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?))
"Are you the one my grandmother told me to find? She said I'd know, but certainty is kind of what I'm running from..." Sheyn pauses, eyes the listening crone, then settles down on the pillow.
"My story then... right. Well, I guess at this point, more than anything I'm a dissident. You see, there is a High Elf sect gaining influence in my home, of the most vicious puritanism. My parents fell to their eugenic beliefs, but my grandmother saw a different way, and taught it to me in the shadows and by the light of the moon. She told me to stay quiet about it, that she wanted me to see the truth, but not be killed for it. I was never good at secrets though. A week ago I slipped up, spoke my mind too loudly to too many of the wrong people. It was all my grandmother could to do help me out... I fear she paid dearly for me. I know little of the world, maybe not enough to make it on my own. I just know I can't go back." She realizes she's been more than a little revealing without bothering to gauge her audience. She flicks her eyes up to see if she's made friend or foe with this rant.
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