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?))
She settles into the soft cushion and stares at the hag. Wringing her fingers together before sighing. "My story?" She repeated. "I was born like this." Showing off her golden ingraining's on her dark skin. "I am odd, something different and I am hated." She looked away at the tents holes and dingy cloths. "I am a loner, but I try my best to learn from others, I listen I don't speak for I want to learn it all but never tell my story. I will explore far and wide and document the places of this world but never once document myself for I am hated." She repeated once again and pushed her nails into her palms. She seethed. "I am a traveler elder. That is my story." She croaked.