Daimd.

He finds himself wondering after the origins of his name. Not quickly—no, it took... hours, to return from the faceless place he'd been, despite his blood beating red hot at Daliquinn's first touch. He could have cried, when the elf took him back. He might have, if it had been a moment later. He did not know, and accepted that he would probably never know, what he had done, but... he gave thanks to the ancestors for their mercy on him. He knew they were not responsible, but he knew no one else to give his relief to. Quinn wouldn't understand.

He would walk in the elf's shadow until his feet crumbled to dust. He had never known such hurt—but he had also never known such fear.

He wondered why they named him Daimd. He wondered what they'd hoped for their offspring. Somehow, he knew it wasn't the reality he was living. He hoped they might forgive him.

Daimd is unfamiliar with the sting of rejection. So rarely has he ever wanted anything from the world and its inhabitants that it has been rarer still for him to find himself denied. Word of his sexual prowess circulated quick and easy through his tribe, and he was never turned down when in search of coupling.

So he finds himself at a loss to describe this feeling, a pervasive stubborn quiet cry for approval, from only the one mouth (or hand or heart) able to give it.