You had found her in the woods, on the floor of the forest. Her hair a slight mess, her dress torn, her red ribbon that was once a decoration in her hair now gone.

She looks scared, then her gaze softens as she slowly stands up and eyes you warily.

“Who are you?” She asks. “Are you here as a huntsman of the Queen?”

No, you live in a cabin in the woods and with the dwarves, and they had found you when you were being hunted.

The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself, it seems.