Elm suffers from survivor's guilt, and his self esteem is pitifully low- he does not see himself as somebody worth sacrificing yourself for, and would sooner beat you to the punch by doing it for you instead. His patience is due to this as well, willing to let people push his buttons with little more than an exasperated sigh or a pinched brow. He does have a limit, of course, and is not above giving teacherly scoldings to those who deserve it...it just takes a bit to get there. He does not fancy himself a leader, but for the sake of others, will take the reigns if need be- lending to his ability to flip into 'work mode', growing more focused and cold from years as working as a hunter. While his image of himself is laughable, Elmaris tends to think of what's best for everyone, and doesn't let himself drown in self-pity or doubt when there is work to be done.

Besides a few hunting accidents and conflicts of interest, his life remained peaceful and uneventful well into his hundreds, claiming the name of Elmaris upon reaching adulthood and becoming a prominent bowman. Naturally, however, all good things are not meant to last, and after his 200th birthday, a customary trip to the woods for a hunt ended with him and his best friend discovering a ritual site seemingly set up a bit aways from their village. Drawn in dried blood and bone dust, just being near the circle left them feeling ill at ease and queasy, and despite being over an hour away, decided to make haste back home to bring attention to the nauseating sigil. What they returned to was the smell of iron and ash.

Whoever- or whatever- had been brought forth by that circle had beat them home. And it was very much still there, feasting on whatever it could get a hold of.

He does not remember much of what happened. He remembered making eye contact with it, attempting to help his neighbor, and then everything went black. He faintly registered getting hit by something, feeling something collide with his head, and when he woke up, it was to throbbing pain and blood congealing in his hair. It was quiet, with only the crackling of fire, and he tries to not look too hard when he stumbles over someone he used to know- vision blurry and limbs heavy. He isn't in his head enough to cry, even when the arm with it's familiar bracelet stares at him from beneath the debris of his home, and when his hands slowly pry the burnt and wet journal from her fingers, he finds his hands are shaking almost too hard to keep a grip.

He takes other things, one here, one there, and stumbles through the dirt streets- he makes it past the boundaries, through the trees, but he does not know how far. The concussion eventually robs him of consciousness, and it's several days before he awakens in the back of a merchant caravan. They tell him he nearly died. They tell him they found no one else. And when the younger girl slowly pushes a bloodstained journal into his grip, smelling of burnt herbs, he allows himself to weep.

When Elmaris leaves, his time is a blur- he feels cold and empty and alone, in a world he'd never explored before, with barely anything in worldly possessions. He hunts for money, and spends it on sleep and drink, drifting along with little to no care for whether he lives the next day or not. It's not until a chance meeting with man by the name of Baron Hearst that this cycle changes, being coerced into joining the Order in order to do something with his life. It is, after all, a job for those with little to lose.

Elmaris survives his initiation, poison slowly changing and tainting his body, and he awakens to an almost thrilling sensation of having brushed death and lived once more. His blood sings to him, forever altered, and the binding pact between him and a creature of the Fae only solidifies his place. For the first time in years, he feels a sense of purpose, and if he must draw his own blood to carry it out, so be it.

50 years, 100 years, and more are how long he stalks from the shadows, a cold determination in his eyes and a well-maintained crossbow on his back at all times. Eventually, he joins an adventurer's guild, for the ease of taking jobs and gaining a more permanent place of residence, even if he forever belongs to the Order that brought him in. While he prefers to not get too close to people, fear for both losing them and having them lose him for his reckless hunting, he still eventually finds himself integrating into the fray with a forlorn sense of fondness.

Perhaps taking in that child hadn't been the best idea on his part, but while the rest of him may bleed, his heart will always bleed the most.