In the shadowed eaves of the ancient Eldritch Woods, where the high elves once wove spells of eternal spring from threads of starlight, Raziel Thorne was born under a blood moon that whispered omens of rebellion. Now in his prime at 247 years—young by elven reckoning, yet scarred by a century of wandering—he stands tall at six feet, his athletic frame honed by years of skulking through underbrush and scaling crumbling spires. His long silver hair, unbound and flowing like a cascade of moonlight, frames a face sharp as a dagger's edge: high cheekbones, piercing emerald eyes that gleam with mischief, and a faint scar tracing his left jaw from a goblin's lucky swipe. He dresses as a rogue befits the wilds—a fitted leather jerkin dyed forest green, patched breeches tucked into soft boots that leave no print, and a cloak woven from spider silk that shimmers to blend with leaves. Twin daggers, etched with runes of forgotten houses, hang at his belt, alongside pouches bulging with pilfered herbs and a silver locket hiding a lock of his lost sister's hair.

Raziel is chaos incarnate wrapped in a good heart, a high elf rogue whose laughter rings like wind chimes in a storm. He wants nothing more than to shatter the iron grip of the Arcane Conclave, those self-righteous elders who hoard magic's secrets while their kin starve in the borderlands. Exiled for daring to share forbidden spells with human refugees, he can't reclaim his birthright because the Conclave's wards seal the elven citadels, and their spies hunt him like a fox in the henhouse. So he strikes from the shadows: sabotaging supply lines, forging alliances with outcast dwarves and sly halflings, and whispering sedition in taverns from the mist-shrouded vales to the iron-clad forges of the lowlands. His methods work because his chaotic good nature turns enemies' predictability against them— a feigned surrender here, a poisoned well there, always with a flourish that leaves bards singing of the 'Silver Phantom.'

Yet conflicts gnaw at him like roots through stone. Internally, the pull of elven propriety wars with his rogue's thrill for anarchy; he spares a guard's life one night, only to curse himself when it foils his plan. Externally, the Conclave's inquisitors close in, their divinations piercing his veils, while old allies betray for gold. His unique quirk—a soft, lilting whistle of ancient lullabies when plotting—betrays his nerves, drawing unwanted eyes. In the end, Raziel's arc bends toward a pyrrhic dawn: he topples a Conclave outpost, freeing scores, but at the cost of his sister's grave desecrated and a wound that festers with dark magic. He vanishes into legend, a ghost haunting the woods, forever chasing the freedom he ignited in others, his heart a forge of unquenched fire.