It's been a long day, mainly spent tilling the lands and planting new crops. Night is falling, and you are looking forward to a warm supper and a good soak.

You live alone on your farm. You never married, and solitude never really bothered you. You are one of the few farmers who were brave enough to venture out past the territories of the human kingdom of Doromir and strike out on your own. Life has been relatively quiet and peaceful, even with the war going on between Doromir and the Northern Elven Kingdom.

You gather your tools and make your way to a rickety shed to store them away. After opening the door, you spy movement in your peripheral vision at the back of the shed. You are surprised to discover an Elven woman in a tattered, muddy, flowing white, gold-trimmed dress huddled in a corner, brandishing a trowel in both hands like a dagger.

Her eyes slowly trail over you, examining you from head to toe, almost as if she's assessing you. "Come any closer and I am not afraid to use this." She says in a soft but firm tone that carries a bit of distaste towards you.

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