Shadows Beneath the Earth
Many moons ago, in the misty highlands beyond the mountains, where the forest peaks reach high above the clouds, into one of the disparate elven clans that people the forest floor was born Homer. Fated by the inertia of generations to be a scholar of Arcana in the name of Ioun, never to venture beyond the safe confines of the forest edges, his life instead was to take a defining turn upon the arrival to his village of a mysterious cloaked stranger, a foreign dark elf known simply as the Wizard.
In the short time the Wizard spent with the forest elves, he taught them of Corellon, of Arcana beyond the words and books, the Arcana of performance, of the theatre of magic, and the outside world, the sights of distant shores, of the open topography of the wider lands. The Ioun Elders quickly banished The Wizard for his deviant teachings, and his ideas were soon forgotten by most, but the damage had been done to the young Homer.
Although he continued to live in the forest for many more years, he could never quite shake the idea of Corellon, and though he had suppressed it at first, the image of the outside world began to dominate his waking thoughts and soon his allegiance to the life he was studying to follow had all but hollowed out from the inside. Finally, upon the cusp of his graduation, his teacher, an elder named Lucan, spoke with Homer and led him out to the forests edge.
There, while gazing across the world below the mountains, as the sunset overflowed with the light of the day, spilling purples and reds like Homer had never seen, Lucan put his arm on his shoulder and told him: “Ioun’s words teach us of many things. Of the Arcana of the life and death of the forest. Of the secrets of the fey, and the wisdom of our ancestors.” Homer stood still, silent. “But Ioun does not have your answers, Homer. And your place is not here.” Homer tried to protest, but Lucan would have nothing of it. “It is okay, Homer. Your fate is out there.”
Together they watched the last purple fade to blue as night took hold. Lucan gave him the name of a Correllon scholar and directions down the mountain, and told him only to return if he once again felt the words of Ioun in his heart. Homer left that very night.
After several days, he happened across a dwarven caravan that gave him safe passage to a nearby Port city, and he began his journey. The dwarves were simple and revered him for his mystery and his wisdom, and as Homer entertained them with his magics and his manner, slowly Homer came to adopt the persona of the Wizard that had put him on this path.
Soon he had forgotten Lucan’s instructions, and discovered a wandering life of his own, traveling mostly with small bands of traders and pilgrims, entertaining them with stories of Arcana legends, and of the things he had learned from the Wizard. One old Gypsy woman had been so taken with him that she gave Homer a harp that had belonged to her husband many years ago. This Homer slowly learned too, and he lived the nomadic life for many years, traveling through the lands and entertaining people as he went.
Then one summer afternoon, at the end of one of his long journeys, he happened to find himself in a place whose name he recognized; the home of the scholar of Corellon. Though he had been living his own path for years now, he could still not shake the feeling that fate had brought him here to further study.
Here he stayed for over a year under the tutelage of Scholar Brandis, who taught the importance of battle for true worship of Corellon. “Corellon teaches us to find the beauty in all things,” he would tell Homer, on long afternoon walks in clay courtyards, “especially in battle.”
Homer left his tutelage only months ago, and after some initial hesitation now finds himself in the company of a makeshift band of adventurers, and ready to truly perform in the theatre of battle for the first time.