Simple Beginnings.

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Riding atop a carriage being pulled by ornery Oxen, sat the bright haired druid of Chauntea. Filling the ride with the sounds of music, if out of tune and with a cracking voice. He was not a good musician by any stretch of the imagination. His playing was simple, but filled with soul.

“Right as Rain…. Red as rust…”
“Brick by Briiick, I turn to dust.”
“I never had a name, that you could truust.”
“Of all the deeds, That I have done, my son, you’re my proudest one.”
“Our shack burnt down and Our cows are gone…”
“The memory of your laughterrrr… is all I got.”
“In the eastern Sun, your grave does lie.”
“Among trees I said good bye…”
“There’s now way out… but down.”

Elero could feel the tears rise in his eyes as he continued the simple tune and his mind was teleported to distant and recent memories of the past.
The redhaired priest of Chauntea was walking the fields with his son, the boy appeared 10 was a spitting image of his father, down to the slight points on his ears. They were making their way down to the stream that ran the border of their property. The boy had been carrying a small basket of wild flowers, as they made their way to the stream there was a large oak tree that dominated the opening. Planted in front of the tree was a small granite effigy that read “Charlotte”.

“Papa, do you think mom would have liked these?” his son Henry asked looking up at him. With a warm smile he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulde. “Aye I do, son.” Leaning down he kissed the top of his head, dropping to one knee he gazed into the young man’s eyes with a fierce pride. They were as warm and earthen as the Grain Goddess’ embrace, with spec of clay, those were her eyes staring back into him. “Let us pray Henry,” the boy nodded to him and joined his father at his mother’s Head stone, lacing their fingers the two wrested their wrists upon the cold granite and gave thanks to Chauntea, and Kelemvor. After several minutes of silence enjoying the sounds of the wheat dancing upon the wind, Elero pressed his lips to the granite engraving of a Rose Wreathed with Wheat. Standing, he watched his son lay the flowers at Charlotte’s grave site before returning to the fields.


((This will be an evolving thread of Elero's back story, with more posts to come))

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The city, the forest and the mountains always looked so beautiful from a bird’s eye. The wind under his wings, or the feeling of dirt between the pads of his paws. Few things came close to giving in to his natural calling. The druid spent more time with fur and feather then he did with the other two legs. The druid turned raven began his descent, sweeping down he landed upon a branch in the northern West Wood. There were parts of Elero that had no interest in returning to the unnatural, mundanity that was life in Waterdeep. But his human heart ached for his friends. Elero did not walk the streets of Waterdeep as often as he once did. He did not belong cast among the cobblestones and unnatural effigies to industrial progress. This world was becoming more alien to him with each passing day. As time passed his friends within the city numbered less and less. Where he once felt he had a family, it seemed many had either passed on to the next life or moved on.

Change, such an ephemeral concept, like every drop of water in the stream, it is unrelenting. The small Raven landed at the bank of the stream, staring at his own reflection, transforming Elero barely recognized the man he had become. The once cleancut farmer resembled more of a wild man, his scarlet mane was chaotic and unkempt, his body clad in pelts taken from the west wood.

“Why me,” he asked his reflection, and questioned his god. The gifts Chauntea had bestowed upon him frightened him to his core. He was never so Narcissistic to believe his god spoke to him directly. But he believed she sent omens to him, and signs. The Druid felt at a loss of why she would bestow upon him such things. Elero never found himself to be some one of note, he had Joined Chauntea’s priesthood after his wife had passed to help himself heal and give back to his community. It was not until he was made a refugee from his home that his druidic powers began to manifest. Elero liked to believe She had other purposes for him, but often he felt doubt in his heart.

Standing from the stream, he felt his gaze land northward. Sarenna was right, perhaps it was time he began to get in touch with his cultural Identity, perhaps they could help him search for what he could not find. With that the Druid began to march toward the Elven village, he would need to speak with their elder.