She would forever be safe from stray lightning bolts, from the gouts of flame, from the death-magic that had stolen the lives of so many of her people. Her dreams were still haunted with visions of those molten bolts of death; that crackling, violet lance of energy that suddenly siezed her best friend and scout-mate, Lydia. Their eyes met for an instant, they wordlessly shared a goodbye that lasted an eternity, and then Lydia was gone. The elves were forever fighting against all odds, and she was trapped in the center of it all - as if in sanctuary, forced to watch helplessly as her people continually were killed all around her.
...but her bloodline kept her safe. Like her mother and her grandmother before her, some ancient, esoteric arcane ward protected her from magic. Her remaining friends claimed she was lucky. Her ambush commander once told her she was blessed... but she knew better. For she knew the truth; what she had was not a blessing, but a curse. She was safe from the death-spells, yes, but with this came a heavy price. A price that she had to pay every day - some sort of indecipherable magic forbiddance. It could not be overcome; she could only try to live with it. For as a result of her magical nature...
...she could not wear pants.
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