Lady Vendovè. Her weakened offspring took the form of Ilythyrra, who, by no means had the strength to fight her sickness. Born under the cusp of a moon too soon the High-Elf was premature. Unwelcomed in nature without the means to fend away her own blue-eyes staring back at her, with fear, with regret. Knowing her Mother would never falter so much to resent the young babe, Ilythyrra rested easy in the care of her Mothers nurturing arms. Born in Caurost, "The jewel of the east." Raised n Caurost, the home of her people. Ilythyrra Vendovè, grew up in the inner walls of the city; Vendovè, a noble-esque family from the city who's trade happened to be fabric, raised Ilythyrra in Isolation, from the disgusting germs of other species, they weren't quite ready for their sole daughter to fly the nest.
Ilythyrra Vendovè, at the mature age of twenty-four, had finally come to the conclusion it was time for her to leave home; her air-headed and ditzy behaviour could only get the naïve High Elf so far in life. Ilythyrra took only what she could carry under the cover of darkness, her dresses, and jewellery. Goodness, how she loved all sorts of shiny jewels and gemstones. Despite the fact that she never left Caurost, the Elf remained relatively far from her relatives. Independence was something she needed to learn.
The traveller has just arrived in a small town. As they look around, their gaze is met with run down houses and shops. They duck into one of the shacks, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the small room, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town?" She begins, then pauses to study their face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a chair, “Where do you come from? What do you hope to make of yourself?”
Ilythyrra Vendovè's hand smooths over the hem of her gown, dainty hands crossing over each other in the palm of her lap. The High Elf's posture remained as an arrow. Blonde tresses of hair smoothing over pale, nearly milk-coloured skin, as delicate as a porcelain doll, Vendovè's eyes slant toward the haggard woman, sleuthed away at the back-corner of the room. "I'm from Caurost." The Elf's tone pitched sky-ward, and pride seeped through every word she expressed. Vendovè was a proud Elf, and her calm, collected voice reflected that. Stating it as if it were merely obvious to a viewer, that Ilythyrra was from Caurost. The overall air-headed and ditzy Elf peered around, movements floating as if a petal dancing on the mid-winter air, a rarity. Just like her beauty, refined and elegant, her next set of speech reflected her poise self. "I hope to make myself gleam, as if the finest of gemstones in a sea of coal-lumped half-wits." The golden-haired female's mouth widened into a sweetened smile, though, it wasn't directed at the hag. She was simply admiring herself in the back of a polished silver spoon.
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