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Lyklor was born into a world where his people were broken. Slaves to humans, torn from their roots in the forest and forced into man-made labour. Since the last traditional births of elves, humans have milked every last droplet of natural magic from elven veins. Lyklor is the first of those who were born completely dry of this magic.
When the war was waged between still-free elves and the might of the human empire began, Lyklor escaped with the help of Kell, an elf born of the local greenery. Kell and Lyklor quickly became close friends, and the two joined the war on the side of the rebels. From the surge of new soldiers, the community grew rapidly, and practices began to take ahold. It was common for a rebel to braid their hair in order to symbolise the chains they once were shackled to, but are now under their own control. Gold became a worn euphemism for the magic of which was mined from their homes by the merciless humans.
Older customs remained too, though. Elves set up camps in groups, never alone. Fire was never touched, and natural light was instead a requirement. Clothes held the resemblance to the layering of leaves (see Lyklor's most recent concept) and came in varying shades of green. These colours changed to warmer colours if the seasons chilled.
Unfortunately, the rebellion only succeeded for a short while. After a year and three months had passed, the humans finally launched their fatal blow on the elves. Fire. Fire, to elves, is the equivalent of a poison injected into the bloodstream. Despite their lack of natural connection to the forest, the trees, the forest, is still one with them. So they catch alight like matchsticks, screaming like witches on bonfires as they sink to the floor, falling to ash and stinking of burnt wood.
It coursed through the forests and woodlands like the howling wind, extinguishing everything that crossed its path. Camps were obliterated within moments.
Lyklor and Kell with a group of elves fending off an ambush in the moorlands when this happened. Unbeknownst to them, their entire rebellion was being wiped out with ease. But it didn't mean they were safe. No. Lyklor watched his friend die before his very eyes, sink to the floor and lean on the blade sticking out of their back. No words of encouragement or farewell were exchanged. Lyklor barely had time to see his friend's face one last time before he ran.
Anywhere away from the enemy was better. Even fire. He remembered his elders speaking of how those who are to die return to the forest and let the earth take them back. And so be began to dig into the dry, loose earth, trying to ignore the warmth on his back and the sparks circling his head, inches away from his skin. But the forest would not take him back. He could not use magic but he knew the trees must be screaming, the leaves longing to let go of their perches and flutter away from the ghastly sight of the wildfire around them. He begged and begged, "Please, earth, take me back, I don't want to be here anymore! Hell is better than here!"
He had barely uttered his last word when a spark finally landed on the nape of his neck.
