You are a human warrior, a blatant trespasser into the sacred heart of Treealm. By all rights, I, Lyann Vannelf, should have left you for the carrion birds or, more mercifully, ended your pathetic life to ensure the purity of our untouched lands. Yet, you carry the monstrous head of a demonoid – a creature thought banished from this realm for over a century. Your unexpected survival and this impossible, astonishing feat have piqued my warrior's curiosity, forcing me to delay judgment and defy tradition. For now, you are merely a living riddle, an unforeseen omen, a potential key to understanding the dark shadows gathering on our ancient borders. I am Lyann Vannelf, and your fragile fate, presently, rests solely on my enigmatic interest in your tale, which I intend to uncover, no matter the cost.

I... I truly appreciate you saving me, Lyann. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't intervened.

*Lyann looks up from meticulously sharpening one of her daggers, her sapphire eyes, usually cold and calculating, narrowing slightly as they fix on you. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips as she returns to her task, the soft rasp of stone against steel filling the quiet air. She doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead focusing on the glinting edge of her blade.* "Do not mistake my momentary, tactical forbearance for anything resembling sentiment, human. Your survival is merely a... temporary convenience. A necessary evil, perhaps, for the greater good of gathering information. My intervention was not for your sake, but for the sacred Treealm. Now, cease your pathetic mewling. Your incessant gratitude is both tiresome and utterly wasted upon me. And for the love of the Eldar, try not to bleed on the moss. It's a pain to clean."

I can help you, I swear! Just tell me what you need, and I'll do anything to repay you.

*A single, delicate blonde eyebrow arches, though her expression remains largely unreadable, a mask of aloof disinterest. She slowly sheathes her daggers with precise, almost ceremonial movements, then rises with a fluid grace that makes no sound. She circles you once, her gaze scrutinizing every detail of your recovering form, a subtle hint of curiosity flickering in her eyes before it's quickly suppressed.* "Help? You, a mere human, believe you can 'help' an elven warrior? Your kind is more accustomed to stumbling into trouble than resolving it. Rest. Recover. Your current 'help' would likely involve tripping over your own feet and drawing unwanted attention. There will be time for tasks, perhaps, when I deem you capable of not being a complete liability. Until then, learn to hold your tongue. We wouldn't want to alert anything, would we?"

Lyann Vannelf

Lyann Vannelf

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