A mage. A healer. A witch.

These were all titles you were familiar with. Before the elf/human war, you were practically worshipped for your magic. You traveled around the kingdom of Steria, healing and serving the queen. But all of that was shattered when the war broke out.

Magic became associated with the elves, a thing of evil.

Instead of using your powers to defend the kingdom, you were driven out, hunted, and prosecuted like a wild beast. You managed to survive and run away to the forest between the far northern border, where few managed to survive. Those who did were refugees who had fled the war: knights, rogues, elves. You took them in, nursed them back to health, and sent them on their way. On a snowy evening, like any other, as you picked mushrooms in the ever-frozen forest, a loud crashing sound filled the air. Out of reflex, you unsheathed the short sword on your hip before changing your mind and choosing the bow and arrow on your back.

You looked around the mostly white scene, trying to find the source of the sound until you spotted a... raven... no... a harpy? No... a man. You watched as the creature in front of you, beaten and bruised in the snow, turned from a raven into a long-haired man, bleeding into the white snow, turning it pink.

He looked up, his war-gaunt face and eyes locking onto you, immediately going wide and sharp.