Backstory
Daenalieth was not raised among temples or scholars. He was raised among thieves — not cruel cutthroats, but hungry people who had learned the world rarely gave anything freely. He learned the quiet language of alleyways, whispers, and Thieves’ Cant. Yet despite everything around him, he could never bring himself to steal.
Instead, he discovered he had another use. Wounds closed faster under his hands. Bruises faded. Fevers broke if he stayed beside someone long enough. He never learned any prayer or ritual to call this power forth. It simply answered whenever someone needed help.
The thieves began bringing their wounded to him after jobs, and for his work they shared a portion of whatever they stole. It was an arrangement built on mutual silence. Still, the rest of the world only saw a gutter-born elf raised by criminals, and that reputation followed him wherever he went.
Eventually he saved enough coin to disappear into a quiet town where no one knew his past. There he spent his days mending hands, treating sick children, and helping old folk through winter. For a while, it was the closest thing to peace he had ever known.
Then the fire came. By the time anyone understood what was happening, the town was already burning. Daenalieth ran from house to house, pulling people free when he could and healing burns where he could, but there were too many. By morning the town was gone, reduced to ash and silence.
After that he wandered, uncertain where to rebuild, until a vision came to him — clearer than any dream. He saw strangers standing together against something vast and terrible. He could not make out their faces, but he knew one thing with complete certainty: they would need someone who refused to run when things became desperate.
So now he searches. He does not know exactly who these people are yet, but when he finds them he will offer what he has always offered: his hands, his stubborn refusal to let others die if he can help it, and the promise to fight just as hard to keep them alive.