thick grey wool cloak and told me to put it on. I did, and it disguised my features very well. Now dressed in his nearly-identical cloak, Jantryl motioned me to follow him, and we went out into the streets. We quickly left the slums behind us and headed into a relatively well-to-do quarter of Calimshan. On my previous walks throuhg the city, I had been too preoccupied with my own thoughts to take much notice of the city or its inhabitants, but now I did. People rubbing elbows, the smells, it was enough to make an elf go insane. I decided right there that I had no use for large cities. Lost as I was in my musings and gawkings, I almost didn't notice when Jantryl stopped at a well-kept two story townhouse. He knocked at the door and we were immediately admitted. Once we stepped inside, it was as if we had entered another world. There were flowering plants, and the sweet perfume of nature filled the house. I knew that I was among friends. To make a long story short, I was introduced to my new companions, who called themselves Brightsword's Band, after the party's leader, an experienced male moon elven ranger named Lharormyr Brightsword. There were four others, a quiet female gold elven magic-user named Illyria Whispervoice, a rather arrogant male gold elven warrior named Iliont Greengrass, a wise and kind male moon elf priest of Corellon Latherian named Hirath Stillpond, and a breath-takingly beautiful young half-elven (wild) bard named Atalia Silvercloud. I was apprenticed to the ranger Brightsword, but I only had eyes for Atalia, and I believe that she shared my sentiments. To make a very long story very short, I bid Jantryl good-bye, thanking him profusely, and my party and I left Calimport soon after, headed to the wilderness to fully effect my training. Over the course of the next few years, Lharormyr trained me extensively, teaching me woodslore and other rangerly arts; I grew to be very proficient. I also managed to learn as much as I could about my most hated enemy, the troll. Also over the course of the next few years (for what do years matter to elves?), the feelings between Atalia and I grew, until one day we were married. It was a simple ceremony overseen by Hirath, but it meant the world to me. And for a few short years, I was truly happy, and I nearly forgot about the fate that had befallen my parents. What a fool I was to believe that such a fate would not catch up to me.

We were in Amn, getting payed by a small village to hunt down and destroy a small group of hobgoblins that had been preying on the innocent townsfolk. Though they were human, we accepted the work anyway, as we would soon be forced to settle down for a while, due to the upcoming arrival of my and Atalia's first child. Atalia, with child, stayed behind so that she might be safe. What a cruel world this is. The rest of the party left, tracking the hobgoblins to the west of the town. After two days of searching, we managed to find the lair, but there was something wrong. The hobgoblins were there, but they were all dead, ripped apart and half-eaten. Lharormyr and I poked around, when it hit me. That smell...I had smelled that smell before, long ago. It was the smell of death, the smell of hatred, the smell of...troll. Immediately I thought of Atalia, all alone in that small town with no one to protect her and her child from the murderous hatred of those vile beasts. I screamed, an animal sound, and starting running the many miles back to my wife. Lharormyr, immediately understanding, goaded the rest of the party to follow. The distance we had tediously tracked through in two days we now covered in less than one. We still arrived too late, if merely by seconds.

The village was in shambles; the palisade wall had been broken in at several points, and dead and dying villagers were scattered about. We heard chanting coming from the center of the village, and immediately raced to the sound. The village center was in shambles, the smell of death hanging in the air like a miasma. As we arrived, Atalia had just finished chanting, and a spray of fire flew out of her fingers, bathing the two trolls confronting her in flame. Unfortunately, it was not enough, as one of them reached out and slashed open her full belly with one claw; she fell, gasping in pain. Roaring in anger, I charged, but was shoved aside by my more experienced companions. They leapt to engage the trolls, and Iliont got in a lucky strike to the back of one of the wounded trolls. Illyria fired off a volley of magic missiles, and Lharormyr and Hirath engaged the other troll in combat. The battle quickly moved away from my beloved, and I sprinted to her, cradling her dying head in my lap. She was unconscious, so she likely never heard my repeated vows of love and vengeance for her and for my child, but I am certain that the gods have communicated to her those sobbed promises. As the battle raged, I layed her head down gently and closed her beautiful blue eyes, eyes that would never look upon this world again. I stood up, full of thoughts of vengeance, and surveyed the situation. It did not look promising, though I didn't care.

Hirath was writhing on the ground, clawing at the meat that used to be his throat and gurgling. Iliont lay sprawled on the dusty ground, half of his proud face gone, bitten off by the troll that killed him. Even as I stood, one troll sank its claws deep into Illyria's stomach, killing her even as she unleashed the fan of fire that took the beast's life. Lharormyr was engaged with the remaining troll. Both were badly wounded, and I ran to assist my fellow elf. As I was running, I rummaged in my backpack for a torch and a flask of lamp oil. I lit the torch on the run, and managed to hit the troll with the thrown flask, dousing it in lamp oil. Even as I did this, the troll reached out with both hands, batting aside Lharormyr's tired attempts to block the attack, and bodily ripped that noble elf's head from his shoulders. I let out a scream and raced towards the troll, my fiery brand held high. It turned towards me and before I could get inside its guard, it managed to give me a deep wound across my abdomen; I still bear that scar today. However, even such a grievous wound could not stay my vengeance, and I thrust my torch at the beast's chest. Doused in oil, the troll lit quickly. It began screaming in pain, writhing in its tracks. Calmly, I began throwing more lamp oil at the beast, increasing the duration of the flame. All too soon, however, the beast was dead and I was alone. The entire village was empty, its inhabitants either dead or scattered. I buried my companions and my family on a green hill to the west of the village, and left behind my life.

I refused to weep; my only sign of grief after that fight was my vow to all the gods, above and below, to slay as many trolls as I could, in vengeance for the deaths of those that I loved...my parents, my companions, my wife...my child. However, I was not foolish, and I knew that I had no hope to complete my goal at my present level of power. I was far too weak. I decided that I must gain greatly before I could defeat even a single troll by myself. To that end, I decided to travel to Baldur's Gate, to sign up with the Flaming Fist mercenary company. Either I would gain the experience I needed there, or I would die in battle and be released from my hellish life. I traveled north to Baldur's Gate, serving as a caravan guard along the way. Due to my skills and determination, I was immediately accepted as a scout. I spent nearly fifty years with the Flaming Fist, always as an advance scout. I served under Azoun during the Horde invasion, and I was in Tethyr during the Ten Black Days of Eleint. I was in Arabel during the Time of Troubles, and I actually saw the goddess Tymora. I have observed many interesting things in my years here, but I have yet to succeed in my vow. Now I am attached to the Allied Army of the Thunder Peaks, waiting to kill orcs and giants. Will I ever reach my goal, or am I doomed to go through life never having the power to avenge my family? I suppose that only time will tell, and we elves have time in plenty.