My name is Wyldfyre.

That name was given to me by Larieth, a blue dragon. It is a dragon term, meaning 'orphan', and it is most fitting. He found me, a mere babe, abandoned in the midst of the War of the Fallen. That war killed my people, every last one of them, except me. How the Dark Hoarde managed to kill my kind so ruthlessly, so efficiently, I have never known, and probably never will. I don't even remember them.

Adopted in the protection of dragon wings, Larieth flew me far away from my homeland, to the south where the Dark Hoarde were so distant as to be almost legend. In the midst of humans, carefully hidden, shapeshifted by dragon magic, Larieth raised me as his own.

He taught me the ways of my kin, the elven folk, that I may not forget my beginnings. He taught me the ways of the humans, so that I may safely exist in this alien culture. He taught me the ways of the sword and bow, that I might defend myself in the dangerous parts of the world. Finally, he taught me the ways of magic, dragon magic, that I may less fear the darkness in the world.

Now I have reached adulthood, and Larieth, so long my father and protector, is my friend and mentor. We travel from place to place, living and experiencing the world. I long one day to return to my homeland, but it had been claimed by the Hoarde and few would dare venture there. Larieth also has little wish to return to the place that holds such dark memories for him, memories he will rarely speak of.

So we travel on, my only treasure of home being the talisman I carry, an oak leaf, inscribed with a language that no-one I have met understands, not even Larieth with his ancient knowledge. And in so many ways, I am happy.

But I long to go home.

Oh, how I wish to go home.