Deserted in a large evergreen forest known as “Faberland,” an infant elf was stumbled upon (quite literally) by a hermitic wizard and his young daughter. Too juvenile to care for himself, the elf was brought home on the back of his newfound sibling. There, the mage, with arcane portent, named the elf child “Faber,” which means “maker.” Indeed, the abandoned child had little other choice.
Alongside the human girl, the elf was trained in wild magic, a practice that lacked institutional formality. Faber was schooled thusly for thirty years. His passionate and esoteric interest in disjointed and irrelevant magical practices—the confused arcana of famed wizard Hornung are an example—was thoroughly matched by a disappointing talent in combat wizardry. True—the peaceful woods of Faberland did not provide the motivational trial conditions to develop the latter skill. What’s more, the young elf admittedly suffered from melancholia about his personal circumstances and sought amusement in the fantastical, not the practical. Thus, Faber’s fitful scholarly devotion rested squarely in the arts of divination, illusion, and evocation magic. In congenial competition, Faber and his sister would compose absurd phantasms in order to evoke the greater roar of laughter from the other.
When suddenly his adopted father, sister, and their material home, mysteriously (and also quite literally) disappeared, Faber got packing. His human father had spoken of this possibility—an extraplanar provocation of a sort—and Faber knew (rather, hoped) that in time he would see his human family again. The development of combatting magics was, suddenly, and ubiquitously relevant. Until the anticipated reunion, he would travel, practicing combat magic, making real use of his more than practiced magical illusions, and, perhaps even…