CarolinaAlencar

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?))

Elariel frowns and looks at the lady with surprise and suspicion. She says, "Do I know you?" The lady smiles and replies, "No, but my oracles told me about you, child." Elariel raises an eyebrow. She has always found divination magic to be impolite in the way it intrudes into people's lives. She sharply retorts, "If the oracles told you so much, why do you ask about my story?" The lady answers once more:

-Because it is much more pleasant to get to know someone through their own words in a good conversation while sipping a sweet drink.

Elariel smells a familiar scent.

The lady continues:

-Sit down, child, tell me where you come from and keep this old lady company. I will offer you a jug of this mango juice.

The Elf's eyes shine when she sees the jug full of the golden drink. The sweet perfume smell fills the room. In the north, this type of fruit is so rare that it had been two decades since Elariel had even taken a sip of her favorite juice. Reluctantly, but at the same time, overcome by the aroma of the drink, she sits down on the cushion and says:

-Very well, my name is Elariel. I come from an island in the far south of the world, covered in dense, tropical vegetation. In the middle of the island, there's a large house where I grew up. I believe it's already been swallowed by the forest after so many centuries abandoned in the ocean. I grew up there with my father, but I don't have much to say about him since... He was far from being a loving father. He wasn't mean to me, but he was indifferent. He spoke only when necessary and always seemed far away. When I turned 20, he left without saying a word. I just woke up and, when I reached the top of the porch, I could see his boat moving away from the coast toward the horizon beyond the forest and the beach. I feel like I should have been sadder about that, but I didn't. I never loved him as a father, and he also seemed to be just waiting for me to reach an age where I could fend for myself so he could move on with his life. Anyway, I spent years on that island, oblivious to the events of the world around me, until one day a ghost ship ran aground on the beach. Undamaged, it seemed to have simply been abandoned by its crew; I didn't care why. Inside, it seemed to carry several works of art depicting distant people and landscapes. There was also a reasonable collection of books, all of which I spent the next month reading. It was these artifacts that sparked my curiosity about the world beyond the island, so when I finished the last book, I was determined. I used the small boat to reach the nearest populated island, which my father used to visit once a year to get supplies. I left the boat there in the harbor so that its owners would have the possibility of finding it if they decided to look in those surroundings. I used the money my father kept next to his bed to buy a trip to the nearest continent, and so began my journey north to explore, learn about, and record the world and its stories.