1 . "Where are you from?" 
^{(Original: Where were they born?)}

Sorennar:

"The folks back home would flay me alive if I didn’t weave some spine-chilling yarn about how we dark elves are forged in eternal night, inherently superior to the sunborn—all that drama. But lucky for you, a good bard knows when to spare their audience an eye-roll. I hail from Zar’kalyth—a city where the Sun exists only as a bedtime story to scare children. The city and I... hm, we were never on the best of terms. No noble blood, no merits to speak of in their precious meritocracy—t'was a miserable place for someone who’d rather serenade a crowd than skewer one. I wasn’t shaped there so much as I was battered into something vaguely usable. To this day, I’m not sure how I made it out with all my strings intact."

2 . "Were there any unique conditions of your birth? Like a storm raging outside?"
^{(Original: Were their any unique conditions of their birth? (Like a storm raging outside?)}

Sorennar:	"Unique conditions? Storms and rainbows? Sweetheart, I was born underground. The Sun herself could have been tap-dancing, for all my parents cared—they were too busy making sure there was an ounce of food in the pantries. If they spared a thought about my future, it was likely just hoping I'd be useful to someone, someday. Romantic, aren't they?

3 . "What did you enjoy as a child?" 
^{(Original: What did they like as children?)}

Sorennar:	"Like? Oh, I adored the thrill of survival, the excitement of dodging a cuff to the ear, and the unparalleled joy of being told I was wasting space. A positively idyllic childhood by your surfacer standards, I—"
Scribe:	...
Sorennar:	"Oh, come now, darling. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say I was chained to a dungeon wall, did I? It wasn't all bad. There were stories to spin, little songs to hum under my breath, and the stars—always, the stars. Well, I'd never seen them, of course. But as I imagined them, they were brighter than anything I'd known."

4 . "What were your parents like?" 
^{(Original: Who were their parents?)}

Sorennar:	"A priestess with too many ambitions and a hunter with too few. She wanted to leave a mark on the world; he wanted to leave the table with a full stomach. In the end, neither really got much of either."

5 . What kind of relationship do you have with your parents?
^{(Original: What kind of relationship do they have with their parents, siblings, or other adult figures?)}

Sorennar:	"My matron wanted a noble daughter-in-law, my sire wanted me swinging swords, and I just wanted to dream. Naturally, we all let each other down in a beautiful, tragic cycle, so they sent me off to House Xara'thrin to be a serv— to be someone else's problem. I like to think I've exceeded all expectations on that front."
Scribe:	"What about with any siblings?"
Sorennar:	"I had an older brother, Nadhiir. Stoic, pragmatic, good with a blade—the perfect son. He tolerated me the way one... tolerates a headache. For all his grumbling, though, he cared, even if he’d rather wrestle an umber hulk than admit it. And Rizoyn… Rizoyn was my little brother. A dreamer of dreams too grand for our small world. If anyone could have reached the stars, it... would have been him."

6 . Do you have any close friends?
^{(Original: Do they have any close friends? Will you give them some in your stories?)}

Sorennar:	"Hmm... hardly. At the Crescent Spire, I spent most of my time coaxing and cheating my way through sparring matches just to survive. Sweet-talking folks into letting their guard down is an art, but it doesn’t win you many fans. By graduation, most of my classmates wanted me dead. Perhaps the only person I know with any consistency is Naznar of noble House Xara’thrin—the young master of the house and, let’s say, my esteemed keeper. But our bloodlines are so far apart, we might as well hail from different realms. If I so much as thought about calling him a friend, he’d invent a punishment so terrifying that even the Void would blush."
Scribe:	"What about in the city?"
Sorennar:	"Oh, yes! I'm practically a fixture at the taverns around the Canopy. I’ve heard more secrets, sob stories, and drunken confessions than you’d believe. Everyone has a tale to tell, and I’m the one they tell it to."
Scribe:	"And what tales do you tell them in return?"
Sorennar:	"Well, I’m an excellent listener, but I'm far less inclined to share my own woes—nothing could spoil the mood faster, wouldn’t you agree? Still, by the end of the night, let’s just say... they always leave thoroughly fulfilled." [He winks.]
Scribe:	"But, um... Do you ever see them again after the morning?"
Sorennar:	"I- well, not exactly. But that's just how it goes, isn't it?"

