Where others saw nature as a potential for healing and life, I saw it as the source of hurting and death. Yet another aspect of existence to be corrupted by the levels of the deep. Corrupted, like my kind have always been. Whereas others who are afflicted with pestilence break out in blisters and sores, my kind swells with horns and exhibit unholy fire in their eyes. Such a beautiful curse.
In my training with The Children of the Ember Tree, a druidic order with the purpose of somehow redeeming the most fallen of tielfing, I learned many things, few of which I was actually taught.
My fellow fallen initiates were drawn to the living, the life of the wood, in the hopes of redemption for being born what they were. I instead embraced my nature and used it to enhance my gifts. My gift to kill with ease and grace.
While others learned how to make poultices out of roots and berries, I taught myself how to make poisons out of that which is left behind from the kill.

I am. I kill. Beware of me. Fore the Blite comes for you.

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