Many see Avelorn’s alliance with the Sylvaneth as primarily amongst the winter-hued bark of its Kurnoth Hunters; and although this is true in most regards…it is not the full truth. Indeed, Whilst the Kurnothi are the Great Protectors of the Tree of Ages, and loyal defenders of their Aelven kin, there is one Sylvaneth in Avelorn not among their order. His name is Eridor, and he is the only known Treelord to reside permanently within the living city.
He is the true eternal guardian, for Eridor is old, so old in fact that no one save Queen Tauriel or perhaps even Alarielle herself could say how long he has taken root under the shadow of the Great Tree. His form is brittle and ancient, even amongst his immortal and long-living kin, the strains of history have taken their toll on the aging warrior. His form has seen more than most ever will, and Eridor has been through much to safeguard the realm. He was there in the Age of Myth, written of in legends and song as he helped guide the very first Aelves across Ghyran. He helped push back the tide of madness in the Age of Chaos and stood strong against the enemies that threatened to tear down all he held dear. Acts of immense valor adorn his noble history, even today, chipped axe notches and hissing magical wounds still cling to his body, constant reminders of his deeds and the selfless life he endures. Such brutal conflict gives him no pleasure, but to safeguard the Great Tree, and those that defend it, he would gladly wage war forever if it meant giving others a chance for respite.
In his centuries of service, Eridor has given his life more times than any could have imagined. Tearing into a Great Unclean One even as his oaken form bubbles and melts, defending terrified Aelf civilians from screeching hordes of Skaven. Each time the Treelord has fallen in battle, his undying spirit persists. By sheer force of will, or perhaps even the dormant spirit of the Great Tree itself, none can truly say. Yet all know that Eridor never stays dead. Small buds flower across his slumped form, as his massive oaken physique slowly dissipates on green mist. Although it may take months, maybe years, he reshapes under the shadow of the Tree of Ages, limbs reknotting and leaves regrowing across his fractured oak. This new lease of life has been repeated many times throughout his service, but each time it occurs, Eridor feels a small part of himself lost in the miraculous process.
Despite his awesome power and unique immortal nature, Eridor’s mind is forever broken beyond repair from uncountable resurrections. Giving one’s life in protection of kin may be honorable, but for the Treelord, it comes with a great price. Before his tired eyes, time flows unnaturally, faces and surroundings shift, grow, wither, and die in the span of seconds to his addled psyche. His voice is stuttered, stilted, as he speaks, branches snap and creak with age. Weariness tugs at him in every syllable uttered, and it may take hours or perhaps even days before he finishes but one sentence. It is tragic to many Aelves, to see one so old not be given final rest is heartbreaking for many. But if Eridor shares their concern, he does not show it. In his mind, his work is not done, until he finally breathes his last, rest is a luxury he cannot afford. Even with his fragile state of mind, the Treelord drives forever onwards to endure. To defend Avelorn, to protect its people, and most importantly, shepherd all that is good and green into a new age of peace.
