Eleven is a wiry, sun-weathered wood elf who defies traditional elven aesthetics. He sports a surprisingly full, rugged beard that he attributes to his quarter-human heritage and months of forest neglect. His clothes are a hodgepodge of stitched furs and stained commoner's garb. He carries a greataxe with the ease of someone who has spent more time chopping firewood than practicing at a target, and his hair is a tangled mess of pine needles and dried mud.

He is perpetually defensive about his age and his lineage, often preemptively snapping at people before they can make a joke. Despite his outward gruffness, he is remarkably earnest and takes great pride in his self-taught survival skills, especially his cooking.

Eleven grew up in an elven enclave where time moved slowly and opinions were held for centuries. Being only thirty five and having a grandparent who was a half elf, he was the constant target of subtle barbs. The elders treated him like an infant while the purists laughed at his ability to grow facial hair. One day, fed up with being a punchline, he stormed into the woods to prove he could thrive without the condescension of his kin. He quickly realized he had no idea where he was going. What felt like decades was only six months of lonely survival where he learned to fight off wolves and forage for strange fungi. He eventually found a mentor in an ancient hermit who lived in the deep brush. Eleven won the old man over with a signature dish of roasted pine-squirrel and bioluminescent moss, a recipe the old man had never seen in his ninety years. Unfortunately, the old hermit passed away before the lessons were complete. Eleven inherited the hut and a box of cryptic notes. Eventually, a lost traveller wandered by and gave him directions to the nearest town. Though the directions were terrible and the walk took three times as long as promised, Eleven finally reached civilization, bearded, angry, and ready to prove his worth.