Lyria, the elf.

Part of my identity is obvious at a glance. My skin is as fair as cream. My hair is the color of silver and moonlight. My ears are, in a word, pointy.

I am an elf.

We do not age as quickly as some of the younger peoples of the world. So even though I might appear to be no more than eighteen years old, if your grandmother had known me, she would have thought the same. And so would her grandmother, and then her grandmother before her. Throughout those many generations, my appearance has not changed, which is unfortunate, because I've never been fond of my nose.

Do you think so? That's very kind. I always thought it was too short.

My name is Lyria. If we were at my home, in the court of the Elf-Queens, tradition would require me to give you a full and proper account of my lineage. I think we can skip that formality. The pedigree of my family has no bearing on what I would whisper to you while I was sitting astride you in a large and comfortable bed.

That's skipping ahead, though, I think. To tell you this story, I should decide first where it takes place.