Most people in this realm have parents, or at least knew them. Aeven never had any such memory. He simply remembers existing as a child, with nobody to look after him except for the Arcas Cloud Temple monks. Abandoned by those who were supposed to love him most. Of course, he grew reclusive as his life went on, becoming somewhat of an outcast by his early 30s. He never shunned or disregarded his fellow Mali’ame, but he was simply untrusting of anyone. He learned reading and writing by observing others, but never took up any fighting, save for the staff, which he is quite proficient with. Moving on from the place he called home most, he decended into the realm of Arcas in order to learn of man, dwarves, and his fellow elves, making sure that he could never be crossed, still wearing his robes in order to conceal himself, afraid that someone might know him from the past and ask questions.
Staring back at the gentleman through the darkness of his hooded robes, Aeven would simply hand out a paper to him, which would read the following: I am currently looking for several ingredients to make some items. I would prefer not to be bothered much, which is why I wrote all of this. Under this would be a hastily written add-on. You seem like a nice man, but I prefer to do things on my own right now. Have a good day. After sufficient time has been spent reading the paper, Aeven would take the paper and shift away, disappearing into the crowd of the bazaar.
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