Born beneath the shadowed canopies of a secluded forest realm, the dark elf known as Kotron grew up in a society that valued secrecy, precision, and survival above all else. His family belonged to a minor but respected house, tasked with scouting and guarding the outer borders of their territory. From a young age, Kotron was trained in stealth, blade work, and tracking, often sent on dangerous patrols where failure meant death—not just for him, but for those he protected. Despite his loyalty, he began to question the harsh traditions of his people, especially their distrust and hostility toward outsiders.
As he grew older, a failed border skirmish changed everything; blamed for a loss he could not have prevented, Kotron was quietly cast out to preserve his house’s reputation. Stripped of his title and purpose, he wandered beyond the only world he had ever known, forced to rely on his skills to survive. The surface lands were unfamiliar and often hostile, but they also showed him something new—freedom to choose his own path.
Now, Kotron travels from place to place, taking on work as a scout or hired blade, careful to hide his past while observing the world with a cautious curiosity. Though he appears cold and distant, he carries a strong internal code: he refuses to betray those who earn his trust. His exile still haunts him, and part of him seeks a way to prove his worth—not to his old house, but to himself.
Kotron pauses at the entrance of the shack, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as they adjust to the dim candlelight. He slowly steps inside, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade, cautious but controlled. At the woman’s words, he tilts his head, studying her carefully before taking the offered seat without fully relaxing. “You seem to know more than you should,” he says quietly, his voice low and measured.
He leans back slightly, though his posture remains tense, and removes his hood just enough to reveal his face. “I come from a place that no longer claims me,” Kotron continues, his gaze fixed on the old woman as if trying to read her intentions. He briefly glances toward the door, then back to her, as if calculating every possible threat.
“As for what I hope to make of myself…” he pauses, his fingers tapping lightly against the chair before going still. “Something more than a ghost of a past I didn’t choose.” His tone hardens slightly. “So tell me—if you’ve been expecting me, then you already know why I’m here.”
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