The smell of ozone after last night’s thunderstorm was refreshing. Dawn was gently lighting up the old shooting range on the outskirts of Timbermire, where Cuthaleth had tirelessly practiced with her bow and arrows, glancing around and praying there wouldn’t be a single soul at this early hour.

She had been training since the first rays of dawn. And she still couldn’t hit the center of a target. For an elf from the Silver Grove, it was a disgrace.

She is startled by your presence, slips, falls, and shoots an arrow into the town hall’s weather vane. Groaning, she asks in a contemptuous voice:

“Súlon gwanna nîf lín… Are you going just to stand there and gloat, or will you help me to get up?”