You were born beneath the living boughs of Valenwood, in a village shaped around the trees rather than cut from them. Before you knew the names of the spirits or the laws that bound your people to the forest, you knew when an animal was afraid. A cornered boar lowered its tusks when you spoke. Birds returned to branches that had fallen silent. The elders said the Green heard something in your voice and answered in kind.
A Spinner taught you to listen with discipline. You learned to call the shape of a wolf from the unseen world, to harden cloth like bark, and to still a frightened creature without breaking its will. An old healer taught you the quieter craft of roots, fungi, venom, and sap, using only what the forest surrendered or what traders brought from beyond Valenwood. A carved staff became the focus for power too dangerous or exhausting to hold in your own hands.
The first law you chose for yourself concerned the dead. They were not vessels, servants, or ingredients. When a travelling Dominion mage began purchasing corpses from a battlefield beyond the village, you followed him and found dead scouts and animals raised together in a hidden grove. You broke his ritual, burned his notes, and released every spirit you could, but the mage survived to name you thief, saboteur, and traitor.
His patrons cared more for obedience than for what he had done. Your teacher could not protect you without placing the whole village under suspicion, and you would not apologise for refusing necromancy. You left before soldiers could make an example of you, carrying robes, an alchemical knife, and the staff that had helped you break the bindings.
For years you moved north through lands where forests were owned, fenced, harvested, and feared. Travellers spoke of Skyrim, where an ancient tree grew beneath the earth, where priests still honoured Kynareth, and where the Skaal remembered a sacred bond with wind, water, earth, beast, and sun. They also spoke of abandoned animals waiting beside roads and in ruined places. You decided that exile could become a pilgrimage: you would learn the magic of a harsher wild and make a moving sanctuary for every creature willing to follow.
You never reached the first grove. While crossing the border into Skyrim, an Imperial patrol found your foreign robes, bottled poisons, and conjuration staff. They called you a spy before you could explain why you had crossed the pass alone. Your hands were bound, your belongings were taken, and you were thrown onto a prison cart bound for Helgen.
