She can smell them from every corner of the earth. The Forest is no longer the place of peace and beauty she once knew, but rather a site of squalor. The soil, once rich and pure, is robust with them. They have ruined Her, massacred Her with their taint, and Liathari is full with the passion to destroy them.

The darkspawn take so much from the people, but as an elf, Liathari has never much cared. Her people are masters of the old ways, and the darkspawn are often wary of their blades. They are largely a human concern, and the humans outside The Forest are dead to her, nothing more than flies swarming a corpse. Whether or not the foul creatures fell them matters to her not. What does grieve her, however, is how the darkspawn have now invaded her home, taken her clan with their plague, and how they seek to bring an end to The Forest itself.

She is livid. Though she was not born to the Dalish, they have accepted her as their own, and in turn Liathari loyal to them. They taught her to honor her ancestors. They taught her to love and respect every living thing. They taught her to hunt, how to kill with both complete mercy and utter brutality. They taught her to be wary of her enemies, but to know when to practice forgiveness.

Now, thanks to the darkspawn, her clan is gone. It was this morning, before the sun had fully risen above the mountains of Orlais, that the last of them were taken from her. She watched the life disappear from her keeper's eyes, and sobbed as she helped guide his soul safely to the Beyond.

Her first reaction was to curse the humans. Centuries ago they had robbed her people of their immortality, having grown fearful of their practices. Had it not been for their xenophobic outrage, her clan would still be with her, laughing and living like they had only a fortnight ago. It was just as she began to plot her attack on one of the human cities that she came to the realization that her anger was gravely misplaced.

For once it was not the humans at fault. Though they had enslaved her for years, it would be wrong of her to seek her revenge on them, at least not for this one iniquity. Her elders had taught her better than to blindly accuse others. No, it was this Blight that took her clan away from her, and it was this Blight she would end.

Today Liathari leaves the forest with her daggers bound to her thighs and her heart swelling with the promise of retribution. Today Liathari becomes The Hunter.

We are the last of the elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.

When faced with a darkspawn for the first time, Liathari's bravado stuttered. Even as an experienced hunter, nothing could have prepared her for the true savageness of the creatures. It was a Hurlock, the taller, more agile kin, and its fetid flesh came off in strips as it moved. Its face was gnarled and its pointed teeth jutted crudely from its mouth. It was malodorous and feral and howled when it sighted her, and as it lunged with its weapons drawn, Liathari felt her heart stop, and her body go rigid with fear.

If it had not been for her sharp instincts, honed by years of stern discipline, she surely would have been at the mercy of the Blight. Her body moved on its own, dexterously pulling the dagger from her belt and thrusting it into the Hurlock's gut. She screeched as it screeched, and shut her eyes as the creature's dark blood spilled from the wound, splattering in thick gobs onto the earth.

Once it laid dead at her feet, yellow eyes turned back into its misshapen skull, Liathari burst into tears and collapsed onto the muddy ground. Her body trembled with primitive fear, and her mind reeled with the knowledge of how close she just came to tasting death.

Andruil protect me, for I am truly blessed.

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Liathari heard twigs snapping in the distance. Her nerves were still on fire from her dangerous encounter and the suddenness with which it was over, and she reacted to the intrusive noise blindly. It was only once she had her blade drawn and pressed at the intruder’s throat that she noticed the source of the noise was a human woman, tall with short blond hair tied in small blunt braids.

The woman looked startled, but not discouraged. Liathari’s eyes narrowed. “Turn back now,” she hissed. “If you make any sudden movements, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

The woman fidgeted, but for all her human egotism she did not try to pull away. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” the woman explained, with a soft, but very Fereldan voice. “That darkspawn – the arrow that killed it was mine. I was just trying to help.”

Liathari gave the stranger pause. She looked her up and down, taking in her appearance, documenting the benevolence in her eyes. She noted the strongly crafted bow and quiver at her back. After a moment’s consideration she withdrew her blade, and slipped it back into her garter. She trusted the woman, for now.

“I do not need your help, shem,” she muttered. “I know these woods like my own child.”

“Really? You are Dalish, aren’t you? I understand the Dalish are one with the forests, but you look quite lost to me,” the woman said. When Liathari reached for her blade again, she laughed, and bowed apologetically. “I’m sorry. I mean no harm by it. I’m Sloane of Highever, miss. What might I call you?”

Human chivalry had not fooled her in the past, and it did not fool her now. However, she recognized that her life was in this woman’s debt, and the Dalish were nothing but an honourable people. She avoided further confrontation, and mustered all the politeness she could manage.

“My name is not your business,” Liathari said. “I am of the elvhen. That is all you need to know.”