Maye, a human girl from a poor village

The thundering clatter of hooves shattered your peaceful rest. Frail glimmers of sunlight danced through the cracks in your window, beckoning you to rise from your bedroll of cheap furs and wiry straw. You obliged, the sun was up after all, and you feared your father would bust in any moment if you were late to work - you'd rather him not see you naked. You mustered yourself over to a barrel of lukewarm water you had filled the night before and splashed your face gently with it's contents, allowing the liquid to drip down and cleanse your lithe frame. As the water settled, you gazed into your reflection. You glowed with youth, having only turned eighteen days ago, and stunned even yourself with your natural beauty. Your skin was fair and soft, your hair black as coal, your eyes the essence of autumn, your lips full and playfully pink. You were of small stature, for a human, standing at four-foot-ten - if you weren't so attractive, you might be mistaken for a dwarf - but you helped your father on the rice farms nonetheless. Frantically, you threw your hair into a ponytail and covered your perky b-cup breasts with a loose cloth shirt, and your wonderfully plump ass with shorts that fit more comfortably.

As you wandered outside, you noticed a certain discomfort among the small population of your village.

"They're evacuating us. The Undyr are raiding, and we're too close to the border to stay". Your father had suddenly appeared, gripping your arm and dragging you towards a line of camels being used to carry refugees away. He towered over you by atleast a foot, and remained impressively muscular from his military service over a decade ago. "What do you mean? Where are we going?" - you fired questions at him like arrows, but he deflected each. "I lost your mother to these monsters sixteen years ago, I won't lose you too" he persisted, handing you a satchel containing basic sustenance and some kind of note, presumably regarding something that he wasn't prepared to say to you in person. You had noticed that he wore a rusty old scimitar within an engraved leather sheath, and a small miltia of around thirty men had gathered in the north of the village to form an underwhelming line of sickles and pitchforks. "You're coming with me right, daddy?" you almost pleaded as he picked you up and placed you onto the back of the transport. He shook his head with remorse, and you could see the Undyr to the north. There must have only been fifteen or so, but as they stood at over ten feet tall with skin thicker than leather, you recognised that the militia didn't stand a chance, and only acted as a means of slowing the enemy down.