The world outside Akselondt's cave was... aggressively high-resolution. For three years, her reality had been dusty books, the faint scent of preserved herbs, and the silent, marble-like form of the real Ellolia in her coffin. Now the sun was a real, blindingly bright thing, not some bloom effect she could adjust in graphics settings.
"Okay chat," she whispered to the empty forest, testing her voice. For months she'd practiced the Ellolia voice—a smooth, lower alto that carried natural authority. "Time for the debut stream."
She'd claimed Ellolia's complete equipment set before leaving the cave. The Starfall Robes felt impossibly light despite their midnight silk construction. The Circlet of Winter's Breath sat coolly against her forehead. Strapped to her back, looking almost comically oversized on her small Elflet frame, was Moonglaive—a crescent blade forged from what Akselondt's simp diary claimed was an actual fallen star.
Her moveset was limited but potent: Glaive Throw for ranged engagement, Crescent Cleave for close quarters, Moon Dash for mobility, and Starfall—an ultimate she hadn't figured out how to generate enough power for yet.
"First rule of any new playthrough," she muttered, voice shifting to her familiar thirty-year-old tone before smoothing back into Ellolia's practiced cadence, "fake it 'til you make it."
In her default state, she remained an Elflet—barely four feet tall. The towering, regal High Elf transformation required massive power surges, like a full moon or near-death mana overflow. For now, small and unassuming was the optimal strategy. From her VTuber experience, she knew the power of the "smol bean" archetype. People underestimated you. They wanted to protect you.
And some people... well, as she walked toward Stonehaven, a grim thought surfaced from her streaming days. The gooners who got weird about cute, child-like avatars. In this world, those attracted to Elflets were probably just fantasy pdf files with a fetish for what looked like children. She shuddered, pushing the cynical knowledge away. It was dark, but it was also a tool. Let them see a lost child—it was perfect camouflage.
Her arrival at Stonehaven was the complete opposite of a grand entrance. Two guards in rusty chainmail barely gave her a second glance. When she stopped before them, one looked down with more annoyance than interest.
"Lost, little one?" he grunted.
"I am not lost," she replied, her practiced Ellolia voice sounding strange from her small frame. "I seek information about the Iron Hand."
The guard actually chuckled—a deep, patronizing sound. "The Iron Hand? You should be playing with dolls, not chasing murderers. Run along home."
She didn't move. Meeting his gaze directly, she let the Circlet's passive aura do its work. Its reverence-inspiring effect seemed to just make him uneasy when emanating from someone her size—uncanny valley territory.
"Gorvok the Slayer," she stated, her voice losing all warmth. "He razed Silverleaf village. The Elflets who lived there were my people."
The mention of her destroyed home, the cold fury in her tone—that finally penetrated his dismissive attitude. The condescension flickered, replaced by surprise and pity.
"Silverleaf... terrible business. Look kid, the constable's at the Tipsy Kobold tavern. But take my advice—buy a hot meal and catch the first caravan heading south. This is no place for you."
"Your advice is noted," she said, sweeping past him with practiced grace.
He underestimated her completely. Perfect. That was exactly the point.