Later in the North by North West storyline it was revealed she originally was a Nalfein Elf who married a human, this allegedly occurred near the time of rising Turamzzyrian Empire racist policies and beliefs which caused her husband to subject her to a painful regime of physical and magical surgeries to hide the fact that she was an elf. Octaven, hidden as a human, would join the Hall of Mages and rise in the ranks, the exact method's she used to do so are unknown. What is known is that in 5124 she was expelled from the Hall.
After failing in her attempts to harness the power of the Reach to power some magical forge she was arrested and imprisoned in Wehnimer's Landing.
(1/5124)
A voice says, "Arwenia, my sweetest girl, we cannot play today."
You hear some whimpering.
A young voice says, "It is late, when then when?"
A voice says, "Soon my sweet Arwenia, this will embolden our business and our future. We've much left to do before we sail back east tomorrow."
A young girl drags her feet through a wet street. Thunder still carries in the distance, but the rain has left. A robed figure stands behind her, a human woman with a plain face and careless eyes. She pushes the shoulder of the young girl, who looks up at the crooked door of a small orphanage. She turns to flee, but the woman holds her in place. She scolds her loudly, "The sea is merciless, and so is life. Stay or starve little one."
The motes of dust twist and churn. The young girl rocks in the darkness of a small room. Her eyes are reddened, her cheeks as wet as the rain glistened street. She chews at her fingernails, long into the night, only flinching once when she realizes she has chewed a swath of skin from the tip.
The motes twist and stretch. The young girl is older now, eyes still the same, dark and emerald. Her cheeks are not wet, but covered in dirt. Her hands marred with scratches. Daggers hang from her belt, from her sash, from her side, and she quietly slips one into a pocket of her boot.
The motes spin and spin, everything moving faster now within them. The girl runs down a street. Then the girl appears within a tavern, sneaking bread and coins from a table of drunkards. She climbs a tree. She wades in a cold river. She cups dirt in her hands to dig a shallow grave. She lays beneath the stars. She rocks in a corner of the same small room.
A church bell rings out from the depths of the motes.
Within the motes, lights and energy spin, the air distorts and twists. A human man and elven woman come face to face, standing before a rose-covered archway. Marbled walls and floors stretch out around then. An unseen voice says, "Lord Silvermont, do you take the lady Arwenia to be your wife?"
A voice from within says, "I do."
The mist churns. The young girl with emerald eyes and sharp ears sits upon a chair, wreathed by a sleek reddish-gold dress that billows out around her. Nearby, a man converses with a small crowd, they talk and laugh. She fiddles with the ring on her finger, and rubs at the skin around her wrist.
The woman rises, her emerald eyes as sharp as her ears. "What then? What would you have me do M'Lord?" Her voice is dry, careless, unworried.
The man sighs, setting aside the scroll. "You cannot be as you are."
The mist churns and twists, suns rise and fall, over and over. There is footsteps echoing in the distance.
There is a creak of a wooden door.
The young woman lies still on a slab of stone, a wrap of cloth piled on the ground next to it. A stand rests near her, neatly organized with several knives, small hammers and metal bars.
The woman asks, "Will it kill me?"
A gruff voice says, "It can. It has."
The woman nods, closes her green eyes. "Then proceed."
There is a loud crack. A small hammer strikes the woman's leg. She tries not to scream, she really does. But her bellow echoes outward. A man in a heavy hood raises the hammer, and another bone breaks.
The sound of metal sawing on bone echoes throughout the chamber.
A bone cracks.
There is a sick, wet, slurping sound. An emerald eyeball falls by your foot.
A disapproving voice says, "It won't do. She's not ready yet. The bones are not wide enough..."
A door slams loudly. A gruff voice mumbles. "Let's begin again."
The woman's voice is weak and gritty, "Will...it kill me?
A gruff voice says, "It might."
A tooth is spit upon the floor. "Then proceed."
Several more bones crack. The squish of flesh, cut and molded can be heard. A bone snaps. A gruff voice mumbles. "Let's begin again..."
