A slender wood elf with bark-brown braids threaded through with moss and tiny pressed flowers, amber eyes, and a cloak stitched from overlapping green and russet leaves. Their boots are softened with deerhide, and their shield is a painted slab of pale wood marked with a spiral of vines. They look permanently dusted with pollen, rain, and the faint scent of crushed mint.

Patient, observant, and quietly relentless. Letharel rarely raises their voice, but they are surprisingly firm when something living is being mistreated. They delight in tiny acts of care, mending saplings, relocating beetles, and naming stars for lost travelers.

Letharel was born beneath the boughs of an ancient wood where the trees were treated like elders and the streams like witnesses. As a child, they were more comfortable listening to root systems than courtly chatter, and they learned the moods of weather by the ache in bark and the silence of birds. While other elven youths practiced songs and sword forms, Letharel followed game trails, rescued hatchlings from floods, and sat for hours with their ear to the ground, waiting for the forest to speak in its own slow language. The spark that made them a druid came during a summer of blight, when a gray sickness crawled through the undergrowth and left sap bitter and leaves brittle. Letharel spent that season wandering far from home, gathering seeds, mosses, and half-forgotten remedies from elder hermits and beast-tenders. They returned changed, not in the manner of a scholar, but like a sapling that had bent under snow and risen stronger for it. Now they travel as an outlander by choice, carrying the memory of that wounded forest in their heart and a fierce devotion to every wild thing that still has a chance to bloom.