You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
A deep breath, a silent stare– coupled with the crunching of wet leaves that ushered a pair of tired legs to the foot of the tattered tent. The quick swivel of a cloaked head rolled narrowed eyes across the landscape, the Elf absorbed every nook of the quiet town from where he stood. Softly escaping from the seal of his parched lips, a quiet remark evaporated into the chilling air. “Finally.” Retracting his hood, Azdra would slip between the damp flaps of the tent. His shadowed countenance was suddenly brought to light; squinting momentarily before he'd adjusted to the new ambiance. Finally meeting the gaze of the old woman sitting opposite the tent opening. He stood unspoken and solemnly hunched as her words greet him. And thereby her inevitable realization, Azdra would stretch forward and seat himself cross-legged over the many pillows that layered floor. Relieving a deep sigh before fixing his eyes on her more comfortably, saying. “From a realm of sand and fire. I’ve traveled through heat, shade, and rain.” ... “Hoping to find a land to call home." ... "I am a bedouin of a place afar. Now only wishing to lay this journeyed soul to more settled times.”
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