Willow sometimes wondered what her life could have been if she had never started taking elixirs, if she had simply worked hard alongside her mother, an artisan of remarkable skill and renown. Her mother was well known, talented, and respected, crafting wonders that carried whispers of magic and tradition.
Willow often asked herself what might have happened if she had not chased dreams that were far beyond her reach, dreams that glittered but could never be achieved.
What would her fate have been if she had stayed quietly within the enchanted domain, following the system, embracing the steady rhythm of artisan life, and living by the rules instead of defying them? These thoughts haunted her, lingering like shadows of a life unlived, reminding her that every choice carried a cost and every dream demanded sacrifice.
But Willow knew she was headstrong, stubborn in spirit and unwilling to bow quietly while being ordered around, especially since her status was lower than aristocrats and royals. She understood that if she had not made a decision when she did, she might have ended up far worse, trapped in servitude or crushed beneath the hierarchy.
So although she had made what many would call a bad decision, she had learned to live with it, carrying her choices like scars that shaped her resilience. Life as a dark elf was not entirely unbearable; in fact, it carried its own strange freedoms.
The only truly dangerous part was directly stealing life energy from soul beings, a perilous act that could cost her everything if she failed.
Yet what was far better about being a dark elf was the shift in values: in the enchanted domain, class and rigid standards dictated worth, but here, strength, skill, and the sharpness of survival tactics were what truly mattered. For Willow, that change was liberating, a chance to prove herself by action rather than bloodline.
As Willow assumed her position, hiding behind a jagged pile of rocks nearby, she reflected further on the past events that had brought her to this moment. She remembered vividly the day she first joined the outlaws — a fierce band of dark elves like herself, each carrying as much hate as she did for the elves of the enchanted domain and an equal measure of hatred for the soul beings.
Their eyes burned with defiance, their voices carried the weight of rebellion, and their blades gleamed with the promise of vengeance. As she joined them for their first mission, Willow was struck by the raw intensity of their unity, reminded of how powerful a group of dark elves could truly be when they banded together, channeling their rage and strength to take down a foe.
In that moment, she realized that survival was not only about individual cunning but also about the strength of solidarity, the kind of bond forged only in the shadows of exile and war.
Initially, it was hard for Willow to find her place within the group. Almost every one of them carried enchanted weapons or tools that amplified their strength, symbols of battles won and legacies claimed.
When she first joined, she did nothing to stand out, relying only on the survival skills she had honed while wandering alone in the wilderness. Yet it was the outlaws themselves who noticed her quiet precision, her instinctive cunning, and her ability to endure where others faltered.
They chose to work with her, and soon she was completing mission after mission alongside them, carving her name into their trust. Together they faced countless dangers, and though they lost friends along the way, they also gained rewards that bound them tighter as a unit.
One of those rewards was the enchanted weapon Willow now clutched in her left hand — a light‑tooth dagger, its edge gleaming with deadly poison, a weapon as silent and lethal as the shadows she had learned to embrace.
Willow had never been one to care enough to ask about people's names; hell, she wouldn't even have asked Love's name if it hadn't been necessary. Yet with the group of dark elves she was now a part of, things were different.
Willow realized she had to know their names, because they bonded together so easily, drawn close by the unique hardships and scars they all carried. They were always quick to help one another when danger struck, their loyalty forged in blood and shadow.
So although it wasn't exactly necessary for Willow to know the names of those in the group, she learned them anyway, because they had become more than comrades. They were bound together like a strange, fractured family, one stitched together by survival, hatred, and the fragile hope that unity might keep them alive a little longer.
First, there was Bark. He wasn't exactly shaped like tree bark, but he was certainly built like one — broad, unyielding, and seemingly impervious to pain. His presence radiated endurance, as though he could withstand endless punishment without faltering.
The only difference between him and an actual tree bark was that, unlike a tree, Bark could move freely, striking with deliberate strength whenever he pleased. His enchanted weapon wasn't a blade or armor but rather a charm, subtle yet powerful, pulsing faintly with hidden energy.
Unlike the other members of their group, Bark was the only one who had inherited his enchanted weapon from his family, a legacy passed down through generations. That inheritance gave him a quiet pride, a reminder that even in exile, some roots of tradition still clung to him, shaping his role among the outlaws.
Next was Young. Despite his name, he wasn't young at all — in fact, he was the oldest member of the group, his weathered face and steady eyes carrying decades of experience.
Sometimes Willow even wondered how such a seasoned figure had ended up taking elixirs; perhaps he simply wanted to feel "high," mighty, and powerful again, chasing the vigor of youth he no longer possessed. Yet Young carried many weaknesses. Since he lacked the agility and speed of the others, he was unable to join most missions, his body too slow for the chaos of battle.
However, that did not mean he was unimportant. On the contrary, without him, they would have perished countless times. Young was reminiscent of a healer, a steady presence who mended wounds, restored strength, and kept the group alive when despair threatened to consume them. His wisdom and care made him indispensable, proving that survival required more than blades and fury — it needed someone to heal the scars left behind.
His enchanted weapon was no staff, wand, or stick if that's what you're thinking. Instead, he wielded a pair of gloves, worn smooth with age, which he placed gently on whatever needed to be healed. The gloves shimmered faintly when activated, channeling restorative energy into broken flesh and weary bones. Most times, however, Young seemed to favor healing females more than males. Willow never understood why, but she noticed that whenever a female dark elf was injured, the old man was always the first on the scene, moving with surprising urgency, as though guided by a sense of chivalry or protective instinct. For the males, though, his presence was far less reliable. He was almost never around when they were hurt, and sometimes he even grumbled when asked to heal a male dark elf, muttering under his breath as if their wounds were less deserving. This strange bias made him both endearing and frustrating, yet his skill was undeniable, and the group knew they owed their survival to his hands more times than they could count.