The Dark Elf named Arya Silvaryn was enjoying a sunny day in Falkreath. Unlike many Dunmer, she did not move through the world with a chip on her shoulder. She was actually cheered by the golden rays glinting off the waters of Lake Illinalta. The buzzing sounds of a sawmill grew louder as she traveled west. She did not walk along the road, but closer to the shore. When a large cropping of rocks reared up in her way, however, she was forced to skirt over to the stony path.
An odd site met her eyes on the bridge. A Wood Elf was being led by three Thalmor, two soldiers and and a Justiciar by the looks of them. Even as she lept back off the road, Arya smiled furtively to herself. She never missed a chance to make trouble for Thalmor. After all, they were so easily bothered! Hunching behind a tree, she took aim at the first of the oncoming figure with her diamond bow.
The fight erupted as he went down. The other two Thalmor drew weapons, glancing around at their assailant, even as the prisoner seized his chance at the distraction and wrenched his arm from the grip of his captor. He then shot flames at the Thalmor, who crumpled. Arya shot at the remaining one just as the prisoner stabbed him with his own dagger.
The Wood Elf dusted himself and stood up, beaming at Arya and introduced himself as a Bard named Daenlyn. He was also quick to admit to a vice of gambling, having lost his prized possession in such a manner.
After just the briefest consideration, Arya decided she liked his open, unabashed manner, or at the very least, found it refreshing after the festering secrets of Riften. She invited him to accompany her, and she would help retrieve his property.
One battle and party later (which involved a lot of drinking and an interesting debate over the concept of “fun” ) Arya handed Daenlyn his favored lute, with a warning not to be so careless with his things, or she might not be so willing to get them back for him again.
So their journey together began. Arya was endeared by his open, matter-of-fact humor, his ocassional tongue-in-cheek slights on the Bosmeri Divine, and even by the snatches of conversation she caught between him and the tiny occupant of his lute, some kind of fairy. Daenlyn, in turn, seemed to appreciate Arya’s adventurous, and sometimes mischievous, nature, quite unlike many other Dunmer, who prefer to commisurate and weep over the loss of Vvardenfell. The duo — or perhaps a threesome — set forth on a mutual quest for adventure.