Curunarin Durothil, Rogue 4 (swashbuckler archetype, probably)/Fighter 5 (two weapon warrior archetype, probably)/Paladin 3
While marriages between the high nobles of separate elven kingdoms are not unheard of, they stand out for when they happen all the same. There was a certain grounding for a match between Durothil of Aryvandaar and Audark of Illefarn, being as they were ancient houses, and a Coronal encouraged match between them would certain lend some weight to his emphasis towards spreading his nationís influence. The immediate members of the houses involved were certainly political savvy enough to see the reward in heeding that encouragement, or at least dutiful enough to its diplomatic potential. To the surprise of those expecting a loveless political union, Curunarin's parents found company in quiet, and then affection, and then deep and abiding love. Heads of houses saw in this an opportunity for looking to have a more active influence in multiple societies. Fortunate for bride and groom, able to realize their love. Fortunate for the houses involved, to look as though their ancient influences were bolstering each other, and garnering attention besides. Deeply unfortunate for the children of this union.
For not just scions now to twinned ancient legacies, but to political expectation, to storybook love, with onlookers expecting the realization of old glory, of the fruits of diplomacy, of the capstone to confirm a fairytale's happy ending. The weight of those expectations could crush an adult, let alone children. Fortunate then that Curunarin looked to the promise of his birth not as a burden, but a challenge. Even at birth, his cries had less of a hint of mewling to them, over an actual feel of force, or even rage. Midwives with a touch of the seer to them warned that past bright glories had come together in the child with a soul that would burn like solar fire, and could consume him from within.
Growing up with a shocking personal drive, the boy threw himself into every field of his legacies with a seeker's intensity, drinking lessons of court, of swordplay, pushing himself relentlessly, or perhaps pulled along by the force of his own personality, living on tales of the past and knowing it was his place to realize them, match them, exceed them. He was quick and keen and fierce, moving in aching grace. But he was also brash, and of the fiery, demanding temper that can be the darker twin of a sense of self assuredness.
But it was how he needed to be, when his life had to be, must be larger than those around him by burden of destiny. And of course, it was how he needed to be, given his brother. It was not that Curunarin did not revel in intensity of achievement, in power and clarity, in pushing himself to exacting standards and meeting them. He was ambitious and driven towards excellence, and these were true things about him. But it was just as true that if he was each and every one of these things, then of course his brother did not have to be. Curunarin loved the elven people, loved the gift their blood had given him of his gifts, and of their great history. And of course Curunarin loved himself. But he also loved his younger brother, and more than all such things besides. Loved him enough to know that Finarin's nature was a gentler one, that could not, and must not endure the same stresses he did. If Curunarin was shackled to being Curunarin, then Finarin was free to be Finarin.
This was the sort of nobly idiotic idea that only the young can think up. It seemed to work at least for a while. The lion's share of attention went to the eldest child and his blazing potential and drive, leaving Finarin very much to himself, to forge his own course. But left very much to himself, he was left very much alone. And without drive or purpose, he fell into indolence, even decadence. He had quality of his own, but all he did with it was become every wife's husband, and every husband's wife, a rake, a fop and a thief. And as the only one minding his brother, Curunarin, found there were new skills he had to push himself to. When his brother made trouble, Curunarin smoothed it over clandestinely, or at least kept any duel he would have to fight as private as possible. When his brother stole things, Curunarin secreted them back before thefts could be noticed. If there was a growing fevered hint to the young elf's gaze, most simply saw it as an unfortunate aspect of his focus. And if he was more irritable, well, that was part of having a warlike spirit of old.
It just never occurred to Curunarin to seek counsel or aid with these problems. He was Curunarin, he should be able to handle it. He tried suggesting to his brother to take some light responsibilities to give him some perspective. Finarin laughed that off, noting that the family had Curunarin, what did they need him for? Things continued along as they were, with Curunarin's shadow guardianship of his brother seeming only to drive Finarin to greater and greater outrages, almost as if to see if this would finally be the time where Curunarin at last failed to cover for him.