A disapproving voice echoes again, "This will not do. I can see it in her face. Blue eyes? Make them brown. Her cheeks are off. They will come for me." The door shuts hard.
One slurp, two slurps. Two eyeballs roll out of sight. One squishes beneath a boot as the gruff cowled man approaches the slab. "Let's begin again."
Shavings of bone litter the ground, blood has all but soaked the stone slab. The woman appears lifeless. A door opens. "You are closer. The hands, the fingers, they won't do. Too slender, they'll notice them right away. Do you want them to come for me?" The door slams. The gruff voice looks at the woman, rustling her arm slightly. She says nothing, and tears mix with the blood from her eyes. She only nods and the gruff voice says, "Let's begin again."
Several voices whisper, some louder than others, "She is absolutely stunning. Eleanora, how did you meet Castial? You must tell us the story. He has certainly been blessed with you beside him." The young human woman smiles, her brown eyes cold and quiet. She traces a new ring on her finger, and nearby a log of firewood cracks in the fireplace and she flinches. But then she smiles.
The mist turns and churns, the sun rising several hundred times. There is then a clanking of glassware on a table.
A man's voice almost shouts, "Ruined! Every step of the way, our storehouses are empty. My reputation is worthless. Can you believe it? The gala? Even the gala we were not invited! The year has been nothing but cursed!"
The young woman cracks a long smile, instinctively touching her finger where a ring once was. She moves to her husband's place, picking up his bowl and carrying it off. "It has been a series of unfortunate, has it not my dear?"
The young woman places the bowl down. "It is as if the spirits themselves aligned against you, with every step."
The young woman pauses. "Or perhaps it was not a spirit at all?"
The man rises from his chair. "What do you mean Eleanora?"
The woman smiles wickedly, removing a small hammer from a pocket behind her back. She walks slowly to her husband. The man looks more angry than afraid, "What do you thi...." He suddenly coughs. Blood dribbles from his lips.
The man stumbles, catching himself on the table. Blood runs more heavily from his mouth. His skin pales. "Did you poi....you stupid b..." He falls over, head smacking against the table as his mouth froths and he twitches.
The woman moves to his chair, slowly sitting down as she watches her husband squirm in death. She places the ring on the table. With her hand hand, she lifts her hammer and brings it down onto her leg. The flesh bends, her bone snaps. She winces, but she does not shout, she does not cry. She nods and speaks, "Proceed."
Light and energy twist and turn, a thousand suns rise and fall. Banners of white stars on fields of green flap in the distance. A heavy snow blankets the sky. A warhorn blares in the distance.
Lights and energy twist. Golden hawks on fields of blue flap in the distance. Clattering glasses, casual talking, the sky is alive with the passing of several suns and moons. Night bleeds to day, and back again. Bones crack in the distance. A slurp, several more. A thousand slivers of bones fly and fall. Another crack. A woman rises from a table. Again she rises, over and over, a shower of bones, a curtain of blood. Crack, another bone. Slurp, eyeballs roll.
A woman says a name. Her voice is muted among the mist. Her eyes are green, her cheeks are thin. Her hair is long and black. A bone cracks, a slurp, flesh peels and rips. A woman says a name. Her eyes are bluish-green, her hair short and gold. She smiles, crooked this time, but cold. Crack, more bones, more flesh is peeled. A woman rises, a woman rises, a woman rises. She says her name. Her eyes are brown again, her hair long and red. Crack, another bone, a curtain of blood.
A woman's voice says, "Proceed."
A bone cracks. Flesh is torn. Blood spills across the floor.
A woman's voice says, "Proceed."
Heavy sawing slices through bones. An eyeball rolls across the ground.
A woman's voice says, "Proceed."
The mist churns and twists. Banners flap in the distance. A voice says, "You are one of the newest? One of the prentice mages?"
A woman's voice says, "Yes."
The man's voice grows more excited, "Great! It's so good to meet you. I'll show you the library, I just got a good book there written by Peter. You don't know him. Would you like a tour? What is your name?"
The woman's voice says, "Octaven Abithier."
The man says, "And the tour?"
The woman nods, her violet eyes cold and sharp. "Proceed."