__rusticlemon__

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))

Ithlin sits down on the cushion, facing the woman as they bring their elbows to rest on their knees while interlocking their fingers. A gentle, easy smile sits on their face as they take in interior of the tent, fascinated by the floating candles.

"My story?" they ask, amusement in their voice. "Well, that's the big question isn't it? I fancy myself a bit of a poet, you see, so stories have a particular importance to me."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "A poet?"

"Just a hobby of mine, of course," Ithlin continues, "but I like for the things I write to have feeling. They don't have to be impressive, or mean anything in particular, but"—their hands gesture vaguely in the air in an attempt to help them articulate—"in a way that's hard to put into words, I think they should make people feel something. And so I'd hate for my life's story to fall short of that. Especially when, fate willing, there's so much of it still left to be seen." A grin appears on their face as they adjust their hands to a more relaxed position, letting their chin rest in their right palm. "This is, of course, just a long-winded, romantic way of saying that I'm a nobody who's wandering around aimlessly, hoping they'll get caught up in something exciting."

The woman snorts. "There's no shortage of excitement nowadays, young man. You could always pick up that sword at your waist, pick a side, and join the nearest ongoing conflict," she said, pointing at the sheathed shortsword on the young elf's waist.

Ithlin laughs in response, placing their hand on the hilt of the sword. "I doubt that this," they said, drawing it to reveal it to be a wooden playsword, "would be of much use in a real fight. I've never been much of a fighter, but I find that carrying a sword and pretending you know how to use it tends to make you a much less appealing target to bandits and the like. That was one thing my parents drilled into me from a young age. A bit of posturing and a sprinkle of theatrical flare goes a long way in people's imaginations." They sheath the wooden sword, then, with a look of mild annoyance, grab the purse from their belt. "Of course, the other thing they taught me was that bluffing will only take you so far," they say, as they dramatically dump the purse into their hand, a single piece of lint falling out. "I was stopped by these three lovely bandits masquerading as knights on the way here who oh so kindly offered to carry all of my coin for me. And they were just so insistent, and not at all deterred by the little toy on my waist." They sigh. "Serves me right for travelling alone, I suppose."

"Serves you right, indeed," says the woman, chuckling. "But these parents of yours sound interesting. Tell me more about them."

Ithlin smiles once again at that. "Oh there's not too much to say. They were both performers in a troupe of sorts, my mother a musician, my father an actor and singer. I took after neither of them in the musical sense, the writer I am, but growing up surrounded by performers does rub off on you a bit, as I'm sure you can tell." As they speak, their eyes shine with just a hint of ambition, "And really, that's why I'm travelling now, looking for something dramatic that I can write about." They pause for a moment, pursing their lips contemplatively. "I was thinking I might travel to the Princedom of Caurost next. A bit militant by my standards, but I hear they have quite the culture built up around the arts."

"So you're an idealistic artist, travelling in search of inspiration?" asks the woman, a hint of ridicule in her voice.

"Exactly!" says Ithlin, mischief lighting up their eyes as they grin widely. "It was just a long-winded way of saying it."