When I was about four hundred or so I was walking around, collecting information and tales. I used to be a scribe on my better days. I was sitting on the bank of a Danavere river and watching a few travel by on raft. I went to stand and fell into the river. Sylphs are air spirits and can't swim. I was pulled down the stream and found myself in that odd parallel between Danavere and Shadovan...which is normally a calm place, though too calm. I saw a creature struggling in the stream after I'd dragged myself out of the water and went to pull it out as well. I don't even know what it was, but it succeeded in pulling me back under. I didn't come up that time.
My act was seen as honourable and I became an angel assigned to the task of guarding mortals. or at least those who dwell on the mortal plane. On one of those tasks the young boy I was guarding, the heir to the Moon God, took the time to find my weaknesses and killed me as I slept.
And...here I am again.