Affairs continued this way, and grew darker, strained. If there was a fever in Curunarin's gaze from overextension, there was a growing derangement to Finarin's, sinking as deep into degeneration as a place like Illefarn could allow. A forgotten child whose only repute, little as it was, was ill, who had only the smothering attention from the one person from whom he wanted no such thing. Things could not continue this way forever, and even Curunarin knew matters would come to a head sooner or later. All the same, he would have never predicted standing across from his brother, the slashed up body of one of Finarin's lovers between them, tittering laughter echoing as to how Curunarin would hide the shame of having a sibling such as he this time. It was all he could do to howl in shock and outrage that he had been protecting his brother out of love, that he was never ashamed of him, that he just wanted him to be free. There was wilder laughter then, and a knife edged lunge. Curunarin had a warrior's lethal instincts, and in his jarred and frantic state the outcome was predictable.
He doesn't quite remember what happened next, not fully. A bloody, coughing, rictus grin, and the words "well now I'm free". Running. A lot of running. Different forests, vast grassy plains. Life and mind near feral across days that turned to weeks that turned to months. And the face of a dragon then, vast, majestic, noble, gleaming in argent. Finding in fury that nobility he beheld to be a taunt for his failures and shame, launching himself at the beast in his tatters of clothing, and then darkness. He awoke to find himself cleaned up and mended in forest depths. The dragon was there, and it spoke, proclaiming that there was a strength in the young elf's gaze that seemed a shame to waste in eating him. And so the young elf would be given a chance to recover it. And if not? /Then/ he would be eaten. It was in this way that Curunarin came into the service of dragons, held in the company of great silver wyrm sworn to Bahamut, serving at his will. He watched a majesty that stayed intact through the bloodiest carnage of conflict with the followers of Tiamat,, watched a strength that protected without crushing, that fostered growth and glory. That channeled power and fierce grace to a greater purpose, not for itself alone, not held as a burden, but a promise, a promise that could shared with others to better them, not spared from others to isolate them.
Reflecting on what he saw in those years helped Curunarin come to some terms with himself, with his deeds, with his skills. With what he could yet make of them. Honing them towards purity and focus, becoming reverential of his master and swearing to the god above him not now for survival, but gratitude, and a desire to carry out the truths he had learned. It was a devotion that sanctified his battered soul. Pleased with the results, his erstwhile mentor declared his time of service at an end, for the elf to take what he had learned out into the world, both of battle lore in impossible wars, and in morality and spiritual focus.
Curunarin wandered out at that, taking jobs as a mercenary in a primal world as he found them, building up some reputation for his talents, for the justice he made and inspired by them. The time to himself was enough to remember things like the joy he once took in blade and skill, of the pride he felt in his people's legacy and the glory of it, to earn his own besides. The quiet joy of remembered dreams channeled to a purpose greater than himself. It was enough for word to filter back to grieving parents of a child thought lost and reach out to contact him, to reconcile and assure that with truths long uncovered, the only thing preventing his homecoming had been himself. He knew he could never be truly whole until he addressed all the failures of his past and finished his peace with them and so, with followers amassed from an adventuring career at his back, he returned.
It has been a bit rough, the time spent since his homecoming. His soul still burns, though with righteousness now, with purpose now, channeled without instead of consuming from within, and Ilefarnís sense of holding to itself chafes at him. There has not been a lack of glory to win on its borders against threats that encroach in a still young and tentative world (and admiration from his people for such deeds), but the will that drives him from within, yet beyond yearns for more. He is seen as something of a firebrand in a kingdom that is striving to hold itself aloof from the tensions that are rising in the elven domains. He finds himself a sometimes preacher of the good, glory and honour Ilefarn could be sharing with the wide world. A controversial figure, some are off put by his devotion to a strange god as they are otherwise compelled by his word and deeds.
He has not decided at the moment exactly what he is going to do in the face of a shifting world. In the interim, when the opportunity arises, he often takes such tasks and chases missions as he feels further the wellbeing of his people and could direct that wellbeing to better the world generally. His temper is still there, but it is a more restrained affair, usually. Despite the pain and loss he has known, there is that fire in him again, pulling him onwards, though in truth to where he does not know. He only knows that there was a promise of greatness at his birth, and if any of his life is to mean anything, he must find a way to realize it and realize it for the bettering of the world around him.