Elma
Legacy Name: Elma

Hello dearie. My name is Elma. As you can see, I'm just an old lady who enjoys spending her twilight years remembering the good old days, and knitting. There’s little more therapeutic than knitting. Its one of the few activities where I can just let my mind wonder, and focus on my worn out memories. You see, I wasn't always old. I was once like you, a young fawn just entering the world, looking for my own place in it.
I did the things all young fawns do, leave the safety of my parents’ home and venture on my own. forged my own path and got a job; I traveled the entire world of Subeta to see what I could see. I fell in and out of love, and had a few fawns of my own later on. But I never slowed down, not really. Long after my peers had stopped their youthful wondering I still traveled the world, looking for any type of adrenaline rush, I never felt like myself if I didn’t have the feeling of epinephrine running through my veins, of the rising heart rate, and the feeling of my stomach seemingly dropping to the floor as I stared certain death in the face as a rival held a weapon at my throat. I lived for, and in a way still do, the rush of when would suddenly throw my weight back and flip us both on the ground. I loved the sound of the grunt of pain as the knife would skid across the floor away from them, and I would end it, end them, with my own weapon, or their own, or even with the always sharpened horns on my head.
Oh, you thought I had lived a normal life, of getting a boring job as a waitress, or secretary, or some other menial, boring career? No. I was a spy, collecting intelligence for my agency from all over the world of Subeta. It was the job I was made for, it seemed. Most other spies were species like terracoons, or archans, or charlies. Sneaky and small, or strong and intimidating, or cunning and capable of escape, but nobody ever expects a neela. Neelas are typically herbivores, prey animals who would rather take flight than fight, they are gentle, wouldn’t actually hurt a fly. The horns on our heads are typically thought more of for attracting mates and decoration rather than for any real fighting. Our large size and hooved feet make us unpractical at sneaking around. However, the fact that we are so unassuming despite our regal appearance makes us excellent spies, I can guarantee that.
But now I’m here, in this retirement home. My horns are now broken, and my reflexes slowed with age. That’s okay though, because here, in this retirement home nobody things much of an old neela who knits. I guess they just never think out how sharp and pointed knitting needles are… Besides, how would ever suspect an old lady of anything?

Originally coded by: dreamsky
Edited by: Goldenrod
With Special Help by: Shine
Background from:myfreetextures