5.9ft 145 lbs
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.”
He does not sit immediately. His gaze lingers upon the floating candles, their wavering light reflected in pale irises of silver-blue.
“How do you know me?” His voice is smooth and measured. “Few in this world do.”
A pause. He exhales softly through his nose.
“Never mind. I did not come here for pleasantries. I would not have left the silver towers of my kin, nor the sanctity of our libraries, were it not… necessary.”
Only then does he take the cushion, carefully gathering his robes beneath him to spare them the damp air.
“There was someone.”
His fingers tighten slightly against the fabric at his wrist.
“A traveler, perhaps a knight. Wearing steel and leather for I do not remember his face… nor his name.” His brows knit faintly, frustration flickering against the practiced composure of the Mali'atheral.
“Only fragments remain. The scent of rosemary and lavender. The sound of armor shifting and the cold of a gauntleted hand.”
His jaw tightens.
“I was beyond the city borders and foolishly so. Something vile found me in the wilds. I would have died there, had he not intervened. I remember the clash of steel. I remember falling. And when the world faded…”
A brief silence.
“…the scent remained. Even now, it lingers in memory where his face does not.”
His eyes lower, something vulnerable surfacing beneath cultivated pride.
“Tell me, hag. Do you know of a way for me to ever meet with him again before his mortality steals him from me?”

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