I am Alaic of the Ranges of Aymoor's Fork, and I have three stories.

If you're a stranger, then I am but a poor, wandering loremaster -- an
elf, perhaps paler than most but still strongly built, with
intelligent eyes and wrapped in a warm cloak.  You might see a ring on
my finger -- it's a gift, I tell you, of a nobleman for whom I once
worked, now dead.  You might hear stories of me, walking the roads
from village to village, performing odd tasks for the nobility and
helping where I can.  There's strength in my back, but not as much as
in a man's, and so you'll probably forget about me by the time you
walk home from the tavern.

If you're an acquaintance, you'll know I'm a mage; and if you're a
student of magic, you'll know the ring is more than a trinket; and if
you're well-versed in elf-lore, you'll see the marks of a grey elf, of
which there are few remaining in this part of the world.  I'm close
with my secrets, but some things are hard to hide -- my education is
better than the local wizarding academy, and I care little for drow.
I pass the time by performing small, magical tasks for those who can
afford them -- arcane locks, identifications, potions, that sort of
thing.

If you're a friend, a true friend -- well, then there are precious few
of you still alive, and more likely than not what comes next is your
sadness as it is mine.  Aymoor's Fork, it sounds like enough to the
next man-hamlet over that few would think of translating it to the
elvish Isonaemoriel -- and fewer still from there to the high elven
Eisaien Maior.  Maior!  There, there was spoken no fairer tongue than
the ancient words of my people.  There I was content to live in peace,
if the duraoi had let me -- but I was young then, hardly forty, when
the drow-witch attended on our destruction.  These bitter words hinder
me, I know, and gutter my sense, but-- until I strike down she who
slew my family from the shadows, invisible, merciless, my doom knows
no comfort.  And I... stood there, helpless, while her calamity danced
around my eyes, as her hatred faded, exhausted, into the distance.
Then the legions marched on us and I fled, down, away from the sweet
ripples of the Caes-brook, away into far exile.  How many others of
the great families were visited then, and assassinated?  How many
others survived?  My cousinfolk, the King's Branch -- annihilated but
for one and she, too, is in hiding, I know not where.  The time is not
yet right for our return, but when it is: then she will find me, by my
ring -- perhaps the only ring of my grandfather's line which still can
answer the summoning call of my Queen.
-----

About that ring.  Mine is relatively tame;  its salient abilities are
Detect Magic at will and Pearl of Power I.  DMG puts that at, the way I
figure it, 2100gp.  In addition, it bears the hidden Mark of the House
of Caes (and specifically of the line of Loeti) which can be revealed only
by the will of the bearer or by a cantrip known only to members of the
House;  and it can only be worn my a member of the House.  Yes, it was
specifically forged for me in my youth by the royal smiths.  I think
2100gp is a fair balancing price for it, since putting a pearl of power
into a ring doesn't really add much (in particular, it doesn't function
any better than a standard pearl of power).

The Queen's ring, of course, should be (at least) a minor artifact with
the ability to, among other things, scry any or all Rings of the House of
Caes and communicate telepathically with their bearers at will.  But,
since I am not of the ruling line, I couldn't use it even if I had it, so
I hardly think that gives me any advantage.

The Fall of Maior was 98 years ago, and in a different part of the world.
Any educated elf would still know of it as a major event of the race and
of the war against the Drow;  no-one else but the historians are likely to
recall it.  I had no intention of this becoming plot to the campaign, but
if anyone wants to know more, I can elaborate on the story.