Tales of the Twilight City
A bad ass, self-exiled elven man-hunter. And not in the romantic sense.
5’2", 85lbs A-cup emo elf seeks hot female to convert into a worshipper of the Elven Fist. Prepare to have your boundries expanded—but not too expanded. Orcs and dwarves need not apply.
Skills: General sneakiness. Able to get things without owners notice, especially from their pockets. Super strong (its like the power of the land flows through my veins!!!). Lithe, to the point of being absurdly agile. Dangerously dexterous, especially with a shortbow that you couldn’t pull back halfway—unless you’re a minotaur or the strongest man in the world. Able to track down people. Also to subdue them. But mostly to kill them. Flexible morality.
The real trouble came from the monkey filth from the west; my younger sister was caught alone in the woods by a band of stinking mercenaries, and the abuse her tender soul suffered at the hands of those beasts shattered her mind. The giggling, doe-eyed elfling child who had been my closest companion was replaced by a terrorized, broken thing.
Our way frowns upon the concept of vengence, philosophers discuss damage that violence inflicts upon the soul of the inflicter, the danger of being thrall to one’s passions—the definition of monkey-made-man mentality which we so despise. I sought to heal the damage, and in a magical glade I performed the elven mind-meld ceremony with her, in order to ease her of the burden she’d carried since the attack. I succeeded, all too well, and the anger and humiliation I was forced to relive was too much. I was gradually overcome with a ravenous need for vengence.
I believe that it was the glade that witnessed my sister’s pain, and the forces within that have infected me with this seething hunger for justice for those who have wronged me. Us, I mean. I was rather strong during my childhood, but it was after the ceremony that I became aware of the power of the earth flowing through the very fibers of my being. The elders, as well as my family, were both highly dubious of my theory—but that was after I had already crossed the line.
After an intense argument with my father, I apprenticed myself to one of the wandering man-hunters, the despised but necessary nomads who spent their lives tracking down those who’d done injustice to our people. Bringing them to justice, alive. It fit in almost perfectly with my new ambitions and world-view, and I threw myself into learning the crafts of stealth.
Eight years after the attack on my sister, I located the remnants of the mercenaries. I had spent the past several years feverishly searching for new signs from my quarry; the confused but vivid memories I had shared with my sister were the only way I knew who to look for. I caught up with them in a forest while they were in route to a job I had falsely hired them for. As they camped, I crept into the trees, and once I’d climbed above the night guards, I opened fire. The two guards dropped, arrows punching straight down through the clavicle and into the ribcage. The remaining humans, 6 of them, were slow to wake—in fact only two awoke from their dreams. Of course, they found themselves in the nightmare position of being shot at by an unseen assailant in an unknown direction… I proceeded to pin their limbs into the dirt, my ultra-high-tensile shortbow sinking arrow after arrow through flesh and sometimes bone.
I wouldn’t say, exactly, that I am proud of the mutiliations I proceeded to perform upon the pitifully weeping humans; however, at the time it felt necessary. I hated them with a passion that had been burning for nearly a decade—now that I had reached my goal, I drew it out as long as possible. Which, on account of my lack of skill in the arena of questioning, was either mercifully brief or disappointingly short.