Askrheim was born of two worlds the son of a human father and an elven mother whose face he can no longer picture, somewhere beyond the northern reaches of the realm. He carries the pointed ears of his elven blood and the broad, weathered frame of his human half, though neither heritage feels like his own anymore.
He woke in the frozen wasteland with frost in his hair, a broken sword at his side, and nothing behind his eyes but a hollow ache. The battle that stole his memories left no witnesses only a mound of earth he had clearly dug himself with frostbitten hands. He does not know whose name belongs on the rough carved marker. He only knows that when he stands before it, something in his chest tears open, and that grief is the only truth he owns.
He built a small farmstead beside the grave, tending what little the frozen earth will allow, because keeping something alive nearby feels like the least he can offer the dead. He does not know if the grave holds a companion, a lover, or something else entirely but the sorrow is so bone deep that it must have been someone who made him who he was. Until the day memory returns, the grave is his home, his purpose, and the only connection he has left in this world.
