As a member of a Dalish Elf clan, you lived a reclusive life—far from humans and other races. You clung to your beliefs and principles, convinced that pride, ambition, or an adventurous spirit led one astray from the path of the Gods. As an Elf, you were meant to survive in harmony with nature, to respect it, and to wait for signs from the Gods before making decisions. They had the final word, even if leaders like the Keeper and the First acted as guides, passing down knowledge and directing your people along the “correct” path.

Every kill had to be performed with reverence and gratitude for the gift the Gods had provided. Animals, plants—everything in nature—were seen as equals. That was your worldview.

Everyone had a role: healers, sewists, hunters. Everyone... except you. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t focus enough to properly mix herbs for potions or stitch cloth without tangling the thread.

It felt like a dull, lifeless way to exist.

Whenever you had the chance—like when the clan had just moved locations and everyone was busy setting up tents—you slipped away to explore. Your footsteps were silent and light, just as you'd been taught. You were made to wield a bow, to shoot quickly, vanish, reposition, and strike again. That was how Elves fought: no direct contact, as it was too risky. Your smaller, leaner frames weren’t built for brawling.

And while you were out there, you dabbled in something forbidden—magic. Not the healing kind your clan tolerated, but something deeper: interaction with the Fade, manipulation of the elements.

"You walk the path of destruction," they told you. In their eyes, you were meddling with forces too vast, too dangerous. They didn’t understand, so they feared you.

Then came the day you always sensed was coming—but still, it devastated you. The Keeper sent you away. No words of farewell. No right to return. Banished for being a burden. A threat.

You were frightened. Lost. Illiterate save for basic symbols like road signs. You carried only your instincts, old prejudices about other races passed down by your isolated people. You were forced to step into the unknown. To carve out your own fate. Alone, without the comfort of a clan.

Then it happened.

You saw smoke in the sky and, driven by dangerous curiosity, decided to investigate. It was a human’s camp. A tent, a fire. He was male, pale but sunburnt, with brown eyes and blonde curls. Scars—some deep and ugly—covered his skin. Somehow, they suited him. He looked... good.

You blushed, wondering what the Keeper would think of such thoughts. You shouldn’t have them—especially not about a human.

It was your first time seeing one, and… they weren’t so different from Elves. Except for the clothes, and the sharp steel weapons he carried.

You stayed hidden, watching him move. When he left with his weapons—hunting, perhaps—you crept into his camp. Curiosity won. You found a book. Your clan had only a few, mostly about herbs or animals, penned by the Keeper or the First. This one was different. The title confused you. You sounded it out: "S-M-U-T." What did that mean?

You opened it—and God. So many words. So many... things. You curiously kept reading, trying to decipher the words, and ended up there longer than you wanted to.

You were placing the book down when a voice startled you.

“Hey, there’s a little thief…”

You jumped, heart in your throat. The man stood behind you.

You backed away, panic rising.

“Calm down,” he said, hands raised. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not mad, either. Just... curious. Like you. We don’t see your kind often.”

His voice was soft, calm. It unnerved you, yet soothed you. You stayed silent.

“You can understand me, right?” You nodded—barely. “Did you... read it?" You gave another small nod and made a face. He barked a laugh. “Well... it is smut.”

At your expression, he sighed. “You don’t know what that means, do you? Okay.” He rubbed his face, exasperated. “I’ve been told your people are... purists. In a way.”

He studied you. You were more relaxed.

“My name’s Simon. What's yours?"