A man must do three things to achieve imortality. He must write a book. He must father sons and daughters. And he must plant a tree. These were the words that rang through the clouded old mind of Jonathan Elers, clear as a bell, as he shuffled slowly through woodlands. Eventually, the old man would reach a clearing in the woods, a small, soft smile slowly cracking on his aged features. With a soft grunt, he falls to his knees, landing with a gentle thud on the grass. He fumbles around inside his coat for a moment before taking out a small, slightly withered but still alive sapling.
Some minutes later, the weathered Jonathan Elers sits back, admiring his handiwork. The sapling now snuggly planted in the ground, cool moist dirt piled around it. A book I have written. A tree I have planted. Yet no children have come from me he thinks bitterly to himself with regret. Sighing, the old man begins rising to his feet. Yet the strength evades the old and weathered mage. A look of panic begins to cloud his features for a moment as he lays back on the dirt, wheezing for breath. And then, at that moment, a gentle breeze rolls through, the blades of grass bending and dancing, the old mans thin grey hair swaying at its caressing touch. It was enough to make the old man cease his struggle, a pained smile crossing his lips. The wind, and breezes such as this, had forever been closely linked with his life as a mage of air. It seemed only fitting that one such breeze should herald his death.
A life meaningless to some yet influential to others. A delver, mage, adventurer, leader, follower and teacher. A man who had lived a full and wholesome life always trying to do the right thing. News would spread. Some would rejoice, others weep, and many would simply go on with their lives. Regardless, On the 16th of the Grand Harvest, 1481, Jonathan Elers heart stopped beating, never to beat again.