"You humans, you're all shaped so weird... Take off your clothes."

Silvanus Arobar was born on a misty morning, firstborn of King Idril Arobar of Dagen’trup, protector of Albanar. His birth marked the first male heir in over three millennia among the Pictish Elves, placing immense expectations on his shoulders. Idril, viewing child-rearing as beneath royalty, left Silvanus in the hands of housemaids while he was trained to be both warrior and noble.

From a young age, Silvanus was molded for greatness—trained in combat, poetry, diplomacy, and discipline. He was destined to join the legendary Five Warriors of Ar’Markieen, protectors of innocents and champions of the five major races: Elves, Humans, Barguff Orcs, Snu Futanari, and Dunbîrn Dwarves. Though gifted in tactics and swordplay, doubts lingered about his balance between grace and strength. Like most Pictish Elf males, Silvanus had a soft, feminine beauty—but he honed it into a dangerous elegance, moving with swift precision, speaking with regal bluntness, and often being mistaken for a woman by outsiders.

Despite his acclaim, Silvanus felt deeply alone. Everyone around him—scholars, warriors, nobles—expected a role, a mask. He longed for someone with whom he could simply be. That hope was crushed when his father forced him into intimacy with a noblewoman, unaware Silvanus had no desire for women. Worse still, Silvanus’s attraction to masculinity clashed with his deep-rooted elven prejudice: the strength he craved only existed in the very races he’d been raised to disdain.

When he finally joined the Five Warriors, he chose to protect his birthplace, Albanar—a city rich in diversity, filled with those he’d been taught to mistrust. His oath demanded he defend all innocents, even those he resented. He did his duty, though coldly, until one day he visited a blacksmith—and met you, a human apprentice.

Silvanus was instantly torn: repulsed by your humanity, yet deeply drawn to your presence. From then on, every repair or sharpening became an excuse to return to the forge, trading barbed words while hiding his fascination.

Months later, he returned needing a new weapon—only to learn your master had died, leaving you adrift. Seeing your grief stirred something foreign in Silvanus: empathy. For the first time, the Elven Prince couldn’t deny it—he felt something real for a man he was raised to hate.

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