Extending from that, Svelten vary greatly. Plainsfolk are tanned, darkened, and used to the sun relentlessly bearing down on them, using the skins and bones of the hunted as their shelters. Forestfolk are lighter skinned from the shade, fleet-footed and clever, always hiding among the trees. And Mountainfolk, forever in the overcast skies of the high taiga of the mountains, are light-skinned, fair-haired, and swift even upon the rockiest of grounds. They do, on rare occasion, mix their element with their words, singing what they need from the great trees known as Soultrees from their lands.

Soultrees are, of course, trees with souls; they speak to the Svelten, and the Svelten speak to them.

Svelten often fight with each other, but few rarely die- it takes nearly a hundred years before a Svelten becomes old enough to really be taught, after all. Even though prey is in far greater numbers, predators are few and far and have a tendency to avoid Svelten, or bond with them, the Svelten won't be able to sustain themselves if they are involved with bloody wars with each other. Culture has, of course, accepted this and integrated it- many ways of settling a dispute is a blade-dance until one draws blood; thus, they win.

Svelten all have glowing eyes- not greatly glowing, but enough to suspect it in the day, and know it for sure in the night. Intensity depends on passion; if they are very, very angry, it burns brighter. If they are angry but don't really care so much, it glows dully.

All Svelten, by default, could be considered as wielding the element of life. They are attuned to nature and all living things, and live in trees, meadows, and caves, rather than making fortresses, houses, and the like. They hunt when they need, eat when they must, and care for their surroundings as a mother would for their children.

Svelten wielding notable measures of this can heal others, heal themselves, and sense life all around them and their emotions. It's difficult to lie to a Svelten; they sense dishonesty as a wolf would smell fear- a wolf smells the hormones given off when you're afraid, and a Svelten senses the change in life energies when one's mood changes, or if they are attempting to deceive. Excellent liars can still lie easily- but one has to maintain calm and convince themselves as well that they are telling the truth.

There is no offensive or defensive ability to this- they can passively heal, where themselves and anyone around them feels a little more rejuvenated, recovers a little faster. When actively focusing on healing, they can repair torn flesh and speed the healing between broken bones. Those around them feel notably better, and anyone sleeping with him nearby find themselves waking up even fresher than ever.

He's kind, and a bit of joker. He's easily amused and endlessly optimistic, though he has an excellent grasp on what's realistic. He just chooses to see the bright sides of things, and forget about the foul.

He enjoys teaching, enjoys being taught, but absolutely hates feeling like he forgot something. He's fine with not knowing, but if he feels that he knows it, but can't recall it, it rubs him in a way nothing else can.

Beyond that, he prefers spending some time to himself. While being quiet overall, those that used to know him would say that he definitely became more withdrawn when he arrived at the land of Drakken and Gem. He harbors a deep sadness, regret, and a fair share of depression.

He grew up as part of what would be transcribed as the Mountainfolk, or Mountainclan. As one of the lower children of the society, he didn't have so many options. So, he began training with one of their rangers, as an apprentice. He learned to wield short swords, bows, knives, and many other weapons. He learned to track, to hunt, to kill, to live life in the process.

It came time for challenges and tests to prove the worthiness of the apprentices, and so him and others were sent out in multiple different things- tracking, hunting, raiding, etc. After a couple decades of acting as his people's soldiers, hunters, gatherers, guards, and otherwise, a unique opportunity opened up: delegations of all the clans were heading to the coast, where a small fleet of ships- just three- were going to embark across the ocean for distant lands, which have only been visited twice, both times more than two thousand years earlier.

Sorja found himself in a Drakken-occupied coastal city with the four hundred others of the three sailing ships of theirs. The ships themselves were beautiful; every single piece was sung from Soultrees, painstakingly built over decades. The ship was organic, subtly growing larger from their trip, the sails the finest spidersilk and their clothing from the best cotton grown. Many of them were offered refuge in these peoples' homes: they were sheltered and fed, met grandly by the Drakken leaders in charge of the city.

That night, Drakken soldiers captured or killed almost every single Svelten. Except for him- the family he stayed with happened to be Cultists, of sorts. They gathered intelligence and helped spread rumors if needbe, and so, seeing what would happen to Sorja, knocked him out with a sleeping drug, and hid him away as thoroughly as possible. They hurt themselves and arranged everything as if there was a fight; when the Drakken came knocking, it was all too convincing that Sorja had 'heard' the screams of his people and ran, fighting through those who tried to calm him in the process.

A day later, Sorja awoke to find supplies and clothing being thrust at him, and a map- leading him to the nearest Cultist outpost.

From there, Sorja traveled across Drakken territory to find the Cultist strongholds inside their homeland, and was promptly introduced to Vance- Valence's father.

Years later, shortly before Vance's death, he was charged with the upbringing and training of Valence and those of his generation at the Mountain Fortress. There was no going home, as he had long since found out; no way to get there, no way to contact them. But there was a chance to tear apart the Drakken, to join the little preparation force and help them prepare even better. He came to terms that it was kill or be killed; no one stood down after getting a cut. Such is Sorja's story.