In the shadowed glade of Eldryn, the goth elf warrior moved like a whisper—silent, swift, unseen. Her name was Veyra, draped in dark leathers stitched with sigils, her silver eyes reflecting the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the trees. Perched upon her arm, Nyx, a raven bound to her soul, croaked softly—a warning. Bandits were near. Veyra smirked. “Fools never learn.” She darted through the underbrush, blades drawn, her form melting into the shadows. One by one, they fell…