This Elf Is a Little Strange

Other people transmigrate into elves: flowing silver hair, poetry beneath the moon, and a thousand years of magic dancing at their fingertips. I transmigrate into an elf: three-day-old greasy blond hair, a robe splattered with slime, and five unwashed brutes kidnapping me. The good news: I inherited the original owner’s muscle memory for noble etiquette. The bad news: that memory leaves me utterly defenseless against the etiquette of human bros whose fingernails are packed with bits of dinner from three days ago. Even better news: I have a golden finger that makes whatever I say come true. Even worse news: it seems to have a sense of humor of its own. [When My Golden Finger Has a Mind of Its Own] Me: “Make the ropes come loose!” Ropes: “Certainly. We’ve tied you into a pretty bow, sweetie!” Me: “Summon a water elemental!” Water Elemental: “I’m here, bro. Cold water or warm? I can throw in a scrub-down for ten copper coins.” Me: “Show off elven elegance!” My hair: “Got it. Braiding itself into a Northeast Chinese big-flower style.”