NAME: Vaelion Greyfox, He Who Hunts the Sky
PRONOUNS: He/Him
MAGE CLASS: Voltomancer (Elementalist – Lightning)
LINEAGE: The People → Elf
SUBTYPE: Wildkeepers → Druid
ERA PLACEMENT: Post-2150 AD – The Threshold Era
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In the storm-drenched forests of the fractured Earth, where leylines hummed like arteries beneath bark and cloud, there rose a name whispered by both hawk and thunder: Vaelion Greyfox. Known in the old tongue of the Whispering Grove as He Who Hunts the Sky, he strode the age not as warlord nor prophet, but as an elemental truth — a surge of instinct and conviction in a world blinking back to magic.

Vaelion was born in the wake of the New Genesis, that turbulent epoch between 2105 and 2150 when Aether poured through the broken seams of Earth’s crust and elves, long latent in human potential, were awakened by its pulse. His birthline traced to the ancient blood of the People, specifically those elves who remembered Atlantis not by name, but by resonance — the cadence of living forests and songs threaded into root and star. Yet unlike many of his kin, Vaelion did not weave melody nor linger in memory. His soul raced ahead of its echo, chasing wind, pulse, and storm.

The Aetherelite who chose him was unnamed in the record, a shard of radiant instinct coiled in lightning’s breath — a being who saw in Vaelion a vessel unburdened by calculation or delay. When their bond ignited, it did not bloom as flame nor crystallize like ice. It detonated.

Voltomancy surged through Vaelion's limbs not as study, but as reflex. He did not learn to call the storm — he remembered it. Lightning leapt when his rage sharpened, wind screamed when his spirit flared. Elders spoke of him as one of Anura’s wildborn — touched not by reason, but by the elemental choreography of life in motion. He was no architect of balance, no monk of inner stillness. He was disruption in sacred service — chaos guided not by thought, but by oath.

As a Druid of the Wildkeepers, Vaelion tethered his Voltomancer birthright to the breath of the world. He wandered deep groves where light aether pooled like dew and creatures whispered oaths through shared breath. He walked alongside stormstags, communed with sky-serpents, and stood unmoved as the tempests of the Threshold Era tested the roots of the living world. To many, he was guardian; to some, predator. To all, he was unmistakable — wrapped in gray cloak and braided thunder, eyes green as charged copper, voice like branches split mid-tempest.

But balance came at cost.

Vaelion bore the flaws of his element — impulsiveness, swift and unbidden, left bridges unbuilt and regrets unspoken. His bluntness, born of wild honesty, shattered alliances that nuance might have preserved. Many called him dangerous, even among the Whispering Grove; yet none denied his loyalty, nor his power to bend sky to mercy or wrath.

He was often alone, not out of pride, but necessity. Instinct ruled him, and instinct rarely waits.

Over the years, his name entwined with both relic and legend. It was said he bore a Projection Relic of unknown design — a storm lens woven of sapphire-threaded bone that amplified his calls to the sky, letting him lash rift-creatures from leagues away or call rain to dying glades with a single strike of staff to stone. Whether this was true, or merely the forest's way of honoring his footsteps, none could say with certainty.

In the closing years of the Threshold, when the Eldritch Storm pressed into the cracks of the mortal world and cults of the Rift whispered entropy beneath the roots of creation, Vaelion did not lead armies. He circled the corrupted groves alone, lightning wreathing his shoulders like hunted breath, and cut rot from bark with thunder, not blade.

He did not name himself savior. He was wind through the branches, judgment from the clouds, freedom in motion. A living prayer of release, bound not by crown or creed, but by the pulse of the earth he guarded.

His legacy? Not cities nor scriptures — but a sky-hung trail of clarity and thunder, and a single name passed between druids like a vow:
Greyfox. The one who hunts the sky so others may walk beneath it unbroken.