7 . "What are your interests?"
^{(Original: What are their particular interests? What’s their favorite food? What do they like to do?)}

Sorennar:	"Let’s see... music, of course. A good song can soften hearts, lift spirits, or distract someone long enough to steal their coin purse—not that I would ever.
Scribe:	"Any other hobbies?"
Sorennar:	"People-watching. I know, it sounds a touch... unsettling. But really, it’s endlessly fascinating. The way they speak, the little tells in their expressions, the stories they let slip without even realizing it. Watching them—really watching them—is like piecing together a puzzle where the pieces never quite stay the same. Though, it’s more than just a pastime. As a diplomat-for-hire, it’s my job to smooth over arguments, charm my party out of trouble, and, occasionally...nudge someone into seeing things from our perspective."
Scribe:	"What about foods? Any favorites?"
Sorennar:	"Oh, I couldn’t possibly pick just one! The variety here is intoxicating—the spices, the textures. I’ve made it my mission to try everything at least once. [He slides a little closer.] "But if you’re offering, I’ll eat anything—as long as it’s paired with good company."
Scribe:	"I—uh, what about from home? What was your favorite food before coming to the city?"
Sorennar:	"Bluebread. Yes, I’m aware that I’m at risk of having my bardic license revoked for suggesting something as dull as bread, and bad bread at that. It’s made by grinding bluecap mushrooms into flour, and the result is… let’s call it an acquired taste, if you’re being generous. Dry, bland, and as exciting as a sermon."
Scribe:	"Why do you like it if it tastes bad?"
Sorennar:	"It wasn’t really the bread itself that mattered. It was the making of it. For a few hours, the whole family would work together. No politics, no schemes, no cutting remarks about ambition or wasted potential. Just grinding mushrooms, kneading dough, baking it over the fire. It was quiet, simple... and for that brief moment, it felt like we were just a family. No games, no posturing. Just us. ... Well, any more of this and I’ll ruin the dark elves' reputation entirely. Go on, ask me something else—before I start writing poetry about baking."

8 . "What would you say are your bad habits?"
^{(Original: What bad habits do you have? Are they aware that this is a bad habit? What good traits do they have? Do they see that within themselves? What is a flaw they wish they could get rid of?)}

Sorennar:	"Bad habits? My my. I suppose I could start with the burden of caring too much. Really, it’s exhausting!" [He is speaking sarcastically.] And of course, being this pretty—well, it’s a curse, truly. People simply can’t forget me after a single night, which, as you can imagine, sets an impossibly high bar for their future encounters."
Scribe:	"Is that... really the worst thing about you?"
Sorennar:	"Well, now you’ve put me on the spot." [He smiles and leans forward slightly.] "What do you think my worst habit is?"
Scribe:	"Well... um, you’ve got a gift for keeping things light and entertaining. But if I'm being honest, we’ve been talking for a while now, and it feels like every time we get close to something real, you dodge it with a joke or a story that leads somewhere else entirely. ...Sorry, no offense."
Sorennar:	"Ah, none taken at all, darling. You call it 'dodging'—I call it 'bardic technique'!" [He waves a hand, airly.] "Look, who wants to hear dreary tales of woe? If people wanted honesty, they’d talk to a priest."
Scribe:	"But don’t you think sometimes people want... the real you?"
Sorennar:	[He pauses for a moment, before breaking back into a smile.] "Oh, sweetheart, the real me is whatever story I tell in the moment. Now, do you have any other questions for me?"

Scribe:	"What about good ones? Can you think of any good traits?"
Sorennar:	"Where do I begin! Let’s see... my unparalleled charm, of course. My way with words. My talent for music—obviously. And, oh, my impeccable sense of style."
Scribe:	"So... your good traits are exactly the same as your 'bad' ones?"
Sorennar:	"Of course. I aim to be consistent, if nothing else. Clearly, you’ve got something else in mind. Go on, darling—what’s your favorite part of me?""
Scribe:	"You joked about caring too much, but I do think that’s true."
Sorennar:	"No!" [He takes a deep, dramatic breath.] "Next, you’ll be accusing me of sincerity, and then where will my reputation be? Ruined, utterly ruined!" [He puts his hand to his forehead theatrically.] "You’ll have to retract that statement at once, darling, or at least promise it won't make it into your little...newspaper, is it? I have an image to maintain, you know."
Scribe:	"No, really—look. You act like it’s all just a performance, but I think you care more about others than you let on. You don’t have to say it outright—but you listen, you notice things, you meet people where they are. You downplay it, but you have this way of connecting with people. You leave a mark, whether you mean to or not."
Sorennar:	[He is quiet for a few seconds.] "Well, aren’t you sweet? Trying to outshine me at my own craft, are you? Let’s move on, before I start blushing like some wide-eyed schoolboy. Next question?"

