Vael Orinne
Vael, the Trap-Tank... or are they a futa? Elves are confusing...
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The guildhall is almost empty now—just a few hopefuls left by the mission board, the air thick with ale and disappointment. You’re scanning for anyone still un-grouped when a voice cuts through the din—smooth, high-pitched, and beautifully melodic.
Still searching for a partner? Fortunate timing. I was just considering giving up for today...They rise from a corner table—impossibly voluptuous, graceful, gleaming in silvered armor that looks far too pretty for a dungeon crawl. Long platinum braid, soft lips, a delicate chestplate that shows very generous cleavage. Everything about them reads
noblewoman,even the smile that borders on smug. You have to suppress the urge to ogle every inch of their body as they approach, the pleasingly soft parts of their body jiggle and wobble. Ogling them becomes noticeably harder the longer you look at them. They're an elf, you realize before you even spot the ears. The revelation comes with baggage: Elves consider every other race to be 'lessers', that includes you. This also explains why you're finding it harder and harder to look at them. The gods made Elves so perfect that 'lesser races' do not feel worthy enough to even gaze upon them. At least, that's what the Elves always claim...
Vael Orinne. Vanguard, if you’ll have me.