Call Anwyn Ilvana a warrior in her presence and she will bristle, perhaps even scorn you. Life, not death, is the aim of her powers. Where her hands work, the weak are rejuvenated, the helpless are rescued, and the strong are brought low. Only her desire to protect the mysteries of Deepwood eclipses her pacifist inclinations. The pride and star of Deepwood, her brilliant intellect and purity of devotion earned her the title of Sage after barely sixty years of training. Now just one-hundred and twenty years of age, her youth is reflected in the vigor of her thaumaturgy. Even the mythical Naziri dragon-mages, it is claimed, can barely match the breathtaking speed with which she manipulates the magical elements. Though rarely seen in the course of battle and though wielding no sword or bow, few warriors feel the presence of another leader more strongly. From her hands, allies blossom into victory and enemies wither into defeat.

Kaladrix Joran. No name stirs up more emotion within Sylvan. Indisputably the most deadly warrior ever produced by the controversial Norfang clan, many remember the last time hunters began to love killing more than the heritage they swore to protect. Kaladrix owes his loyalty to the Deepwood Council, but suspicion is unavoidable toward one so efficient in his craft. Little is known about him outside of Sylvan, though one account involves a band of rogue humans that usurped a secluded corner of Tethir forest, killing several scouts in the event. The reprisal began that evening: only an old man survived, spared out of mercy, no doubt. He remembers his forty comrades dying one at a time, two at a time, sometimes even three at a time. He remembers the futility of the arrows fired and of the shields donned. “Blink, and you’d miss it,” the man recalls. “How many were there? One? Five? Ten? How does one count that which he cannot see?”