Don't get me wrong. I don't do the "love 'em and leave 'em" thing. There's always money involved.
I can see that I'm not making much sense. Let me try to explain.
My father was a half-elf merchant, a very prosperous one. He had decided, in Kiratorian fashion (my mother's people,) that my twin brother would bring honor to our family and inherit the business. My mother was a human who tried until her dying day to turn me into a lady worthy of the elven courts. She failed.
The rest of my story isn't any of your business, but I'll tell you anyways. I'll toll you the whole sordid tale.
I was afraid of the dark as a child. I had to have a candle left burning in my room before I would be able to go to sleep. One night, when my brother and I were nine, that candle caught our home and store on fire. I don't remember who saved Amroth and myself, but I do know that our rescuers weren't able to save our parents.
Amroth and I were sent to live with our grandparents in the Elven lands after that. Our grandfather is a full Elf, and our grandmother is a human. Honorable Grandmother taught me to heal, and what can cause harm. Honorable Grandfather taught us to hunt, to track, and to survive in the woods. It was he who discovered the link.
Most human twins have a sense of one another. They can tell each other's moods or just feel their siblings presence. Maybe it's due to our faint traces of elven blood, or maybe just due to our tendency to push things, but my brother and I can not only sense each other, we can communicate quite clearly with our minds.
We lived well with our grandparents, and were treated as members of the community. Our grandparents are still alive, and we are welcome to call their house home. We just decided to explore the world a bit. I don't think it was a deliberate decision to become bountry hunters, it just happened. And we became quite good at what we did.
There has only been one major slip up. A mob boss was supposed to be taken in alive, but there was a mishap. My employer wasn't too upset, but now the DeSantini mafia is hunting for a 200 pound, 5'8" blonde woman named Rosilla. If you find her, do be sure to let them know.
More recently, I've become more skilled. A sisterhood has adopted me, helped to hone my skills, given me purpose. Where before I was merely dangerous, now I'm deadly. It's what helped me track you down, after all.
Ah, I see your false bravado. Yes, you can call me "Wicked," if it pleases you. It's perfect poetic justice that my counterpart, often known as "Truth" has retired, is it not? Oh, "Wicked Truth" doesn't suit you? Well, there is LUthien Oronar, the Elven version. No? You can call me Wren, or Raven, or Sparrow. Still no? Aaahhh, you want to know my true name, the one secret that I have never revealed to anyone outside the Elven Lands? What can it hurt. Dead men don't speak.
Very well.
You have the honor of being killed by . . . .
Silence. A gurgle of blood in the back of a throat. Eyes, galzed, starting upward at nothing.
Fool.