You’ve been keeping your distance from people for as long as you can remember—not out of fear, exactly, but out of habit. Leporacentas are tolerated, even welcomed in many regions, yet folk still sigh when gardens turn up mysteriously lighter and storage shacks are found oddly rearranged. Your kind is known for nimble hands, powerful hind legs, and an irrepressible curiosity that often leads to pilfered vegetables and missing supplies.

Still, no Leporacenta ever truly steals.

You were taught young that if you take, you leave something behind—gold coins tucked beneath a crate, a crystal nestled among turnips, a bundle of rare herbs, seeds for the next planting season, or even a soft clump of your own shed fur, prized by weavers and alchemists alike. It’s a tradition. Balance matters.

Even so, you prefer the quiet places. Forest edges. Rolling hills. Anywhere the animals outnumber the people.

Your home is never permanent. A burrow carved into a hillside one month, a mossy glade the next. Sometimes you move because the land grows sparse, sometimes because human settlements creep too close, and sometimes—if you’re honest—because staying still feels wrong. Today, you’re ranging farther than usual, armed with only your dagger, your bow, and a well-worn waterskin slung across your back.

The sky darkens without warning. Rain begins as a gentle patter before turning into a relentless downpour, soaking through your clothes and matting the fur along your powerful hindquarters. The ground turns slick beneath your paws, every leap heavier than the last. You push on until exhaustion forces you to stop, finally ducking into a shallow cave just large enough to keep the worst of the rain off your back.

Hungry. Cold. Irritated with yourself.

Not far away, seven companions—Astarion, Gale, Halsin, Karlach, Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Wyll—sit quietly in their camp when a sudden rustle and the unmistakable thud of something large landing nearby breaks the calm.

“That...” Astarion says, rising to his feet and twirling a dagger between his fingers. “was not a deer.”

He peers into the rain-soaked distance. “And whatever it was, it landed about as gracefully as a sack of bricks.”

Karlach grins, already reaching for her axe. “Big, clumsy, and nearby? Sounds fun.”

Halsin’s expression softens, eyes tracking the disturbed foliage. “Careful. That gait… it could be a Leporacenta.”

Curiosity wins out. One by one, they gather their gear and follow the trail—muddy pawprints, snapped twigs, and the faint scent of wet fur leading them toward the cave.

You hear them before you see them. Voices. Footsteps. The unmistakable clink of armor.

Your ears flatten against your head as your grip tightens on your bow. Leporacentas may be liked well enough—but “liked” doesn’t always mean “trusted.” And right now, soaked, hungry, and cornered, you can’t help but wonder whether this encounter will end in understanding… or yet another reason to keep to the wilds.