Ithilliel Mistadaneth, Female Wood Elf Monk
Current Character Level: 3
Monk 3 (Way of the Hand)
Ithilliel (Moon Daughter)
As she listened to the bell calling all to morning prayers, it pulled her slowly out of her reverie in which had she remembered hearing that same soft bell in the distance as a child, calling her to the care and tenderness of healing. She recalled the raid on her village while her father was away, the children screaming as they witnessed the slaughter by the marauding band. She remembered seeing her father, who had tracked them, slain as he tried to free her and the other captives, and being forced to watch as he was eaten before her eyes. She remembered the small crates that then hid them as they were carried for many days. And she remembered the beatings when the children cried or asked for water.
As she dressed, she touched the faded scars on her back and arms, reminding her of her torment, confinement, and her escape. Those scars were now hidden beneath the delicately designs of flowers and vines. These thoughts brought the renewed guilt she felt by failing the other children, but they were guarded and, hurting as she was she could only sneak away quietly. She remembered traveling as fast as she was able through the dark woods with no direction in mind, only thinking to escape her captors and the misery of the small crate. She finally slowed when she realized they had not found her out or followed.
The bell and the coming fellowship reminded her also of her fright at being alone when she was so small, knowing her father, who had named her for the Moon, could no longer hold her or teach her the history of the Illefarn, and she appreciated the home she now had at the Temple of the Soft Rain, and the Master and brethren of the Mist who taught her and cared for her, who had become her family.
Once her brief reprimand for tardiness was administered, she settled into a relaxed pose for morning meditation and hours of study. She recalled wandering to this monastery at the edge of the Misty Forest those many years ago. Taken in so kindly by these quiet old monks, those of the Order of the Mist, she was encouraged to stay and learn their disciplines and the lore of Chauntea. The Master saw her as a daughter and the brethren called her Little Sister. They strove to tame a bit of her wildness and she tried to accept the strict rules of their order. The solitude and dedication of these masters to grace, wisdom, and perfection fit her elven nature, or so she thought.
After changing posture, she realized this same wild streak also caused her to grow restless, calling her away from her lessons, as it did now, or out of the confines of her small cell, beyond the wall and back to the forest, back under the stars, where she could open her mind to the reverie and meditate as she knew she should. She constantly tried the patience of even the eldest of the order, scampering when she should walk, ignoring the solemnity of the moment, be it at prayer or a simple meal, and badgering the farmers and the occasional Lizard folk who would trade with them with endless questions. These latter encounters, though infrequent, inspired her to study Draconic. Her teachers saw this too as yet another distraction but she chose to practice whenever she could, mostly with the cart donkey and rabbits. She laughed quietly, and was again patiently chastised.
As always, she worked hard to please, seeking diligence in her chores, persistence in her practices of the martial arts, sword and bow, as well as dedication to her studies and prayers. It was easier now when the weather was nice and the windows were opened. But when winter came she felt so enclosed it was hard to focus or even breathe, and she would grow impatient, panicked and angry, not at all as a monk should behave. At night, in her cold cell she would calm herself by carving small discards of wood, creating lovely or humorous depictions of rabbits, donkeys and chickens, as well as animals of the woods and, once, a tiny dragon. Unless she could tame her rebellious nature and better conform to this sedate lifestyle, she would be unable to ascend farther in rank, perhaps even being expelled from the order, another bother for her Master.
Master Shi-Fu was lately concerned that they had not heard from one of their brethren, Leosin Erlanthar, for a far longer time than usual. So worn by the young elf’s endless questions and her open willfulness, the Master decided to send Ithilliel out as an Initiate of the Mist to seek out and contact this man. He stressed to her that her success or failure in this task would decide her fate in the Order, as they were helpless to deal with her further.
That night, elated by this mission which she would complete alone, Ithilliel choose her adult name. With no family but the monks she left behind she became Ithilliel Mistadaneth, Wandering Daughter of the Moon.