Faenion was born with no siblings, as most elves. He led a rather average, healthy, ordinary life- until he was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. A savage snowstorm caught him lost in the Northwest Mountain Range while with a friend, freezing him up and messing up his nerves a bit. His parents weren't quite sure how to deal with this when he returned, but they did their best. He finds that he can enjoy the best of things now, though, slowing down when he can to rest. When he drops his bow, and he leans down to pick it up, he can feel the wind against his skin, and he thinks its beautiful. He enjoys the dirt scuffing the wood of his bow, and he brushes it off, admiring the texture. He finds art in what many might find bothersome. The sun is in his eyes, but man, does it cast lovely shadows. The grass is too long here, but it hides wildlife he wouldn't have noticed had he been acing every activity he participated in. It's much better than freezing snow, anyway. He enjoys cool days with warm sun, hanging out with his friends. Fortunately, almost all of them are seemingly obsessed with history. He always enjoys laying back in the grass while someone rants on about the journeys of the Descendants, or what uprising they think might happen soon. A few of his favorites are about previous wars and important events, told from the situations of friend's parents or grandparents- The Sacking of Ves and stories of the attempts to exterminate the spider cultist elves in particular catch his interest.
