I was one of a few survivors after a goblin horde attacked my village.  My father was one of several who put up a defense, their efforts buying a few of us time to retreat up the slopes of the Rakers to our hidden retreats.

He fell though, and most of our village was razed.

Most of those who escaped went back to rebuild.  I thought 'Why bother?' as it seemed likely to me that the village would be sacked again.  Instead, I made my way south to a place called Ratikhill.  There I learned how to beg and to steal, and grew good at it.

Funny thing, when you are good at something, people take note.

In this case it was the local Sheriff, a half-blood elf called Rennar, who reckoned that my precocious nature could be put to better use.  He set to me the task of training - real physical training - that eventually led me back to the vales and rivers of my mountainous home.  I learned to hunt and to track...sometimes even for food.  I learned to hone my hate as well, toward the fell folk, the dark ones who had caused me so much pain...