My earliest memories are of the Eldarion peaks, hard and wind-scarred, teaching me the honest labor of hands. Though Serenial, my mother, taught me quiet grace, and Magron, my father, quiet strength, both were lost to me, swallowed by a long winter and the silence that followed. Their loss—hers swift and mysterious, his a slow fading—hardened me, but not to stone. It forged a resolve to build, to find purpose amidst the desolation. That quiet ache brought me to Lake Mirrormere, where the earnest work of companions builds something enduring, a counter-spell to despair. Here, by these still waters, I find purpose in preservation, a home against the encroaching emptiness.