Elves, especially young ones— those that've yet to reach their first hundred years— are supposedly blessed by the elven gods [though he lived in Evereska's boughs, he can't bring himself to say our gods. He'd felt almost mortal again before they returned to Baldur's Gate; he's never felt so far removed from it now] and granted visions of their lost lives, however many of them that might've existed before their prior death and reincarnation— for Corellon and his ilk don't strive to keep the souls they sired in the afterlife the way that other divinities do. [Including the Maker and his bride Andraste and their shining, golden city.] Meaning that barring some disastrous, brutal schism that might sever the bond between patron and progeny, each elf that exhales his last passes though the Feywild in spirit before eventually being reborn in a new body. The same soul, same beating heart, same intrinsic memory that'll come flooding in through his dreams to remind him exactly who he is.
It is an impossibly precious thing. Sacred like little else could be.
guess who passed out sitting upright in the middle of typing this
It is an impossibly precious thing. Sacred like little else could be.