Tucked away in the alleys and decrepit homes of The Dominion’s poorest district, once existed a seed, a community of wood elves who operated separately from the jurisdiction of the city that surrounded them. Composed of no more than a dozen families, the seed operated traditionally, relying on ancient elven customs and beliefs to shape their self-driven economy. Art was one of the driving factors of their lives – they honed their labor on woodwork and decoration and spent their free time indulging in performance and spectacle. Their lives were ultimately difficult, and as war grew ever-present, and supplying themselves became more and more strenuous, it got to the point where it became impossible. When martial law fell over Caras Eldar and The Dominion as a whole, guards of the crown reported the unease they felt as they marched into a desolate neighborhood – beds made with food on the tables, the last glowing embers of fires still present. It was as if everyone there had vanished.
Sensing the imminent militarization of their home and the potential destruction or at least taint of their micro-culture, the small wood elf community fled the city. They took to the forests, their heritage easily allowing them to adapt to the terrain. With their hands, they dug burrows and stowed themselves away during the day time, using these hours to create elaborate beauties from the forest's offerings. When night fell they emerged, dressed in finely carved and painted masks and hastily hand-sewn clothing, and basked in their newfound autonomy. Their celebration of this occasion never died, every night they returned to the grounds of the arrival, members of the seed boasting their newest creations, enacting their performances or reciting their songs. They were forever merry, and this mindset would be ground in the generations after them.
One elf, in particular, is worth noting. His name was Trinculo, born at some point at some time, likely in a tree. They say, without any applicable context, that the first words he spoke were in conjunction with a lie. He was a catalyst of falsehoods, no matter the time of day or situation, Trinculo could never bring himself, to tell the truth. This paired with a naturally mischievous nature, it wasn’t long before his reputation in the seed became ill. One rainy night, as a prank on the poor lad, a group of elves snuck into his burrow and forcefully affixed a mask to his face – one with a comically sized nose, the symbol of a lier. In the struggle, a patch of mud sent Trinculo off the side of a hill, and with a short slide through the dirt, he hit a rock and was cast into a fierce rapid, and sent downstream.
When he awoke, he hadn't the slightest clue of what happened. Where he was, where his home was unknown to him. All he had was the mask from the night before, with its flaking red paint, patchy feathers, and comical nose. Unaware of its true purpose, he adopted it proudly and took off into the world, the same as he had always been.
