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?))
If Val was surprised by the crone’s introduction, it did not show on her face. With a grunt she sat herself where invited, idly scratching at a scabbing wound on her chin as her eyes slowly traveled about the tent’s curious interior.
“...what is my story…to you, hag?” she asked, her voice deep and slow, bordering on a drawl. As the candles flickered around the tent’s only occupants, Val continued to scratch at her scabs until a trickle of blood had begun to shine beneath her nails. At this point, she pulled her hand away to inspect it in the dim lighting, giving it a disapproving grunt before wiping it on her loincloth.
“Mum was Uruk,” she began with a deep, gravelly sigh. “...father was a High Elf. Met when they weren’t ‘sposed to, an’ I was their first…an’ last,” each word seemed to weigh heavier on Val’s tongue. Despite having smaller tusks, speaking seemed to be a great burden on her, for one reason or another. “We moved until winter, then moved again...” Val continued, gaze still drifting around the tent. “...’till they were too old for movin’. Mum’s horns got…too long,” Val finally looked at the crone. “...and my...father…”
Val went silent again, her frown visibly deepening behind her tusks, knuckles white in her lap.
“...I will not waste away, hag,” her throat tightened, forcing her to swallow before continuing. “...I need…a purpose. And it must...must..." Val took a deep, growling breath. "...be for me...and what is mine."
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