Hurried footsteps stalk an endless trail; a tall shadow, ever in pursuit of designs beyond his ken. A Lore-Master tried, true and thorough, the tall Elf's rich, earthen hair betrays his Greenwood lineage. Pools of emerald flicker in stark defiance against the encroaching Shadow, yet even their glow diminishes whenever the grim reminder they behold–of what is, in this age known as, Mirkwood. Strong of body and resolute of mind, an unquenched thirst for knowledge spurs his every meandering step into a gait–be it on horseback or across many a league on foot, with naught but his trusty raven companion to safeguard his passage as they breach the ebony night. The breath of Autumn would ever billow with warmth in his wake.

Part [I]: Come leaf, come fall

Though his roots run deep within the blackened soil of Greenwood the Great, from his youngest of summers did he display an uncanny bond with nature–animals heeded his friendship, rare herbs made themselves known to his keen, verdant gaze and the breath of Nature flourished through each and every whisper of his soul. Awed with the world that blossomed and bloomed about his every step, he sought its wonders all anew–for in his soul burned bright the longing to unearth all of the very world that enthralled him, from its history, to its mystery.

It thus came as small wonder that the path of a Lore-Master soon swept him off the beaten path, and unto his studies; committed, he toiled for magic's spark in studies unnumbered and libraries unremembered; until at last, at the coming of age, he was given unto tutelage to the Refuge of Edhelion, now knowing both order and Master. Yet, as with many passing things of this fleeting age, he found his blessings short-lived, and his path of wisdom stunted all too early–as he but narrowly fled Skorgrim's razor in the wake of his bitter siege of the Refuge.

Discipline saw him through on that fateful day, as it stayed his hand, containing the coppery taste of revenge upon his lips. Though he toiled much, and knew hardship aplenty, many-a-tome did he safeguard from Skorgrim's assault, and though his rest within Celondim was short, in his heart he grew enamoured with both it, and Ered Luin as a whole. Seeing through the berth of its imperfections, he traversed the lands for many leagues, until the grim summons of Lord Elrond hied the survivors of Edhelion past lustruous fields and desolate sands, to reach the pine-wood cradle of the Trollshaws once more--Imladris called, and though remorseful, he hearkened to its mustering call.

Though great the rest within, his soul was swift to recover from the scars the Dourhands imparted. Not even the tutelage of Lord Elrond to the survivors would slake his thirst and bind him in place--ere long, he stole away to the road anew, ever-so-often a part of the band scouting with Elladan and Elorhir alike. It is thus that he came into league with the Dunedain; and a particular spirited Ranger would steal a kernel of his interest from that even on.

Part [II] - Legacy of lake Nenuial

Many summers dwarfed his formative years after, and far hardier he grew. The comfort of Elven-make, the safety their havens brought now troubled his mind little. He had found kinship with the Rangers of the North where he expected to find none; and his lightless step, and aptitude for muffled skulking adapted well to the band of Rangers that welcomed him.

Rolling on, the world grew older, and summers trailed on; by now, he fashioned himself more than fit for survival in the toughest of wilds, at scant times even braving the dreary expanse of Forochel, though no longer than a fortnight at most. He grew not in renown, nor cared for the same; theirs was a life of quiet disruption and lingering hardship, much unlike what he previously knew in his Elven-homes.