I awoke on a little shore of a river. Clutched in my hand, as though it meant my life, was a glowing purple sword with runes inscribed upon it. Words I could read. Namarra, who never sleeps. My clothes were soaked and seemed very old, dark, and somewhat ornate. I was also wearing a large dark cloak. My skin is black and my ears are pointed. I started walking. My arrival at nearly anywhere was met with malicious stares and corner whispers. I couldn’t stay in one place for very long. Over my wandering I had discovered what “The Art” was and that I had great skill in it. Mystra, the lady of magic, seemed to be my only guide but she would not respond. All I had were the libraries and small knowledge banks of small towns. I needed bigger cities with more information. My name seems unknown to anyone’s ears, but my race was not. I am an elf. But not like many elves I have seen. I seem enthused with elven craftsmanship, I even know how to craft weapons. Who am I? Who was I? I seemed to have no luck at all until I was sitting in a tavern on my way to Waterdeep when an annoying half-elf annoyed me. Since then, the answers don’t seem to stop.