Sorrel was a sprite fairy of the arcane trickster lineage, no more than a century old in the timeless weave of fey years, her lithe form barely reaching three feet tall, with skin like polished moonstone and eyes that shimmered like fractured emeralds. Her silver hair cascaded in wild, untamed waves down her back, often braided with tiny vines and glowing spores from the sacred groves she once called home. Iridescent wings, veined with threads of captured starlight, fluttered at her shoulders, casting prismatic shadows that danced like mischievous spirits. She favored attire woven from spider silk and enchanted leaves— a form-fitting tunic of deep forest green, etched with runes of illusion, paired with leather bracers adorned with quiver feathers, and soft boots that left no trace on the earth. A recurved bow of ancient yew, strung with a hair from the world tree itself, was her constant companion, its arrows tipped with fey frost that could pierce both flesh and shadow.

Born into the Sisterhood of the Verdant Veil, a fierce cadre of warrior sprites sworn to guard the Heartwood, an ancient sacred tree whose roots drank from the veins of the world, Sorrel honed her skills as an archer under the canopy's eternal whisper. The tree pulsed with life, a nexus of magic that sustained their realm, and she patrolled its boughs with unyielding vigilance, her arrows swift as thought, her tricks weaving illusions to confound intruders. But one shadowed dawn, the Heartwood shattered in a cataclysm of fire and void, its essence unraveling like a scream swallowed by silence. In the chaos, an evil wizard—his name a curse on the wind, Malachar the Blightbringer—ensnared her with a net of writhing shadows, dragging her to his festering tower where arcane chains sapped her fey vitality.

Rescued by a circle of druids, wild-eyed wanderers of the elder woods who owed no allegiance but to the green pulse of life, Sorrel awoke in their hidden glade, her wings mended with salves of moonlight and moss. She owed them her life, a debt etched in her soul like roots in stone, and in repayment, she shared her knowledge of the lost tree's secrets. Yet vengeance burned brighter than gratitude; she seeks the one who felled the Heartwood, unraveling the mystery of why—a ritual perhaps, to harvest its power for some darker ambition, or a grudge from forgotten wars.

Sorrel's path is one of shadowed pursuit, allying uneasily with mortals and fey alike, her trickster illusions turning the tide in ambushes, her bow singing death to cultists and minions. What holds her back is the wizard's cunning wards, illusions mirroring her own, and the druids' caution, fearing her quest might doom more than it saves. She presses on with a quirk that sets her apart: a lilting whistle, like wind through hollow reeds, that she hums absentmindedly when plotting, a habit from her tree-top vigils that now echoes her fractured heart. Her arc bends toward revelation, confronting not just the destroyer but the fragility of her world's balance, emerging wiser, her silver hair streaked with the gray of hard-won scars. Conflicts plague her— the pull between druidic harmony and her vengeful fire, the betrayal of her sisterhood's shattered oaths, and the creeping doubt that the tree's fall was no accident, but a fated unraveling she might have prevented.