9 . "What makes you laugh?"
^{(Original: What makes them laugh? Cry? Whine? Run away?)}

Sorennar:	"Oh, watching a halfling try to handle a greatsword bigger than they are is a classic—like watching someone try to duel with a dinner table. Or seeing a proud shimmer get their pristine boots muddy for the first time—absolutely priceless. Really, just—watching someone who takes themselves far too seriously getting taken down a peg. Nothing funnier than justice with a theatrical flair."
Scribe:	"And what makes you whine?"
Sorennar:	[He raises an eyebrow, looking deeply affronted.] "Whine? Really? What an undignified question. Do I look like someone who whines?"
Scribe:	[They shrug, looking sheepish.] "I just have to read them off this list. I didn't write it."
Sorennar:	"Fine, fine, if I must dignify this insult with an answer... Let’s see. What makes me whine?" [He taps a finger to his chin dramatically.] "Long walks in the sun—awful for the complexion. Baggy clothes that don’t accommodate the finer aspects of my figure. And, oh, anyone who insists that I carry something heavier than a lute. Is that enough indignity for you, or shall I embarrass myself further?"
Scribe:	"And what makes you cry?"
Sorennar:	"Indignity it is, then! Darling, please. Crying? Not my style. My mascara would run, and then where would I be? Besides, all good bards know to bottle it all up and channel it into a tragic ballad instead."
Scribe:	"So... nothing makes you sad? Nothing at all?"
Sorennar:	"It’s not that simple, you see. Dark elves—we’re not exactly allowed the luxury of tears. Crying is weakness, and weakness gets punished. So, I don't cry. Not even when they slit my little brother’s throat to punish me for—" [He pauses.] "Next question."
Scribe:	"Oh. I'm sorry. Do you need a moment?"
Sorennar:	"Next question, please, darling."
Scribe:	"Um... okay: what makes you run away?"
Sorennar:	"Nothing. I don't run. If I've learned anything from the Underground, it's that running makes you look like prey. [He falls silent for a moment, before his smile slips back into place like a well-worn mask.] Well, my dear. Shall we call this riveting exchange complete before I risk overexposure?"
Scribe:	"Uh, yeah. I guess that would be a good idea. ...Thank you so much for your time, Sorennar."

Ending Notes

Sorennar:	"Always a pleasure to dazzle an audience, especially one as sharp and charming as yourself. You’ve got a certain... grace about you, you know. Keen eyes, quick wit—you’d make a marvelous bard, if you ever tired of all this scribing business. Now, I suppose the only question left is: do you prefer red wine or white for our celebratory post-interview rendezvous?"
Scribe:	"I um, actually have another interview scheduled. With the only Solari soldier who was willing to give me the time of day, so I really can't be late. But later—and how about tea instead? There’s a little teahouse in the Canopy I’ve been meaning to try—the Crane's Roost? Maybe we can go together sometime? You know... as friends."
Sorennar:	"Friends."
Scribe:	"Friends, you know, because you said you didn’t really have any here. Well, uh, you didn’t say that exactly, but it kind of... sounded like it. Which is fine, of course! I mean, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of, um... other arrangements. I just thought— Never mind. Forget I said anything."
Sorennar:	[He considers this for a few seconds.] "Well, how could I possibly refuse such a novel proposition? Tea it is, then. Tonight, say—half-past eight?"
Scribe:	"Oh! Yes, okay. I'll be there."
Sorennar:	[He rises smoothly.] "Then it’s a date. And for the record, I’m positively charmed by the offer. You’ve quite stolen the show, my dear scribe. [With a wink and a flourish, he turns to leave, his voice carrying over his shoulder.] Until tonight, then. I'll see you."

[End of transcript.]