“Well of course I know Jane; I raised her when she was just a babe!” said the elven lady. She was old, even for an elf, and had let gravity take its toll, as it does to all. “When she appeared she was wrapped up in blankets and dropped at my stoop like a present. It’s hard to forget those scraggly legs, too small even for a baby at her age.”
A small village of Tabaxi lived in the wind-touched land of the Endless Plain. Grasses swayed gently, and reeds clicked like cicadas from a breeze carried from a distant ocean. Above, where the seasonal white birds scatter in the blue sky like shining minnows in the nearby lake, Sky’s Mirror, one could see the rolling waves of grain broken only by clustered glades of deciduous trees. An ancient event, unrecorded and lost to any prying eyes, made the shallow, circular basin where mist gathered every evening and listlessly rested until dawn. It was here, in the village of Misty Basin, that Standing Sticks was raised and lived most of his life until adulthood.