Alright, so you wanna know my story? Buckle up, buttercup, 'cause it's a wild ride, and honestly, even I'm still trying to figure out half of it.

My old man? Total fish-face, in the best possible way. We're talking gills, webbed fingers, the whole aquatic elf shebang. He lives for the ocean, literally. My mom, bless her naive little human heart, was barely out of diapers herself when I popped out. Sixteen, can you believe it? Talk about a spontaneous beach encounter gone... permanent.

So, I started life in some rinky-dink human town. Probably smelled like stale beer and desperation, knowing humans. For the first four years, I was basically a landlubber, which, looking back, is kinda hilarious. Then one day, poof! Mom vanishes. Ghosted us, basically. We waited, like suckers, for months, dad getting more and more green around the gills with worry. Then the news came: her house, wherever she'd shacked up, went up in flames. Torched. Like, completely. Classy, right? Not suspicious *at all*.

Dad, bless his watery heart, was a mess. A literal puddle of tears, which, for an aquatic elf, is saying something. So, he packed me up, a four-year-old bundle of half-human, half-elf confusion, and dragged me back to his people. The fancy-pants aquatic elves. More gills, less drama, supposedly.

I grew up with the sand between my toes and the salt in my hair, splashing around like a deranged otter. Learned how to swim like a fish and shoot a bow like… well, like a ranger. Kinda had to, being half-fish, half-human. The whole "both worlds" cliché, but, like, actually. It's a real pain when you just wanna decide if you prefer gills or lungs on any given Tuesday.

Once I was old enough to hold my own, I hit the high seas. "Sailor," they called me. I called it "getting paid to stare at the horizon and occasionally fight giant squid." Good times, mostly. Saw some stuff, learned some things, got really good at cussing in several languages. But eventually, all that rocking and rolling got old. My feet started itching for solid ground. So, I hung up my sea legs, grabbed my trusty bow, and headed inland. Figured I'd put those "land ways" to good use, you know, become a proper ranger. Track stuff, shoot stuff, try not to get eaten by stuff. It's a living.

And now? I'm twenty years old, officially a grown-ass woman, and I hear this crazy whisper: Mom's alive. And she's in Hartford. Hartford, of all places. So, here I am, trudging through this godforsaken city, ready to shake some trees, kick some doors, and find out if someone's pulling my leg, or if my long-lost mother really just decided to play hide-and-seek for two decades. Wish me luck, or don't. Whatever. I'll figure it out. I always do.