Goblins and various creatures had ransacked your villages, and you vowed to never let it happen to anyone else.

Walking along the forest road, you hear the sounds of battle--metal on metal, screams, and the wet burbling of lifeblood pouring from a slashed throat. You rush to aid in whatever way you can, bearing your sword and shield.

What you stumble upon is a Sylveon wielding four whips, electricity holding the sharp blades of the segmented weapon together. She's slaughtering hoards of goblins around her, feral in her actions, uncaring of the damage she takes.

You aid her in the battle, cutting down goblins until not a single one is left. Her bloodlusted gaze turns toward you, and after several uncomfortable seconds, she calms, the whips shrinking in length.

You introduce yourself. She ignores you, tending to her wounds. You ask her for her name. She ignores you. You offer to heal her. She begrudgingly accepts.

The bows and ribbons on the Sylveon species are long gone. Her body is marked up in scars and signs of battle. Even as you heal her, she's wary, knife-whips twitching and at the ready.

You introduce yourself again. She doesn't have a name. Left it behind with her old life.

(If you don't offer to accompany her through the forest, she will meet her end in an ambush of Goblins, Orcs, and various hired creatures, orchestrated by the BBEG, but not without taking everyone with her to the grave.)

You offer to travel with her through the forest, as you both had the same destination.

She remains aloof and distant, at least at first. Days of traveling through the woods, and the quiet silence of your company encourages her to grow a little more tolerant of your questions.

You ask her about the whips.

Her ribbons were torn off, and bows plucked from her body. This was the closest thing she could get. The segmented blades were horrendously lethal, as were her claws and fangs.

You explain you are looking to disband the force gathering the orcs and goblins, hoping to save others from the same fate as yours.

She tells you she wants them all dead. They killed her Beloved in front of her. The grief is said to make the ribbons taste better, and give the bow wearer luck.

She'd loved hard. She killed harder.

Unfortunately for the both of you, the army you sought was moving, and had already ransacked neighboring cities. You visit them to help whoever was left--she does it to kill the stragglers of the army.

You're both successful, and turn in to a tavern for the night. She has difficulty grabbing at the drink, her paws not as suited as her ribbons would have been.

Offering to help her starts the romance path.

She threatens to carve up your sensitive bits if there was any funny business, but accepts the assistance all the same. Drunk, she tells you that her home was also destroyed, almost the same way yours was. You were lucky to escape. She was captured, and slaughtered her way out.

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Her Beloved was already long gone, consumed piece by piece in front of her. What better way to take revenge on having her heart torn out than shredding the enemy to ribbons and performing what equates to goblin genocide.

You set off again, and through the days notice something. She has difficulty cleaning her back, paws unable to reach properly. You offer to help, and she hesitates before accepting.

Washing her fur, you feel scars all over her. Attempts at cleaning herself while using the whips like her old ribbons. Knives aren't good for self care.

You happen upon a branch of the army that split off to attack a village. She carves her way through them recklessly, while you weather blows and distract them. She saves you several times, as you do her.

Helping her clean has become routine, and while working the blood from her fur, she mentions you missed a few spots. She is extremely careful, paws working to help clean you as you did her.

That night, after dinner, she admits that her heart still aches for her Beloved, even nearly a year later. There’s a hole in her chest that hurts just a little less when she’s around you. It’s hard for her to admit it, and she looks almost ashamed. You pull her in for a hug, and she stiffens, before breaking down, finally letting herself be vulnerable enough to feel again.

You’re caught off guard when she plants a kiss on your cheek, and settles down in your tent with you. She tells you she’s keeping watch. Fairy types were protective of people that made them feel.

Skirmishes with the Empire’s Army allow you and her to start striking more decisive blows at the enemy, tearing through campgrounds from behind while the armies take them head on. Commanders and legions fall to your blades and her whips.

She’s smiling more. There’s noticeable change through the land, and people are growing hopeful again. You and her did that. She’s a little more relaxed, spending more time closer and closer to you, as you do her.

You swap stories, share drinks with the locals, and enjoy one another’s company. After several drinks, and some not-so-subtle hints, she drags you by your sleeve with her teeth to the rooms in the tavern.

You both get a little closer than either of you expected, and when you wake up, her legs are wrapped around your arm, and she’s sleeping soundly. You realize she parted with her whips that night, not wanting to hurt you, and opening herself enough to trust you not to hurt her while she was without protection.

She awakens, and seems conflicted, before sharing a brief kiss with you. In the early morning hours, she tells you that she’ll never be able to fill the hole in her heart where her Beloved once was. But… you come close. You help her forget, as do the people she’s helped.

She’s more careful in battle, but still just as lethal. She’s got your back as much as you have hers.

The campaign against the enemy is almost over. Kingdoms across the land have supplied forces to take out the last of the enemy.

The night before the battle, she tells you she decided on a new name. Something that she managed to find again through the months of travel and fighting and friendship and love.

You share another close night, knowing it might be your last.

But you’ve got Hope, and she’s got you.

You two join the battle late, once the fighting and distractions have come into play. You carve your way through the citadel, Hope the blade while you’re the shield.

It’s over before you know it. Dictators are nothing without their armies, and can’t possibly stand against dozens of electrified blades carving into their flesh. Nor you throwing their shredded corpse out of the window and to the army below.

You’d won.

After everything, your journey is at an end.

But, that won’t do. Not after everything.

You and Hope set off once more. You’ve found your home again. She’d found her Beloved again.