Only a trusted few know.

For the few he considers trusted, they would receive a tale like this one:

I was born in a cabin near Nen Harn. My childhood was, most likely, like any other of our kinsmens'. I trained, helped, and so on. My father had taught me, or began teaching me, at the age of six. He wanted me to be prepared for my future duties. My father was a scholar, warrior, where my mother was a healer, scout, and so on. That was their main focuses, and so, some of them were mine. I am not the scholar my father is, nor the healer that my mother is, but I am certainly a warrior and a scout. My parents were a friend of animals, least those that lived near them. At the age of twelve I had bonded with a raven, Limroval, I named him. I have no long backstory, not an interesting childhood, or anything that an foreign, intriguing adventurer has. However, I have seen grief, not much, nay, but enough. A orc party was in the Far Chetwood, getting dangerously close to our cabin. We all took up our bows and notched our arrows, aiming at the orcs, we let them fly, and several of them fell limp to the ground. Yet, there was more, two orcs had went out of view, we assumed there weren't any left living. We were wrong. The two orcs had sneaked up on us and engaged us in close-combat, we prevailed, but at the end of the day, our cabin was heavily damaged, beyond repair, my mother was wounded, a gash across her chest, and us tired. We left, heading towards the south, we camped in a ruin, and for a while, made it our home. This is what led to me being here, south of Nen Harn. My duties. My hatred for orcs. My oath. That, is my story.