Many years have passed since the first day the mists claimed me.
The monastery I called home resided near the vast expanse of the Frozenfar.
A mostly peaceful place to live, even if it was very cold.
The temple was ran by good humans who took an orphaned Elf in.
Generations of them helped raise me to follow our codes and mantras,
as well as to harness chi and train my mind.
The first teacher who taught me how to focus my spiritual energy to fight...
he did so while whacking me with a staff and tossing me around everywhere.
He had an arm too, whipping rocks at me with such speed that
I could barely see them when thrown. He expected me to dodge them flawlessly.
Having my arse beaten badly by that old man with one foot in the grave,
it was a humbling and unique experience. Loved him. Hated his stick though.
Most importantly, my sisters and brothers showed me how to live.
After first arriving in Barovia, I was astonished and overwhelmed by this new way of life.
Elves were looked at with scorn and my kin out in Degannwy, well..
there wasn't much common ground between us. Never even learned to speak Elven.
That language barrier and not understanding my own culture, it caused a rift.
Didn't help that the woman I idolized was half drow.
I'm a boisterous Elf that lacks a filter and has purple hair.
An anomaly through and through. Some hated me, others folks didn't believe
that I'd live long enough to be worth getting to know.
Confidence, willpower and a chip on my shoulder were my greatest weapons.
Fighting though... I wasn't any good and it took years to click.
Was beaten badly in almost every battle that I took part in,
whether they were duels of skill or up against terrifying foes.
One time a Unholy Priest of Vecna slammed me so hard on my head that afterwards...
letters began twisting and floating in different directions whenever trying to read or write.
It caused such intense headaches too and so.. I had to stop.
Felt weak and feeble for a long time. Monsters even mocked my intelligence.
But giving up isn't in my nature, so with each defeat I'd pick myself up and lick my wounds.
Every new scar became a permanent reminder of a lesson learned.
I continued flinging myself at every danger that stood in front of me,
repeating this cycle until one day I could thrive.
