Nym Lenore
I never knew my parents. The monastery where they dropped me off as a baby didn’t record the names. I don’t even know if Lenore is my actual surname.
Strict but fair, my childhood was almost joyful in its simplicity. There were half a dozen orphans who the monks had taken in. Abbot Dain overlooked our group as we played games, did chores and took long walks around the monastery. I grew up learning calm, peace, and joy. My best friend was a human boy two years my elder named Soren Lorenson. He looked out for me like a big brother.
But that all changed when I was eight years old, I woke one morning to a loud bang. I could hear people screaming and the air was smoky. I jumped out of bed and raced downstairs to catch a glimpse of Soren running out the front door with a glowing object in his hand. Larger monks with dark red cowls were racing through the ground floor, and many of my monk fathers were on the floor, dead or dying. As one of the red-cowls grabbed for me, I ducked under his arm and raced off into the streets, hoping to find Soren, but catching no sight of him.
A few days later I returned to the monastery to find it deserted. Homeless again, I grew up with the street urchins and riff-raff in Upper Lachas. Begging for food, pinching a wallet or watch, sleeping on the streets. We never got into serious trouble, but we didn't exactly play by the rules. When you're hungry enough, the rules mean nothing. It was even harder being an elf. It was common knowledge that the elves thought of themselves as better than humans and most people resented me and enjoyed seeing an elf living in squalor.
One day when I was fourteen, I snuck a wallet from the wrong guy and he grabbed me by the arm and threw me to the ground. He pulled out a small dagger from a sheath on his side and lunged for me when he was suddenly knocked on the ground. I looked up to see that my savior was none other than Abbot Dain himself, admittedly looking years older.
He took me back to a small hut where the remains of the cloister had re-gathered. We eventually traveled to Durmchapel where they had built a new abbey. He never told me the whole story, but I gathered that Soren had betrayed the order and we had lost something of great value.
I trained my body and mind for the next several years thinking of little else but the day when I would avenge my brothers.
Two years ago while we were running a food drive in Glastonwood, I spotted a red-cloaked man running through the woods behind a farmhouse. I gave chase over a few miles but lost sight of him. Over the next three days I tracked him to a campsite deep in the woods. There I came upon five red-cloaks. I took out two of them the first night and was approaching the tent with the others when I was knocked on the head and all went black. When I came to, they had abandoned the campsite and crossed the river and I couldn’t pick up their trail.
Returning to the cloister, I informed the Abbott Dain of my plans to pursue them. He reminded me that revenge was not our way and I must stay true to my training. He implored me to remain at the monastery and warned that if I strayed from my path I may never find my way back. But I ignored him. I gathered my few belongings, and set off to find Soren.
Since that time, I’ve been living mainly by my wits. Over the last five years I’ve picked up odd jobs often as a bounty hunter. It turns out that I developed a knack for tracking down wrongdoers and bringing them to justice. I live simply and move around wherever the trail takes me. But the trail’s gone cold the last few months. I fear I may never pick it up again…
