Elven lore is filled with nuances. They are a haughty people, unbending in their rules and regulations. They pride themselves on their long and lavish history, telling themselves that it was a result of decisions made based on the wisdom of gods.
It was not unusual for young male elves to become hunters and woodsmen. It was their heritage. The trees spoke to them, whispering words of praise and adoration, inflating Elven egos with each passing century. Woodsmen boys would turn turn to politics as their egos drove them to feelings of Superiority over other races, and even other elves. It was a rite of passage, so to speak, and was ingrained in their tradition.
It was unusual, however, for Elves to become anything other than woodsmen or politicians. So when Leander Greenleaf began tinkering with metal working, he was quickly pushed to the fringes of the Elven society. Blacksmith was a trade of dwarves, not of elves, and though his preferred metals were gold and copper, the choice of path was far from tasteful to his Elven counterparts.
Leander was more human, than anything else, despite purebred Elven blood running through his veins. His personality was brash and anti-establishment. He enjoyed arguing over a pint of ale. Ale! This was not an elven drink! In fact, Leander often wandered out of his Elven woods to Hirkimir, a human settlement near the edge of the woods, just so he could enjoy a pint.
Elven political thought did not allow for the expulsion of full blood elves, though they rarely allowed humans or half-elves to exist in their cities. Leander was safe on that count. He had royal Elven blood. Even if they didn’t like him, they couldn’t do anything to him.
Tonight, he was locking himself away in his laboratory. He was designing a flute. At least, that was somewhat Elven. It was a delicate job requiring utmost quiet as he hunched over his workbench and peered intently at his work of art. He still had a lot of forming to do. He had better get to work.