Mourn was only young. He was used to being carried by his now-deceased mother across the lush forests of Chondalwood, and his father had always been there, ever ready to wield his rapier to protect them all from coming to harm. But now young Mourn was not in his mother�s arms, and his father was nowhere to be found, by anyone. Mourn was too young to realise that his parents had passed on to where all good elves do after death; they had been murdered by the weapons of the Duergar dwarves that now held Mourn Trueflight as they slave in the Underdark. Similarly, young Mourn was too young to truly understand what was happening to him. His parents had been attacked by dwarves, he knew that much. And he had been marched, gagged and bound by skin-biting ropes, across Chondath and Sespech, until eventually he was dragged down a great, dark passage to the Duergar Underdark.

Mourn had been pushed around by the dwarves. He had been shoved and jostled by the dwarves. He had been poked and laughed at by the dwarves. But Mourn Trueflight was little more than two feet high, and there was no resistance in such a frail body. And the dwarves were menacing, authoritative and, more importantly, armed to the teeth. After the dwarves� novelty of a young Elfling to bully had worn off, Mourn Trueflight was thrown roughly into a damn, cramped, smelly cell. This would be his home for almost one hundred years.

What seemed like a year passed the young elf by; in fact it had been little more than a week. He had not been fed, given drink or even so much as talked to. In fact, it seemed like the young Elfling had been forgotten. Until one day, or perhaps night since there was no time to be told in the caves beneath the ground, the bars to Mourn�s cell were opened by a sturdy, reeking dwarf. The dwarf had jagged yellow teeth, and peeling grey skin, and an unwashed, black beard pointing down from his chin. On his leather belt, an axe was fastened. The dwarf pulled young Mourn to his weary feet, and tossed him forcefully from his cell.

�Time ye earned ye stay, elf!� the dwarf laughed cruelly.

And so the young, weary, pale Mourn Trueflight, son of Uriong of Chondalwood, was set to slavery fro the Duergar dwarves of the Underdark. He was made to fetch the dwarves whatever their wish took them, so long as it was provided in the Underdark. For he was not permitted to leave the Underdark, and so he did not feel sunlight on his skin as a result.

The dwarves had no mercy on their young captive. If he did not work fast enough or if he spoke, or if he walked wrong, they would hit him with the blunts of their axes, or the side of their jugs, or anything else that fell to hand; and in fact, sometimes they would do this without any reason other than their own entertainment. There was one event, where young Mourn was ordered by a particularly cruel-hearted dwarf to fetch him some ale. Mourn had not eaten in days, and what he had ate had been a scrap of meat that �had not been fitting enough for a dwarf.� And Mourn had also not tasted a drink to his lips for over a week. When ordered to fetch the ale, Mourn merely staggered forward a few steps, before falling to his knees. He could not muster the strength to move. The dwarf pulled Mourn to his feet by the throat, but Mourn fell down again. The dwarf kicked angrily at the Elfling, much to the amusement of his comrades. The dwarf then dragged young Mourn up once more, and forcefully shoved him towards the stand where his steel flask of ale sat. Mourn Trueflight picked up the ale with a shaky hand, and fell to his knees for the third time. Again, the dwarf pulled roughly at Mourn�s throat, to make him stand� Trueflight had taken enough. The flask of ale met the dwarf�s gut and he fell down gasping for air; he had been winded by the shot Mourn gave him with the flask. Mourn had not the strength in his small, young, frail body to continue an assault on his tormentor. The dwarf was soon back to his feet, red-faced and mad, and young Mourn received a beating of his own, the dwarf unleashing blow after blow using the flask, the likes of which he had never before received. From that day on, Mourn Trueflight rarely stood up against the Duergar in his time in The Underdark.

Time passed by, though this was unnoticed by the young Elfling slave. He was worked harder and harder, and fed less and less� at least, it seemed that way. No sunlight touched the tender skin of Mourn Trueflight, and as he grew older, and taller, and wiser, his skin grew paler. But young Mourn Trueflight knew little of his past, and even littler of the world outside the Underdark was. He knew just one thing, he hated dwarves and one day he would get his revenge. (Mourn was once beaten near to death for saying this aloud.)

-

The scene changes to that of an older Elfling, walking through a forest recognisable as Chondalwood. The Elf has long, flowing white hair and very pale white skin. He is topless, and tattooed mysteriously on his chest and back are two large symbols of the Underdark. Over his shoulder the elf carries a longbow, with Elven made wood and a tight bowstring. The Elfling looks around Chondalwood, remembering. His past floods back to him. He hears a rustling in the bushes before him. Under normal circumstances, he would have investigated and greeted whatever is in there if it be friendly. But a creepy feeling passes over the elf. He raises his longbow, neatly and silently threads an arrow onto his bowstring, and lets the arrow whistle through the air at an unrecordable speed, until it stops point down in the throat of the being in the bushes. Mourn Trueflight has killed his first innocent dwarf.