In the shadowed underbelly of the ancient elven city of Sylvandar, where spires of living wood pierced the eternal twilight, Selkie was born under a blood moon, her lithe form emerging from the fringes of high society like a dagger from its sheath. Now in her 147th year—still young by elven reckoning, with the ageless grace of her kind—she moved through the world like liquid shadow, her skin a pale alabaster kissed by faint silver veins that glowed faintly in moonlight, betraying her wood elf heritage. Her hair, a cascade of midnight black streaked with rogue's crimson dye, fell in wild tangles to her waist, often bound back with leather cords stolen from orcish raiders. Sharp emerald eyes, slitted like a cat's, missed nothing, framed by high cheekbones and a smattering of freckles across her nose that spoke of too many days under the sun rather than the canopy. She favored tight leathers dyed in mottled greens and blacks, supple as skin and silent as death, adorned with pouches of thieves' tools, a coiled whip at her hip, and twin curved daggers—Whisper and Fang—sheathed at her belt, their hilts wrapped in the scales of a long-dead wyrmling.

Selkie's life was a tapestry of heists and narrow escapes, driven by a burning desire to claim the Eclipse Orb, a fabled relic said to bend shadows to the wielder's will, hidden in the vaults of the haughty Archmage Elandril. She craved its power not for conquest, but to shatter the chains of her past: orphaned in a purge of lowborn elves by noble houses, she'd clawed her way from the slums, her heart a forge of resentment. But the orb eluded her, guarded by arcane wards that twisted the mind and rival thieves who whispered her name in taverns as both prey and predator. Her unique quirk—a soft, lilting whistle she emitted when deep in thought, mimicking the wind through autumn leaves—often betrayed her hiding spots, a remnant of her forest upbringing she couldn't shake.

Undeterred, Selkie wove alliances with unlikely souls: a grizzled dwarf forger for keys, a sly human bard for distractions. She struck at midnight, scaling walls with spider-silk ropes, her movements a dance of precision born from years dodging patrols in the wilds. It worked because her intellect was a blade sharper than steel; she anticipated guards' rhythms like a hunter the deer's breath, turning their vigilance against them. Yet conflicts gnawed at her—loyalty to a street urchin she'd mentored clashed with the isolation of her path, and whispers of the orb's corrupting curse haunted her dreams. In the end, as she grasped the prize amid crumbling wards, betrayal from her bard ally forced a pyrrhic victory: the orb's power freed her from Sylvandar's tyranny, but bound her to shadows eternal, a ghost in her own life, forever whistling through the leaves of regret.