Table Of Contents
It is natural that all the Sylvan Elves, born and bred beneath the
forest canopy, are gifted trackers and wondrous archers, capable of
venturing alone into the wild forest for weeks at a time. For all this
skill, the common elf pales in comparison to those few known as Sentinels.
Ultimate survivalists and masters of the forest world, they are taken
from the best archer militia and trained as brave monster hunters and
guerrilla fighters. They often carry virulent poisons and coat the tips
of their arrows with these in order to bring down those enemies that
might inspire fear and break the lines of the forces behind them. This
also allows them to apply their skill as hunters on behalf of their kin;
Sentinels sharpen their talents against the great beasts from within
the forest as often as interlopers from without. They are a doughty
force to meet in battle: true veterans and a peerless example of the
unorthodox tactics of the Sylvan Elves honed to frightening lethality.
The rare few who survive and flourish in the long days within the forest
may be sponsored by a Pathfinder band to join their ranks and become
the very epitome of silent death from afar. Pathfinders quickly
become elves for whom even the merest facade of civilisation is unnatural.
They live a life far more akin to a pack of wolves than other
elves – a nomadic existence, sleeping in dens or in the boughs of
trees. Despite this feral bearing, they hold a place of great esteem in
the community during those rare times when they do make an appearance
at a grove or noble’s court.
Descriptions of marksmen always watching, who could pick out an
eye at a hundred paces filled my nightmares, yet in my waking life,
I observed my guards becoming more lax with each passing day. I
seized the opportunity to make my escape, and fled the hall one dark
night. Hurrying along the small trails winding through the dense forest,
I began to believe I was truly free.
Half an hour along the path, with my best guess as to North, I stopped
dead. A single white fletched arrow lay across the track before me. I
raised a foot to cross this discarded projectile, but the hairs prickling
on the back of my neck made me lower it again. Turning, another arrow
lay across the path behind me, where none had been mere moments
before. No living being could move so swiftly, so silently, without
leaving another trace. Shuddering, I knew the truth. I was permitted
to escape, but my sojourn ended here. I was certain mirthful laughter
shadowed me everywhere in the days that followed my return.
They stole like shadows, their lineage clearly
visible, if you could spot them.
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