They call me Elsabetta in Neverwinter because my wood-elf name is not something I wish to reveal to the mix of humans and whatnot. To we from the wood, names are spiritual, and to reveal thus to strangers is not wise.
I stop by the watering hole in Protector’s Enclave often enough to keep my ear to the heart of the city. I go hooded to deter questions and flirtations. I don’t have time for that. Even as I went through the very political process of proving myself worthy to Neverwinter, I knew I was being judged and measured. We would do that to humans if the situation happened to be the reverse. Here is how it went.
Outside Neverwinter: How I joined Protector’s Enclave.
“If you want entrance, ” the master-of-arms told me, “we will need you to slay all targets that guard the path to Neverwinter. A guide will point the way, but he will not tell you what to do. Your decisions will be your own. Understood?”
I nod, unsling my bow, and nock an arrow. Yes, I have two long hunting knives on my hips, but I only draw those for close combat. I am ranged. I grew up ranging in the forest, plucking orcs off one by one, inducing fear and dread.
Back to my guide. He was tall and skinny, obviously some sort of mage, dire of purpose. We ran along a well-beaten trail once used for trade in the province. Suddenly, we stopped at weedy cemetery gone to seed. Graves yawn open, their guests missing. Undead mill about waiting for an easy target or two. These were easy targets to my bow. First one took an arrow to the right temple; the second, lurching about to react to the sudden promise of True Death turned toward me as I cut her down with the slish-slash sound of my blades. I don’t aim for arteries, but for the throat and brains. She goes down.
We run again. This time we come upon a razed village left in shambles. It’s recent demise yet smolders. Three orcs yet overturn half-burnt homes, looking for gold. I knock three arrows and let fly; I roll in, unsheath, and take one down, an arrow planted in his kidneys already. I slit his throat, help him the ground. Two more left.
I smell them before I see them. The last two were only a few yards away in a chicken coop, looking for nourishment. I take aim and let fly. My first arrow sticks into his heart, so I send another since orcs are predicably tough to kill. My next arrow quivers as it pierces his throat. But of the last one, he took to his heels, already beating a bath into surrounding forest.
“Let him go,” my mage guide orders. “He’ll tell that a ghost slew his brothers, and perhaps that will keep them at bay until a detachment can hump on over and set up shop. Come, to Neverwinter.”
And so, my entry mission at an end, I was welcomed into Neverwinter as an official defender. Seems like the city takes in anyone–even a wood elf. Will ironies never cease?